(This is Review Part 1 of the Anthology titled Breakups)
I really liked Shazaf Fatima Haider’s first full-length novel, enough to have some leftover goodwill lingering on for this review. Which I think I needed, because my usual reaction to fiction that delves so deeply into the representation of religious figures is discomfort. That’s primarily because in terms of religion, the lines between valid representation and stereotyping blur so much that it’s hard to tell when the author’s personal biases are creeping in.
I really liked Shazaf Fatima Haider’s first full-length novel, enough to have some leftover goodwill lingering on for this review. Which I think I needed, because my usual reaction to fiction that delves so deeply into the representation of religious figures is discomfort. That’s primarily because in terms of religion, the lines between valid representation and stereotyping blur so much that it’s hard to tell when the author’s personal biases are creeping in.
In this story, a young woman spends an
afternoon making a decadent pavlova, delicious and sweet, but a visit from her
mother with a friend in tow ruins the evening for her. Saira, our protagonist,
seems like the perfect keeper – the kitchen is clean, the interior decoration
is classy and refined, the dessert made to perfection. In the midst of her
preparation of the coulis, her guests arrive.
She
opened the door and in walked her mother, a small woman with smiling eyes, head
covered with a thick scarf. Behind her was Aunty Tasneem, clad in black from
head to foot. Small slits in the face revealed sharp, pointed eyes, raking
Saira and her surroundings, assessing, taking stock. It was remarkable how much
a niqab could highlight the eyes, and the sharpness behind them.
Now see, here’s where my disquiet creeps
in. Because we have enough islamophobia in this world – and of course the image
of the niqab-wearing woman is directly under attack by this threat. The
assessing, judgemental look, the sharp eyes. I don’t need any more misogyny in
my life, and I definitely don’t need to be reading about how religious people
are more likely to be condemnatory and unforgiving. You could argue that there are people like that in this world, and
you could argue that it’s just this
story that represents them this way. You could even argue that the mother,
smiling and clearly friendly, also has her head covered. But here’s my
rebuttal: first, the dangers of the single story are many. We have enough people in this world
physically and verbally attacking niqab-wearing woman for stories like this to
not carry some weight. Second, the presence of Aunty Tasneem in this situation
is stronger in this story, by which I mean that the mother’s obvious
faithfulness is not as explicitly connected to her warm, welcoming personality.
Aunty Tasneem, however, is clearly shown as hypercritical and disapproving, and
using her religion to further that poison within her.
There are all kinds of people in this world:
of course the disparaging female who cloaks herself in the piety of religion to
spew hurtful things exists, and I know, because
I’ve met her. But these people are also three dimensional: they are kind
to strangers or they love gardening or they help those who are sick. The
character of a woman who is shown as religious and mean, and only that, is a disservice to the current climate of fear that
all Muslims live in. And make no mistake, Aunty Tasneem is consistently
vicious. As soon as Saira’s mother and Aunty Tasneem settle down, the latter
begins to question Saira’s life choices, most particular her lack of children –
even though poor Saira explains that a car accident has not only killed her one
child but rendered her incapable of conceiving. Undeterred, Aunty Tasneem uses
that opportunity to hold forth about the importance of moderation as Saira’s mother,
excited about the pavlova, goes for a second helping.
“Beta,
don’t mind if I say something. I only tell you this out of love for you and
your mother. It is the Will of Allah to grant his Momineen with family, to
extend the empire of Islam. But we must make ourselves worth of His Grace.
Obedience is key. As is abstinence. Only by forsaking worldly pleasures does
one become a Momin.”
I’ve met countless people like these – you
can’t escape them in Pakistan. People with a holier-than-thou attitude, who use
the ‘I only say this for your own good’ line to lecture you endlessly
about your life choices. My problem is not with the fact that this character
exists; it’s that this character seems to be the only representation of Muslims
within this story. And the only representation in most forms of media. We
already have movies bombarding us with images of the Islamic terrorist; do we
need more conservative, high-minded sermons from such versions of Islam? We do
not.
Aunty
did most of the reporting – how Mrs. Naseem was having a tough time with the
Arabic and Mrs. Mobashir had stopped wearing lipstick and nail polish since it
was haram to do so and Parveen had quarrelled with her mother over the cutting
of hair, it being unIslamic and all.
Unfortunately, this stereotyping also
bleeds into another equally over-used trope: that of the gossiping desi auntie.
Recently my group of friends were discussing the title Trust No Aunty, and how one of my friend’s mother had pointed out
the sexism inherently present in that book. It’s true though: you might know
the gossiping aunties – I certainly do – but the stereotypical representation
of them as doing nothing but that is
such a disservice to them. It’s certainly their most irritating quality, but
once you notice how heavily invested we are as a community in defining women
within those boundaries, it starts to get alarming. Once again, the defense here is that women like Aunty Tasneem exist, to which I say, once again, enough
with this boring pigeonholing already.
“Tell
me, Saira,” the older woman asked, her voice not without malice since she knew
well the answer to the question she was about to ask. “How many children do you
have?”
Millions of girls all over the world are
being asked this question. I myself have been subjected to it at least twice a
day ever since I got married. But we need
to move past stories that only tell this story. And I know for a fact that
Shazaf Fatima Haider can write really well. It’s clear that her command of the
language is excellent, and her flow is very controlled. I just wish she would
write something better.