Riding the Samoosa Express: Personal Narratives of Marriage and Beyond

By Zaheera Jina and Hasina Asvat

Riding the Samosa Express is a collection of life stories exploring issues of marriage, love, loss, family life, culture, religious beliefs, suburban life, local and international politics, freedom and education among other important issues faced by professional and well-educated Muslim women who have not been held back by global stereotypes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Modjaji Books
• Release date: Apr 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781920590949

Book preview

Anonymous

INTRODUCTION

It all started with a simple conversation about the exchange of photographs. My cousin, Shameema, was single and the prospective Mr Right had asked to see a photograph of her before taking the quest further. When I asked her for a photograph to send to him she refused, saying that she would first like to see his photograph and curriculum vitae and that she would make the final decision about whether to meet him. Her response did not fit in with my frame of reference. I did not agree with the practice of sending around photographs, but, to me, the road to meeting Mr Right was still about the traditional idea of men making the first request, not the other way around. I believe in the notion of the samoosa run, or samoosa express to marriage, which are the terms used to describe the meeting when eligible Muslim men go alone or with family members to see prospective wives at their homes. Shameema is a chartered accountant and partner at the firm where she works. At thirty she is content in her own shell and definitely does not need marriage to make her feel complete. Our short conversation got me thinking about social and religious expectations and, of course, about the identity of the professional Muslim woman.

I was single for many years and during this time had many visits from different Mr Eligibles and their families. I also became a teacher and worked for a while. I then embarked on postgraduate studies and chose a career in academia. Most weekends were spent in entertaining the prospective husbands-to-be who came from far and wide but, to them, I was always too educated or too tall. Eventually, I met my husband through an arrangement between my niece and my sister-in-law.

Being single did not make my life feel complete. I yearned to be a wife, housewife and mother. I was willing to give up working towards a PhD for the gift of marriage. I saw the goal of obtaining a PhD as an occupation that could fill my lonely days as a single woman. I was brought up in a home where my mother gave up her profession in nursing to look after me and my siblings when we were young children. She then studied towards teaching, and worked as a preschool teacher when we were at school. For my mother, at the time, giving up her nursing profession was expected of her as a Muslim mother and wife. My father certainly expected nothing less. As a woman from a later generation, I have been entrusted with the choice to complete my studies after marrying and while raising a family. However, in making the choice, I am often plagued with uncertainty about who I truly am – a modern, PhD Mum; or a traditional, homely wife. While pondering on my own, personal identity, I considered the lives of others and, after discussing the idea with a friend, I decided to compile an anthology of narratives written by professional or well-educated Muslim women

I had anecdotal evidence about the difficulty of being a professional Muslim woman as South Africa’s history changed. I had witnessed how friends and family members struggled to maintain professions and juggle family life, but I wanted to know more about their life journeys. My experience reminded me that Islam as a religious system did not encourage women to study or to pursue their professions. Many Muslim men, even today, do not want professional or career-driven wives. Under the laws of apartheid, in the 1960s and 1970s Indians were only allowed entrance to teaching or nursing. Muslim parents during those decades adhered to the belief that their female children should learn only how to perform skills like cooking and sewing. The conditions and trends have changed since then, with many Muslim women fulfilling their dreams in every profession possible.

The global ideology that prevails around the subject of Muslim women has been shaped by a description of them as voiceless, silent and oppressed. Other views have positioned Muslim women as either religious or secular and have ignored the complexity of their experiences (Davids, 2003). In South Africa, however, Muslim women have been able to participate in secular education and employment opportunities and to practise their religion within the privilege of a democracy that is open to issues of gender. In 2008, Sader concluded a study called The Identity of Muslim Women in South Africa: Married Couples’ Perspectives which provides insight into the identity construction of South African Muslim women of Indian descent who are married, educated and working in post-apartheid South Africa. Sader showed that these women prioritised an Islamic identity and were able to construct an alternative identity which allowed them the freedom to access secular spaces, or what may be viewed as the public sphere of men. Other South African research concerning Muslim women includes aims to develop an understanding of attitudes, beliefs and practices of Muslim women within South African communities in relation to marriage, sexuality and gender (Shaikh, 1996; Shaikh, 2002).

This book is not a research project and it does not make any points or arguments in relation to Muslim women. It is a collection of life-stories. I wanted to find out about the achievements and accomplishments Muslim women have managed. I needed to know how others were juggling their lives and daily routines to make their dreams a reality. The call for stories encouraged contributors to explore issues of love, loss, family life, culture, religious beliefs, suburban life, local and international politics, freedom, and education, among other important issues. I wanted the contributors to find themselves in their stories; I wanted them to write honest descriptions of who they are as Muslim women, their journeys to self-discovery or their questions about their identities. I believe that there’s a stark essence in every woman’s own story, written from her soul. I received an overwhelming response to the call for submissions, and I was both awed and humbled by the many stories received.

The collection begins with the story that sets the scene around the concept of marriage in the context of religion and culture, Farhana Ismail’s "Education and Izzat! and from there – together with Hasina Asvat, my sister-in-law and partner in editing – I tried to compile a selection of stories that best represents a full range of experiences. The submissions that I received reflect a central focus of marriage. Marriage defines the status of a Muslim woman through societal expectations and religious beliefs. Marriage forms the apex of the lives of many Muslim women because of their Islamic obligation to it. It is believed by Muslims that Prophet Muhammad (SAW) said, When a man marries, he has fulfilled half of his religion, so let him fear Allah regarding the remaining half." The stories that make up this compilation give breath to these philosophies through thoughts and understandings from women who are in agreement and those who question.

Muslim women need to be heard and our stories need to be told. This book aims to be a testimony of our journey.

I’ve arranged the stories in this book into three parts. Part One, The road towards marriage, includes stories of finding (or not) a marriage partner in the light of religious beliefs and cultural and societal expectations. Part Two, Identity, tells stories of women trying to find themselves, in religion, or as working women, or in the home. And Part Three, Marriage and beyond, features stories from contributors of their lives when married and in trying to deal with the ups and downs of life. Stories include the experiences of childbearing, the grieving of the passing of loved ones and struggles with depression.

Being a Muslim woman involves a perfect blend of spices, philosophies and rituals. Only through descriptions of their lives are we allowed to walk with some of these women, see what they see, and try to understand the complexity of a Muslim woman’s life.

Zaheera Jina

References

Davids, L. (2003). Positioning Muslim Women: A Feminist Narrative Analysis. Annual Review of Islam in South Africa.

Sader, F. (2008). The Identity of Muslim Women in South Africa: Married Couples’ Perspectives. Master’s Thesis, University of the Witwatersrand.

Shaikh, S. (1996). Battered Women in Muslim Communities: Religious Constructions of Gender, Marriage, Sexuality and Violence: Master’s Thesis, University of Cape Town.

Shaikh, S. (2002). Transforming Feminisms: Islam, Women and Gender Justice. Seminar paper, Department of Religious Studies, University of Cape Town.

PART ONE

The road towards marriage

Education and Izzat!

Farhana Ismail

"You are taking my izzat away!" yelled my father, again. If my dad had ever allowed his hair to grow, having me as a daughter would have caused him to lose it many years ago. I could just imagine him pulling it out every time we had one of our epic spats.

I grew up with very traditionali parents in very unusual circumstances for that time. My three younger brothers and I were told that education was extremely important. We had to work hard at school. Faizel, the elder of my three brothers, and I would earn extra pocket money working as sales people in a clothing store in Johannesburg. Education, resourcefulness, and self-reliance were emphasised. I don’t think any of us realised what that education actually entailed – least of all my parents.

My parents had sent us to a private school to avoid the system of apartheid education. They believed they were giving us many more opportunities than we would have had if we had stayed in the government education system and gone to Indian schools. Everyone knew that white kids had the best schools and facilities, and private schools provided both. Every last cent was put into education. Mum and Dad worked late nights and long hours to pay school fees.

It was the eighties and South Africa was on the cusp of political upheaval. At school we were encouraged to question authority, challenge it, and push the boundaries of conservatism, tradition, nd prejudice in all its forms – including gender discrimination – in our journey towards creating a new ideal society. For me, an Indian Muslim girl growing up in Johannesburg, that also meant questioning the traditional role of South African Muslim women in the home and in society – particularly our exclusion from the sacred space of the mosque.

It was in this arena of cultural-religious practice that my dad and I clashed. "Why do you insist on sitting in the room when the jamaat come? Asking questions about women in mosques. Just leave them alone! You are taking my izzat away!" he would lament.

That our school had an impressive record of churning out doctors, lawyers, accountants, engineers and, as in my case, optometrists, was a bonus. Mum and Dad, though, weren’t prepared for the activism that lurked beneath the surface: our school at the time was also a breeding ground for activists.

And so, when I questioned the gender bias in my religion and in my cultural practices, or worse, when I chose to travel to an Arab land (of all places on earth) to pursue studies in Arabic with a group of twenty other young women, my dad’s blood pressure sky-rocketed.

Listen to me! You will get kidnapped by Arab slave owners and sold. His arguments were purely emotional; they were not based on any precept in Islamic law or on current events.

It was against this backdrop that my own journey into marriage and beyond began.

Expectations and suitors

Without saying a thing, my parents had managed to convey the message that I was expected to, at some point, get married. My mother, like any good, loving Indian mother, made numerous unsuccessful attempts at teaching me the rudimentary steps of Indian cooking. She is a very good cook, as was her mother, my Nanima, and so my lack of effort and interest in this totally baffled her.

"Rotis are not meant to be square!" Slap! The flat-end of the spatula would hit the back of my hand. She and I would have endless fights over why only I and not my brothers had to spend precious free time in the kitchen.

How much salt, Mummy? I would ask.

"Ahre," she would answer, much to my disgust. I wanted precise measurements.

My dad would often tell me to dress in a more lady-like manner and to look neat. Growing up with three brothers, and a naturally beautiful mother who was relatively uninterested in fashion, my dress sense had not become refined. And the grunge look didn’t appeal to my dad.

While my parents carefully didn’t mention that I should marry, for fear of reprisals like, Oh! So you want to get rid of me!,

well-meaning, troublesome aunties had no such scruples. It also didn’t help that I was the oldest girl grandchild on my mum’s side. These wonderful, entertaining aunties and grandaunts had no one else to pester!

They would tell me when I had turned twenty-one, You’re not getting any younger, you know.

You have to stop being so choosy.

Don’t let your chances slip by.

This last comment was made after I refused a marriage proposal from a good-looking, BMW-owner from KwaZulu-Natal. His main attraction for the elders in my family, however, wasn’t his BMW or his charming smile. What mattered most was that he was a Khanamia boy. In other words, his great-grandparents came from the same village in Gujerat, India, which my great-grandparents hailed from, too. That made them practically family, and therefore good marriage material. If they were Khanamia, then they were more acceptable. And so we had some hopeful young men visiting us, in search of a good Khanamia Muslim girl. In this mix were a couple of doctors, a drug addict and a future wife beater (this was only revealed a year later, during his marriage to someone else). And so it went on, one suitor after another.

I, of course, attributed my persistent stubbornness as the reason for my lucky escape from these undesirable matches. I likened these arranged viewing visits to a cattle show. And I refused to dress up or carry in the tea – as was the Indian tradition.

My three younger brothers, in the meantime, remained under the radar, while I, the girl, dealt with everyone’s marriage expectations. My brothers would mostly observe and enjoy the spectacle being played out. And sometimes they would participate – much to the embarrassment of my mum and grandma and the disgust of my dad.

Once, a bearded young man came visiting with his mum. We would always try to get a glimpse of the hopeful suitor as he entered the front door. The covered balcony of my bedroom was adjacent to the front door. There was a door leading out onto the common porch area. And so we would all belly-crawl onto the balcony, so that we could observe without being seen. On this occasion, after getting a glimpse of the mature-looking man, my brothers decided to have some fun.

All three brothers joined me as I reluctantly went to greet the visitors. My middle brother, Azhar, sat directly opposite my suitor and proceeded to stare him down, for the duration of the visit. Muhammad, who was about six years old at the time, rolled a ball back and forth in front of the poor man. But it was my eldest brother, Faizel, whose antics mortified my parents and Nanima.

Dressed in his standard torn track pants, he faced the room, leaning nonchalantly against the mantle-piece. Crossing his not-too-clean bare feet, he picked up the latest copy of the progressive community newspaper, al-Qalam, waved it about in front of the hopeful suitor, and said mischievously, So! Have you seen the article about women insisting on going to the mosques? What’s your take on the issue?

Villages and a wedding date

The first time Ashraff, my husband, came home to meet my parents, Dad asked him, "So… which gaam are you from?"

Ashraff, who knew too well what the answer should be, said, um… Wakkerstroom, South Africa?

"Yes. But in India. Which gaam in India?"

I don’t know! But I’m sure it’s from the wrong side of the river, was his cheeky reply.

Ashraff and I met through Faizel, in the early nineties. I had already graduated, and was working. Faizel and I had had many theological disagreements and he finally invited me to join his halqah on campus. At the time, he was studying law at Wits.

Being part of the halqah was a transformative process for me. Through it, I was exposed to contemporary Islamic literature on a wide range of subjects – law, economics, politics, and gender. I was introduced to the ideology of the progressive international Islamic movement, and met members of the local Muslim Youth Movement (MYM). We read the works of many classical and religious scholars. Through vigorous debates and discussions, the halqah began to shape my understanding of Islam and helped me to discover my unique Muslim identity.

And then in 1994, at the age of twenty-two, I applied to join a group of girls to study Arabic in Jordan. My dad was totally against the idea. But Mum and Nanima were quite supportive, so I went ahead.

It was during my year away that Ashraff and I got to know one another better.

Our correspondence, mainly through phone calls and letters was a cause of great jubilation and excitement for my roommates in Jordan. They enjoyed teasing us.

On my return from an enriching Middle Eastern adventure in 1995, I was firmer in my female Muslim identity. I had always experienced a disconnection between the pragmatic system of Islam and its ethical vision. And, over time, I had become better informed. Through my readings and research, I had begun to experience in the primary texts, the Quran and the examples of the Prophets, a religion that testifies to the absolute moral and spiritual equality of men and women. I had studied verses in the Quran that speak to both men