A Cover up Story

One of the very positive things that I find about blogging is that, it tends to be infectious. One blogger writes something and it triggers off certain memories in us and we want to blog about it too giving it our own touch, from our own perspectives. And we learn a lot from these different treatments. In a way, we bounce ideas off each other.

This week, for instance, anedra wrote a heartfelt plea to bloggers, most of them she has never met, yet she feels close enough to them to reveal her insecurities about a certain issue that has been on her mind lately. I read with interest the comments, very encouraging and very suportive. And this post spurred other bloggers like maknenek to write about her experience and blabs who wrote about her feelings and massylassy to contribute something. Such networking, such support.

Now, if I can tumpang sekaki, I would like to contribute a two cents worth of my experience on the same issue – to cover up or not to cover up.

I never thought that I would one day don the tudung. Whenever I went back to Malaysia, I’d be the one who would stand out in the crowd because I was tudungless while my siblings, cousins aunties and friends were all properly covered in their matching tudungs.

I would be the one that little five year old chatterbox would come up and say loud and clear for all to hear, “Eh ni pasal tak pakai tudung ni?”

But I was not upset or bothered by this as I knew that I needed to know more and understand the reasons for doing so. I wanted it to be from me and not from anyone else.

But as the saying goes, the light comes from many directions.

Throughout Ramadhan, I’d put on the tudung to go for prayers and each time I did that, there was this little voice that said, “You look nice, Mama!”

That was just a start. And then, it went on to “When are you going to wear the hijab, Mama?”

“I am sorry, Taufiq, I can’t wear it to please you. I have to be sure that when I wear it, I will never take it off again. I have to be sure that I am doing it because I want to and not because you want me to,” was my reply to my then 11 year old son.

He was happy with the answer but once in a while he’d repeat the question. And the reply remained the same.
Quietly, I had been spending more time in the bathroom, in front of the mirror - trying to tie the tudung the way I see my friends do it. I had enough little pins, big pins, serkup and what nots. But it never turned out right. There’s always something wrong. I didn’t know it then, but when I started buying the scarves during my trips home, I was already preparing myself for that particular day.

Then, like anedra, I started talking to two friends (faceless online buddies I know from rantauan.com) and they were so supportive and were not even critical of the fact that I wanted to wait.

And bless my other half. Even when he came back from Haj, he never once said to me, "cover up."

So, while walking along Queensway one night after terawikh, I said to him,” I am thinking of wearing the tudung.”

And all he said was and I remember every line: “Do it with sincerity. Do it with good intention from your heart.”

And with that we took the tube home.

Anyway, the anniversary of 911 was fast approaching, I have yet to muster the art of wearing the tudung without it falling all over my face. I had made a decision to start wearing it on 911. Why? To show that I am a Muslim and proud of it. I thought I’d walk into the office and show them I am a Muslim and suffer whatever consequences, if any at all.

But come 911, I didn’t do what I set to do, mainly because I felt it was for the wrong reasons if I had done that. People in the office know that I am a Muslim. I fast while others ate during Ramadan. I rush off to do my prayers when the time comes, and during office parties I don’t drink and stick to vegetarian food.

BUT something happened after that. I was assigned to cover the visit of our then PM to a mosque in East London. And I know that I need to cover up as Tun M was having his prayers as well as lunch there. And I did a piece to camera for the news item to be broadcast back in Malaysia.

The next day, I phoned up my sister who was then taking a break in Port Dickson. My mother was there in the hotel with her. I spoke to her. She was sitting on the bed when she heard the news about the PM’s visit to London. She sat up, knowing that there’s a likelihood that I would be on air. And first she heard my voice and then she saw me.

This was what she said, "Anak mak, anak mak…maneh nyaaa anak mak,”

I tried to joke although I was choking. “Berita yang Kak Teh baca tu pasai apa, mak?”

“Mak tak dengark pun, Mak nampak anak mak manih pakai tudung….” And this from a mother who never forced me to do anything, but has a way of making me do it, in her own gentle way. Taufiq must have inherited this from her.

I couldn’t speak anymore and told her I’d call back.
So, that was it. Taufiq was smiling from ear to ear ever since.

Of course, there was the initial little bob of hair peering out of the hood, that Taufiq would come over and adjust my tudung while pushing back the hair.

Then, the endless search for the right tudung to wear. Then there's the constant"Where did I put the pin? Where is the serkup?" And endless, endless, “Is this okay?” In our household, I’d need to go through three check barriers – Taufiq, Hafiz and the Dad.

And nine out of ten times, no matter how many tudungs you have accumulated in your zest to be covered up, you will return to the one comfortable one – a safe shade of black or biege that will go with anything.

Have a nice weekend