TURNING POINT
My Head Held High – An Expression of Dignity
by Amanda Gormley
Photos by Rehan Lashari
The first time I prayed an Islamic prayer, I stood in my living room in the silvery morning just moments before dawn. I was self-conscious and unsure of what to do. I had prepared flash cards to help me through the complicated prayer. I stood in what I hoped was the direction of Makkah and folded my right hand across my chest. My left hand clutched a flash card with a transliteration of Al-Fatihah.
The awkward syllables filled the back of my throat like a swallowed cry as I struggled to make the foreign sounds. But as my mouth worked away at the words, I felt my spirit enter a world that existed outside of the senses, a dimension beyond time and space where the body does not confine the soul. I felt a deep, unending sense of mercy and forgiveness surround me.
As the first gentle rays of morning light reached me, I went to my knees, put my forehead to the floor and I cried, “Subhana rabbial ‘ala”. Every single atom in the room praised Allah. The chairs and the shadows and the carpet beneath me all sang, “Glorified is our Lord!” The sun and the light prayed with me – their very essence ringing praise for our Creator. In those moments my imperfections and flaws were exposed, but I felt embraced and accepted, forgiven and loved. I found a sense of trust. I knew that the Being who created me knows me and protects me. In that moment I committed my life to that Being.
That commitment is continually evolving. It was a simple beginning, first with prayer any time I was able, fasting during the month of Ramadan and reading a page or two out of the Qur’an once in a while. Soon I noticed a change in the way I saw the world. A bird’s chirp would strike me dumb with thankfulness for the gift of hearing. A playful toss of my horse’s head would send my heart singing with praise for the One who created this magnificent creature. The curiosity in the eyes of a child discovering something new reminded me of the gift of knowledge and made me crave a deeper understanding of Islam.
Over time I found myself becoming more attached and I felt my commitment deepening. I was praying five times each day, memorizing verses of the Qur’an, and occasionally visiting the local mosque. But I struggled to define myself inside of a religion that seemed so different from one culture to the next. Where did I belong amongst the many expressions of faith? From conservative Islam, to Sufism, to millennial Muslims, I walked a cautionary path between spirituality and skepticism. I put effort into thinking objectively about everything that I learned. I avoided behavior that was motivated only by a desire to fit in, and I tried to follow the path that was right for me.
One day after work, craving the quiet peace of the local masjid, I drove directly there to pray. In jeans and a long sleeve shirt, (without my head covered), I was confronted by a man who was clearly unhappy to see me: “What do you want?” He asked.
“I’m here to pray,” I answered.
“How can you pray like this? Where is your hijab?” He asked indignantly.
I was stunned. Shouldn’t this man be welcoming and accepting, I thought? Shouldn’t he be encouraging? I marched through the mosque to the woman’s section, pulled a hijab out of the hijab box, and made salah. Then I asked Allah for help. I asked for patience. I asked for guidance. I asked for a way to face that man again with my head held high.
I decided I would get more involved in the Muslim community. I wanted people to see who I was; hoping that I might meet some people who would accept me as a fiercely independent, western Muslim woman and welcome me into the community. I was determined to remain a person who could think and make decisions for herself. I wanted to show people that I didn’t need a man to tell me to cover my head just because it was his cultural expectation. That week, I called the mosque and asked to volunteer. I began regularly attending Jumu’ah prayers and started introducing myself to everyone I could. To my utter surprise, I discovered many women who shared my values. They were independent, fun, and full of life. They were deep thinkers, community leaders, and activists. And they all wore hijab.
Eventually, I began to see that hijab is not an expression of culture, but an expression of faith. I came to understand it as a requirement of Islam, and I decided to wear it as a way to define myself from the outside in. I wanted the reminder of who I was and where my priorities were to be with me constantly.
As I know from my own experience, hijab is easily misunderstood. Before I wore it, I saw it as a form of repression. I shared the view with most Americans that men forced woman to cover as a sign of submission. But once I understood hijab as the ultimate expression of pride, dignity, and self-respect, it became a part of my identity as an independent, free thinking American Muslim. Each morning I practice my own flag-raising. Hand over hand, I carefully work the scarf around my head and I stand tall. I do not shrink into submission. My flag flies above a woman who loves to laugh and discover, who finds bliss at 15 hands and a blazing gallop and who finds peace in worship. I wear hijab because it’s my choice. I wear it because I respect myself and I respect my religion, and I wear it because I am proud to be a Muslim. I walk with my head held high.
Amanda Gormley lives near Syracuse, NY and blogs about her life as an American Muslim at http://myflagfliesabove.wordpress.com/
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