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Abayance
This column in the LA Times details some of the experiences one of their reporters had while covering stories in Saudi Arabia. I've read a couple of books by women with similar stories to tell, but this is a nicely written piece.
She writes:
To me, the abaya implied that a woman's body is a distraction and an interruption, a thing that must be hidden from view lest it haul the society into vice and disarray. The simple act of wearing the robe implanted that self-consciousness by osmosis.
I'm reminded of a dream that I once had. I rarely have naked-in-public anxiety dreams and the few I've had all have some kind of twist. In this one, I was visiting an ex, shortly after our breakup, to pick something up. His new girlfriend was hovering in the background as he searched for whatever-it was, and he was leering and making sly comments about my breasts. I realized at that point that I wasn't wearing a shirt. Rather than feeling embarrassed by my nudity, I felt outraged that I couldn't wear whatever I felt like wearing, or not, without him taking it as a sexual come-on. Trust me, I thought, if I were interested in sex, you'd know it.
In the US, I try to be tolerant of other women's choices. Now there's a way to be, my mother will say, when she sees someone dressed in a manner she finds outrageous. Walking through the Cambridgeside Galleria, I see women whose clothing ranges from shorts and tube tops to headscarves and robes. I value the cultural diversity on display and I respect their right to wear whatever they feel comfortable wearing.
But I do find it hard not to take the decision to cover women's bodies to a greater degree than men's bodies as an accusation. If covering your hair is a sign of modesty, then what does that say about my waist-length braid, brazenly displayed? At the same time, is tucking in my shirt a judgment of women with proudly exposed bellybuttons? And to what degree are any of us actually free in our choices?
She writes:
To me, the abaya implied that a woman's body is a distraction and an interruption, a thing that must be hidden from view lest it haul the society into vice and disarray. The simple act of wearing the robe implanted that self-consciousness by osmosis.
I'm reminded of a dream that I once had. I rarely have naked-in-public anxiety dreams and the few I've had all have some kind of twist. In this one, I was visiting an ex, shortly after our breakup, to pick something up. His new girlfriend was hovering in the background as he searched for whatever-it was, and he was leering and making sly comments about my breasts. I realized at that point that I wasn't wearing a shirt. Rather than feeling embarrassed by my nudity, I felt outraged that I couldn't wear whatever I felt like wearing, or not, without him taking it as a sexual come-on. Trust me, I thought, if I were interested in sex, you'd know it.
In the US, I try to be tolerant of other women's choices. Now there's a way to be, my mother will say, when she sees someone dressed in a manner she finds outrageous. Walking through the Cambridgeside Galleria, I see women whose clothing ranges from shorts and tube tops to headscarves and robes. I value the cultural diversity on display and I respect their right to wear whatever they feel comfortable wearing.
But I do find it hard not to take the decision to cover women's bodies to a greater degree than men's bodies as an accusation. If covering your hair is a sign of modesty, then what does that say about my waist-length braid, brazenly displayed? At the same time, is tucking in my shirt a judgment of women with proudly exposed bellybuttons? And to what degree are any of us actually free in our choices?
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In high school, I would dress one way leaving the house to keep my parents off my back, but ditch the button down shirt and slacks for jeans, concert T and army jacket at the first opportunity, and I'm sure I wasn't the only one then or now that had to appeal to differing sensibilities. When they overlap, compromises get made. *shrug*