Once Were Radicals (25 page)

Imam Chami told me stories about Muslim Brotherhood leaders being tortured in Egypt and other Arab countries. One woman named Zainab al-Ghazali was subjected to even more extreme forms of torture by the regime of Egyptian leader Gamal Abdel Nasser than even many men. Imam Chami told me about laws enforced in Tunisia that banned Muslim workers from fasting during Ramadan. He mentioned how mosques in Albania had been turned into museums by the communist regime.

To my mind, this litany of suffering meant we in Australia had to lead the way in the struggle of the international Islamic movement. ‘If we can turn Australia into an Islamic environment, eventually an Islamic state, we can then stand up to these dictators.'

Imam Chami disagreed. ‘Brother Irfan, Australia is already Islamic. If you go to England and America, you will
see many leaders of al-Ikhwan al-Muslimeen and Jamaat-i-Islami living there. You don't see them calling to change the West.'

In my mind, Imam Chami's reasoning did not tally with what I was reading in books by Maududi, Jameelah and Qutb. Maryam Jameelah had even moved from New York to Pakistan to help in the struggle. Those Islamic movement leaders who had moved to the West did so not because the West was Islamic but because the West had liberal asylum laws which these leaders took advantage of.

Although I disagreed with Imam Chami, it was always an honour for an elder like him to address me as ‘brother' (or in his case,
bruzzer
). But then, everyone at the camp (including some of my uncles) addressed each other as ‘brother' and ‘sister'.

As usual, we had long and boring lectures from middle-aged male organisers, almost all of whom were executive members of AFIC. One was a chap from Canberra who taught at a university. We used to poke enormous fun at his rather thick Punjabi accent, much to the disturbance of his son and daughter, both of whom attended the camp as participants.

I brought a large cassette player to the camp, and would frequently play loud hard-rock music. This upset many of the other participants in my cabin, especially the Lebanese and Egyptian kids who preferred wimpy Michael Jackson or Prince songs (I called it ‘wog music') to my AC/DC, John Cougar Mellencamp and U2. Ironically, one of my
English teachers at school referred to my casette player as ‘the wog block'.

Things came to a head on the night of New Year's Eve. Our ten-day camp went over New Year's Eve and into early January 1988, and in past camps a number of participants had run amok to celebrate the end of the year. On this occasion, the group supervisors and organisers took no chances. All participants were made to sit in the main prayer hall by the kitchen. We sat on the prayer mats and prepared ourselves to sing some religious songs in Arabic.

I sat with my group in the prayer hall, my cassette player wrapped in my prayer mat. At precisely midnight on New Year's Eve, I played the song ‘New Year's Day' from the U2 album
War
. I turned up the volume to full blast. Sheikh Fehmi rushed up to me screaming. ‘No, turn it off! This is
haraam
!'

Haraam
? How could U2 be
haraam
? They were a good Christian band whose lyrics had no sexual or other sinful content. Plus Qaradawi never said music was
haraam
. A Lebanese boy named Carter said that most forms of music were
haraam
, especially when string instruments such as guitars were used. It wasn't the first time I heard this distinction. Mum taught me that music was sinful, especially when the lyrics contain sexual content. However, she never said music was
haraam
.

The usual hijab rule was enforced at the camp. Most girls complied by wearing long skirts or loose pants, long-sleeved tops and their hair had to be covered with a hijab. I didn't mind this rule at all. For starters, it didn't affect me. I wasn't supposed to wear a hijab. And that wasn't the only element of selfishness. I also found the girls looked
more attractive in hijab. It made them look gorgeous but with more piety and a lesser element of … well … sexiness. For many of us, it was a case of guilt-free perving.

I remember sitting outside with an allegedly more religious ‘brother' from my cabin during a recreation period. We noticed some ‘sisters in Islam' walking past. We greeted the sisters with the usual religious greetings and exchanged a few pleasantries. When they were outside earshot, my brother made this pious observation.

‘
Subhanallah
[God is above all imperfections], those sisters look like they are almost ready to marry. I wouldn't mind marrying the one needing a longer, looser hijab.'

‘Why would she need that, brother?'

My brother looked at me, shocked at my naivety. He then provided a less pious and more blunt explanation.

‘Brother, it's because she's got big tits!'

I was stunned, and even more so when another group of sisters walked within earshot of the brother's comment.

‘
Astaghfirullah
[God have mercy on us]! Brother, how dare you say that about
my
cousin and
your
sister in Islam!' one of these sisters remarked.

It felt really strange calling the Pakistani girls ‘sister', especially the ones I had grown up with. Pakistani girls wore traditional
shalwar kameez
outfits but were resistant to wearing a hijab. Instead, they followed their mothers' (and my mother's) example and wore a loose shawl or a thin piece of cloth called a
dupatta
over part of their hair. They regarded hijab not as a religious requirement but rather as a cultural matter.

Mum used to often complain about non-Indo-Pakistani Muslim women who were so particular about hijab but
who wore shorter skirts or body-hugging jeans. I could hear an echo of her sentiment during a debate about the issue of hijab. One of the debaters, a Lebanese sister, complained about Pakistani women who refused to wear hijab and insisted on wearing cultural clothes. She set off a firestorm, with one Pakistani girl after another standing up and complaining about the Lebanese sister's comment. One Pakistani sister couldn't help herself.

‘You complain about me not covering my hair. But you wear jeans that are so tight that if you put a ten-cent coin in your back pocket, I could tell if it was heads or tails. And you think covering your hair with a hijab will make you look less of a slut!'

Spoken like a true disciple of my mum! Islamic Sister-hood had its limits.

There was one Lebanese sister named Zena who had joined the Pakistani girls by going on strike when it came to hijab. I'd constantly remind her to put it on whenever I saw her, telling her about the punishment of the hellfire that awaited her because of her disobedience to God's command.

‘Sister Zena, I am telling you this for your own good. I would not like to see my own sister in Islam go to hell.'

‘Well, my good brother Irfan, what makes you so sure that you won't end up joining me?'

Of course, I never had the guts to lecture her Pakistani colleagues lest they report me to my mother and I cop an earful. Still, I wasn't always obsessed with Islamic movement politics and hijabs. On the last night of the camp, we had a review night. During the camp, I had gained a reputation for doing some pretty good impersonations including
one of the leader of a sex-crazy Indian cult known as ‘the Orange People'. The cult leader was known as Bhagwan Shri Rajneesh. My friend Arfeen did a superb Punjabi accent. He was particularly good at impersonating that organiser with the heavy accent. Our mock debate between the Bhagwan and the Canberra academic went down like a lead balloon. However, we followed this up with a rather silly rendition of a one-hit wonder by an Aussie band called The Choirboys. The lyrics of ‘Run to Paradise' became ‘Run to Jindabyne', and we used tennis rackets and cricket bats to mime guitars.

We called our amateur musical outfit ‘Pakattack'. Our sad attempt at being hard Islamic (or un-Islamic, depending on your perspective) rockers gained us a cult following from the sisters, many of whom had a good scream when Arfeen and I jumped in the air simultaneously at the end. Sheikh Fehmi, on the other hand, almost had a cardiac arrest. I wasn't sure if it was our clumsy lyrical transformation or our nonexistent guitar skills or even our lewd bodily moves that caused such a stir with the sisters. What I do know is that Sheikh Fehmi was so disgusted with our performance that he walked out. We never saw him at any future AFIC camp.

Sister Zena also wasn't terribly impressed. ‘So brother Irfan, you have spent the whole camp lecturing me about how I'm heading for hell. You then finish off the camp by impersonating one of our elders and then dancing lewdly on stage. Perhaps you should be the one wearing a hijab!'

Sister Zena's dressing down didn't stop my hijab antics. I started reading more conservative books on the subject. Among them was a book by Maududi called
Purdah and the Status of Women in Islam
. I never heard the word ‘purdah' used at camps, probably because it was more of a cultural practice that reflected class snobbery than religious modesty. Afterwards, at one of the IYA study circles in Lakemba, one of the youth supervisors from the camp told us that Indo-Pakistani Muslims tend to be too strict with gender segregation.

Mum started to become quite annoyed with my constantly badgering her and my sisters about wearing hijab. When I dared to suggest she would earn
gunna
(negative spiritual currency) and be punished by God if she didn't start wearing hijab when she went shopping, Mum used her full Urdu and Hindlish vocabulary to express her displeasure.

‘How dare you lecture me on appropriate attire, young man. I am perfectly aware of what my God expects of me.
Yoo no right tell me vaat I cover head ven go shopping. Look your Lebniz so-call sister vare tight is-skirt and show all bi-reast and think the God happy with only cover with hijab! They doing haraam!
I would relish the opportunity to repeat these words in the presence of your alleged sisters in Islam.'

My obsession with this issue became so great that I even tried my hand at lecturing my eldest sister.

‘Seriously, there is so much evidence from the Koran and
hadith
that hijab is
fardh
[compulsory].'

‘So Irfan, let me get this right. You are saying to me that I should wear hijab to the office.'

‘Well, if God requires you to do that then you must.'

‘And would you grow a beard and wear a cap and long robes to uni?'

‘Well, I don't have to. It's not compulsory for me to do this.'

‘And you think it's compulsory for me?'

‘Of course.'

‘So what should I do about my job? Will you work on my behalf so that my husband and I can afford to pay rent and food and save up to buy a house?'

‘Well, why can't you at least try to wear hijab? I mean, what means more to you—keeping your job or obeying God? Would you rather show your hair and your legs to your workmates or …'

My sister's husband could see where this was leading. He carefully laid a trap.

‘So Irfan, are you telling your sister that if she doesn't wear a hijab, then she shouldn't work?'

‘Well, I guess I am.'

That was it. I was fenced in. Not even in my most conservative state could I imagine women in my family not working. It went against everything Mum had instilled in us. Mum always told my sisters that they must be educated and have the ability to earn money so that they could be financially independent. She even insisted that I marry a woman who was educated and could earn a living. I felt ashamed of myself for not being able to balance my (privately held and recently acquired) attitudes towards religion and my relationship with my family. Even worse, I had embarrassed my sister in the presence of her husband, someone who I treated as my elder brother.

By now, readers might imagine my mother to be a tough cookie. When it comes to my sister, they should multiply Mum's toughness by at least one hundred. She was employed in a senior management role in a publicly listed company, and her husband was even more senior in the corporate world. My attempts to micro-manage my sister's dress sense led to her serving my ears with a generous main course of lashing, my parents happily following this with dessert and finally pouring my ears with piping hot tea and coffee. I mean that metaphorically, but at the time it felt almost as painful as if administered literally.