Hajabi Dating

Sofia’s a plucky, somewhat foul-mouthed, book publicist who’s on her way to an important meeting and has been caught rather off-guard by Mr. Racist. This, as well as having broken off her engagement with her fiancé – who, by the way, wanted her to live with his parents and a hole-in-the-wall, and please, what year do you think this is? – distracts her from paying attention in her meeting (she’s busy figuring out how to doodle a house with a hole-in-the-wall). So distracted in fact that she ends up being asked by her boss to write a Muslim dating book. You know, to expose the underworld of furtive hand-holding and chaperoned dates. Sofia reluctantly agrees and so begins the sequence of events that will unravel a contemporary love story, while also unravelling some home truths. 

As a hijabi Muslim I’ve been asked some pretty weird questions in my time. For example: Do you have to wear your hijab in the shower as well? 

What’s a girl to do? Eye-rolling isn’t very Muslim and then you can’t blame a person for asking. Anyway, the last thing you want is for people to think that you never wash your hair properly. I blame the media (it’s always a safe bet). If they didn’t bang on about how we’re all bombing things, perhaps we wouldn’t want to harp on about the fact that actually, some of us have very different past-times. For example, some of us like to write. 

Apparently we don’t have similar trials to our non-Muslim counterparts, such as: should I text him back now or in a few hours? Do these skinny jeans make my arse look fat? And sometimes, just sometimes: isn’t this Brexit thing a nightmare? Of course we’re all concerned about exposing the horrors of some practises that take place in the name of our religion and culture, but occasionally, it’s not so much about saving the world as it is the small, everyday struggles of having to live in it. Or in the case of Sofia Khan, dating in it. 

That’s not fair, of course. Only some of them are. (As are some Muslim women, obviously – though perhaps the ratio isn’t quite 50:50). When you’ve had several conversations where your life is reduced to unimaginative assumptions to do with arranged or forced marriages it can become quite boring. But you can’t blame the public for that (return to my earlier point about the media). So, when people ask what inspired me to write Sofia Khan, I tell them: life. 

To be entirely truthful, writing the book was partly an act of catharsis because in life there are plenty of things that piss me off. It just so happened I was able to write about these things and then get paid to have them published. I’d tried to write novels before, giving up usually around the ten-thousand-word mark. Perhaps because I was so keen to reject the adage of writing what you know I ended up writing things which always felt a little hollow. I gave up. I decided to embrace the adage, along with the peaks and troughs of what it’s like to date when you’re a practicing Muslim. How else was I meant to answer questions about why I choose to live the way I live? And not just by non-Muslims:

‘Beta, why don’t you get married now?’

‘Well, Auntie number three-hundred-and-twenty-six, I’m trying, but it’s not like it was in your day.’

Because we can all agree that when it comes to making a long term commitment the game has changed considerably. In fact, it’s a new one entirely and everyone’s a little sketchy on the rules. 

The multi-faceted life of an everyday modern British Muslim is overlooked on such a gross scale – when considering how much more attention the not-so-everyday-British-Muslim gets – that I began to wonder whether people would be interested in reading about it. Because another thing I knew was that my experience, and those of countless other Muslim women – specifically the dating experience – wasn’t available in literature. It’s no secret that people who read a lot have a greater capacity for empathy and understanding. Studies confirm this. So does personal experience. After I read Jane Eyre I’d think twice about judging a person for the way they looked. Wide Sargasso Sea had me re-assessing the entire notion of the mad woman in the attic – she could be any one of us. (I, myself, am probably an attic short of being one.) Little Women taught me it was okay to be bookish and obscure. By the time I was in my twenties I was brimming with empathy (though perhaps still substantially lacking in understanding). I’d managed to find myself in life but still hadn’t found myself, truly, in literature. 

The beautiful thing about literature is it encompasses us all. The reader – wherever you’re from and whatever you believe – is transported into a world where they become that protagonist and live a life through their emotionally turbulent glasses. The problem I found was that there just weren’t enough characters like Sofia Khan in literature. You show me a Muslim hijabi in fiction and I’ll show you a female jihadi who’s gone to fight with ISIS. The great heroines from my literary life: Elizabeth Bennett, Bathsheba Everdene, Isabel Archer, Cassandra Mortmaine, and of course the eponymous and more contemporary Bridget Jones, always managed to be only almost completely relatable. The likes of Liz and Cass might get away with it, because, let’s face it, we Muslims hadn’t quite taken over the country at that time, but the heroines of Bridge’s time should surely know better. 

I have to confess here that I’ve had a life-long love affair with Bridget Jones’ Diary. Bridget was a definitive icon: the modern British woman navigating her way through the concrete jungle in the pursuit of love, optimum weight and happiness. She juggled men, career, family and friends, and spent her days reconciling the emotional turmoil of being independent and yet wanting to get married and settle down. But here’s the thing: she drank alcohol. A lot of it. And she had sex. She complained that she never had enough because she was always single, but Bridge, trust me, you were way ahead of the Muslim game. (Incidentally, no-one really talks about the fact that there are a growing number of Muslim men and women, unmarried in their thirties, and still abiding by the tenets of no sex before marriage. Not even a little sex. Like, phone sex. But perhaps that’s another story.)

So, the familiarity of Bridge’s dating tribulations always stopped short at worrying about whether or not to wear big pants on a date. I’ve never had an occasion for genuinely tiny knickers. Because as a practicing Muslim the only person seeing my genuinely tiny knickers would be me, and perhaps my mum when she accidentally walks into my room while I’m getting ready for said date. For we all know that dating in Muslim-land is a lot like dating back in the eighteenth century. Except strapping men don’t come galloping on horses to court you anymore. There’s no such thing as courting, in fact. There’s a forty-five-minute journey on the Northern line and a coffee in Costa. Maybe a cookie if you’re lucky. When was the last time you read about the heroine who had to sit in the house, waiting for a potential rishta, to serve samosas and chai to people she will never see, or want to see, again? Or when her friend is dating that white guy? Not to mention the black guy who she can’t marry, because heaven knows that the darker the skin colour, the greater the evil. It’s hard to come across these trials without them being linked to tales of oppression, or used as crass comic set-pieces without nuance to pander to pre-set ideas of what it is to be a second generation British Muslim; or, most significantly for me, without a woman rejecting her religious values in order to become the enlightened Westerner we should all aspire to be. Because God forbid a Muslim woman have an opinion, much less a choice in how she lives. 

Enter Sofia Khan, created to subvert expectations and right all misperceived wrongs. Actually, Sofia as a character is quite wrong herself; she smokes like a chimney, swears like a sailor and only stops short of drinking like a fish. Unless that drink is tea. She is Pakistani after all. For me, Sofia is the manifestation of your typical modern-day hijabi. She can be reduced to a certain type – robust in her opinions and her use of foul language – but is also unique, as indeed, wonder of all wonders, all hijabis are. (Goal number seven-hundred-and-ninety-eight: to scrap the idea that hijabis and their experiences are the same.) But she was also a vehicle to express the many, many frustrations that Muslim British women feel nowadays – whether that’s do to with the dating pool (or lack thereof), or the perpetual misperceptions surrounding our everyday lives. Even more than that, she’s the type of Muslim woman who will probably throw the samosa meant for a potential husband in his face, should he piss her off. 

I wanted her to be the samosa-throwing type, along with the smoking and swearing type, because somehow hijabis become less human for virtue of a piece of material wrapped around their head. They inhabit a space that is either reserved on a pedestal or in a kitchen. Because they are holy they must also be homely. Or they are homely when they’re at home, and not quite so holy when out of their parents’ sight. The idea that they could be anything in between seems extravagant. Sofia’s penchant for prayer and a cheeky fag might feel like a bit of a disconnect. In the grand scheme of things her misdemeanour is relatively quaint, yet at the same time, within the sphere of the Muslim community, quite outrageous. Not because she’s a Muslim who smokes, but because she is a Muslim woman who smokes. There’s a scene at the beginning of the novel where she’s sitting in the garden with her dad who’s puffing away, happily, on his cigarette. She sits, having to be satisfied with the second-hand nicotine being blown her way (a metaphor for her dating life, if ever there was one). There’s the introspective acknowledgement of the double-standard in which a man is free to smoke whenever he wishes yet Sofia, at the age of thirty, must always do it behind closed doors. In so many ways, Sofia is on the cusp of change and becoming a grown woman, and yet she recognises there are hurdles to overcome in order to fully realise this evolved status. What has that got to do with dating, though? I’ll come to that in a bit. 

One thing Sofia refuses to change, however, is the fact that she wears a hijab. This piece of material is a point of contention throughout the novel, not least by her own mother who thinks it’s going to stop Sofia from finding a husband – her hair, after all, is her one beauty (my not-so-subtle homage to Little Women’s character, Jo). So, Sofia sighs and eye-rolls her way through her mum’s constant jibes, while showing her work colleagues that not only does she have to put up with racist shit on the street, but similar kind of shit from her mother in the house. The idea that a woman might choose to wear a hijab when none of her family members do seems absurd, and yet it is not, by any means, an anomaly. But reconciling cigarettes and scarves isn’t something Sofia struggles with, that’s an issue for the people around her. 

Except when it comes to dating. One of the love interests in the book gets out a cigarette on one of their dates and Sofia contemplates asking him for one, except she’s wary of his judgement. Why? Because she likes him. The constant rearranging of virtues Muslim women still feel compelled to do in order not to be judged by their peers, or have potential husbands put-off by such outlandish behaviour is depressingly rampant. The accidental pursuit of love doesn’t come easy, and weighing up just how much of one’s true character you should be showing is all part and parcel of the dating game. It just so happens that in this balancing act Sofia shows that while we are free in many ways, there are limitations to this freedom. That limitation, apparently, is deciding whether to get the Marlboros out. You just have to ask yourself:

It might not seem like a big deal – it’s not as if smoking is something to be proud of – but look closely and that double-standard is just one of many that we’re expected to accept, even when deciding on the biggest commitment in life. 

Sofia’s friends too have about ninety-nine relationship problems, but at least a hijab ain’t one. There’s Fozia who’s with a man who refuses to commit because Foz is divorced and his parents don’t approve; then there’s Suj, her Sikh friend who’s in a relationship with a black man and promises that the next time she sees him will be the last, because she doesn’t want to be the reason her dad has a heart attack; and of course there’s Hannah, the doctor who’s inconveniently fallen in love with a married man (but that’s okay because at least he’s allowed more than one wife). It just goes to show that we’re not all the same. It’s easy to view Muslims as this homogenous group with the same ideals and notions – living parallel lives – but Sofia’s group of friends give (or should give) lie to this impression. Each scenario opens up its own issues, but of these perhaps polygamy is the most interesting. Why would an intelligent, educated woman, consign herself to such a fate? I’ve spoken to women who wouldn’t rule out a polygamous marriage because, for those who are career-driven, it would allow them time to focus on their ambitions. 

‘Men can be demanding. I wouldn’t need to shave every day.’

And then there’s the tick-tock of the biological clock. If you can’t find Mr. Right, Mr. Married will have to do. There is a flip-side to this, though – if it is a choice made by a woman who knows what she wants, then why should it be frowned upon? Hannah’s friends throw each other surreptitious glances when it comes to her decision; they go along with it because, well, she seems happy, and isn’t that the end-goal? In fact, the support network goes to show how royally buggered a person could be were it not for the friendships formed on the back of bad dates. No-one can deny the unique bonding experience of talking about the guy who says ‘awailable’ instead of ‘available’, or the one who can’t be bothered to spell goodnight properly (Nyt Nyt. ‘Lazy with words, lazy with life’). A few of the incidents in the book were gathered from friends and people I know, purely for entertainment value, but what transpired was that through all the dating pitfalls, even though quite a few tears have been shed, they’ve mostly been tears of laughter. 

Speaking of tears, you couldn’t possibly talk about Muslim dating and not talk about the parents. They’re meant to be the model upon which we make our marital decisions. This might account for why so many of these decisions are messed up. I remember speaking to a friend’s mum once – we have little heart-to-hearts now and again. She told me about her husband and how unsuitable they were for each other; she was the life of each party and he was an introvert; she loved to laugh and he always took a while to catch the joke. When he died though she felt the grief of his loss. 

‘There wasn’t anything between us,’ she said. ‘But there was something.’

It was probably the most poignant thing I’d heard an Asian woman say about her husband. Forty-two years of marriage reduced to a vague feeling that didn’t seem to have a word; something between love and a hard place. Sofia’s parents are your typical, immigrant, disgruntled couple, living in a marriage of inconvenience. You never can tell if they love each other, and they often don’t seem to like each other very much, but they do know each other. Their lives are made up of routine and familiar habits; its day-to-day running like a well-oiled marital machine. Sofia finds herself reflecting on her parents’ marriage, as well as their expectations of her, while writing her book. I myself find it’s difficult to date without observing the ebb and flow of the accusatory glances my mum might’ve thrown at my dad; You; you brought me to this country. I had to live with your damn mother and sisters and didn’t manage to get a life until they decided that you had to choose between them or me. You chose me. In the end you come to realise that not all love stories are the same. Some end up happening years after the marriage takes place. Sofia’s dad just happens to realise that you can’t put a price on the woman who remembers when you need to take your medication. Even if sometimes you’re not quite sure what that medication is. 

While the above scenario might be familiar to many second generation immigrants, Sofia recognises that being in a marriage which is a ‘combination of resilience and resignation’ should hardly be life’s aim. What’s the point in your parents having emigrated if it doesn’t mean more options for you? Wasn’t it all done for a better life? Better for who though? When Sofia’s dad is taken ill her resolve to stay single rather than marry the wrong man begins to waver. How are you meant to stick to your guns when there are wires stuck to your dad’s chest? I’ve seen a lot of people get married to please their parents – add a parent who might die any day now to the mix and you’ll be sure to hear wedding bells. What is it about the potential ending of life that induces people to, metaphorically, end theirs? But then love is illogical, and when it is for the love of a parent, maybe it is that much more poignant. 

Perhaps never more so when faced with questions about your sexuality. As the research for her book continues Sofia meets a man online. Abid is impossibly beautiful and, rather bewilderingly, interested in her. They exchange several emails before they decide to meet and when they do she’s not quite sure what to make of the non-glitch of a date. How could something, and someone, so perfect be within reach? Of course, if it seems too good to be true, it usually is. She ends up bumping into him one evening outside Heaven. And not the afterlife kind. Abid wasn’t used to remark on whether homosexuality is a sin in Islam or not. Rather it was to question the effect of our inability to talk about it in the community. Everyone is scampering around, looking to complete half their deen, while amongst them there are people who are living an incomplete truth. 

The reception to Sofia Khan is not Obliged has been overwhelmingly positive. Most of the Muslim women who have contacted me have just been delighted to have a character in literature who finally reflects their daily experiences. The non-Muslim readers enjoyed an insight into another culture as well as the dating spectacle to which any woman could relate. Actually, a lot of men – one of whom is my editor and publisher – have enjoyed it because apparently it’s funny. (I mean, not all men. One guy seemed a bit put-out in his Amazon review, telling me that I paint all Muslim men with the same negative brush – I wonder if I ever went on a date with him?) And of course there were the people who found it annoying. Ah, well, you can’t win ’em all. But many people (especially non-Muslims) think that it’s just the kind of thing that should be on television because finally, miracle of all miracles, we have a Muslim character who transcends the boundaries of religious identity. Who’d have thought that having a shared humanity would be such a novel idea; that a woman’s Muslim-ness could become incidental and that she could appeal to the basic emotions we all have? It’s probably why my publisher wanted me to write a sequel – The Other Half of Happiness – (because we’re all adults here and know that finding a partner isn’t the sum of all our dating parts, but just another variable to confuse matters). 

Most importantly, though, when I was writing Sofia Khan, she was a symbol of hope – and one for Muslim women in particular – because it’s no secret that the road to marriage, quite literally, is paved with man-holes. It is the hope that you don’t have to negotiate your beliefs in order to find happiness and that, limited or not, there is always a choice in the decision you make. Short of that, you can always get the Marlboro’s out.