Credit: Consequences Toy Story, he.memegenerator.net

I’m not a scholar, I’m not a theologist, I’m not a teacher, I’m not even the most practising of Muslims. When it comes to faith, my life is chaos, chaos! We’re on some positive vibes train this year, so I’ll rephrase that. My life isn’t all chaos, granted it could be more sharply refined – we realize that and are trying our best to smooth over those rough edges and live as per the tenets recommended to us. We try. Obviously, part of this trial entails much testing in our interactions with the world. And testing obviously requires that you receive some bit of resistance, commensurate to the effort and action you put out. Basic science. Sometimes though, its reaction is vastly superior to the action you put out, and you’ve got to give Newton’s assumptions a rest.

So if you haven’t been living under a rock in rural Afghanistan, you have obviously come across cultures and people who are vastly different from you. Vastly. Beliefs, cultures, languages, views, chins. The whole shebang. And because they’re used to this very particular way of thinking and living, affirmed daily by the societies they inhabit, they automatically think everyone lives like them. And would further think you’re intolerably gauche if you adopted a different perspective to life. Different era gauche, that should no longer exist in this world. Sometimes when they say this, they mean you should not be living amongst them.

And sometimes these norms translate to a perceived authority regarding how we’re all required to interact with each other. It extends to what our physical boundaries should conform to, and what our personal spaces should look like. It’s kind of difficult, when you’ve got a large part of the world thinking and behaving in a certain manner and then you, singular lone you, attempt to go against the tide. It looks a bit like this.

Credit: gozzim.blogspot.com (2015)

It does, I have realized, stretch the limits of everything Newton believed. Err, throw in the entire world too. And all because, when you extended your hand to me, I declined to shake it.

It’s not just a Muslim thing. It’s a hippy thing. In the world of “me too”, throw in a quarter of the scarred women involved. Orthodox Jewish women favour it. And until recently, in British Victorian society, it was not good form for a man to shake a woman’s hands unless it was offered. Certainly not when they were mere acquaintances. Everyone wore gloves, and there were strict rules governing interactions with the opposite sex. Such simple times those. Err, excluding the lack of inheritance, property, financial and just about every single legal right that would equate the value and status of a woman to that of a man, of course. Could we bring back the gloves idea, though? I’m crazy about that.

So the shaking of hands people, I’ve come to discover, is a minefield rife with the most violent of detonations. I’ve had all sorts of reactions to this, from the sweetly accepting, to those who bear fixed smiles though their eyes scream “weird!“, to the aggressive opposers, condescending mockers. Everything across that spectrum, I have heard it all. 

And I do understand them. Really. You see, once upon a time, I was one of those bare minimum kind of Muslims who thought everyone else was too extreme. I never wore hijab throughout my primary and high school, as we weren’t allowed to, and once I joined the real world, was the farthest thing from what you would call a practising Muslim. I was also deeply unhappy. If you’d told me there was meaning to life, besides the accumulation of wealth, and beating everyone to it before I died, I’d laugh at you and tell you to stop spinning stories. Nothing ever seemed worth doing. Until one holiday season in university when a friend encouraged me to learn more about Islamic jurisprudence, and recommended a strict religious institution to enroll to. It’s the best thing that has ever happened to me. I got to make friends with women I had previously thought had nothing to do with me, and I got to see a side to life that I deeply long to go back to. It’s the happiest I’ve ever been, the most peaceful I ever was. Life was simple, too simple it seemed – it was “will my Creator approve of this?” Yes, move on. Nay, chuck it out.

And once I went back to uni, I was a changed woman. I wore niqab, I stopped shaking my classmates’ hands, and carried on with life, using the frame that I had acquired in those few months I was there. Blissful times those. While I had to stop wearing niqab (story for another day), the rest I diligently maintained. No big deal, until I joined the workforce. And had to constantly tell my colleagues and clients that I did not wish to shake hands. I could understand the embarrassment that accompanied it. And would always try to comfort them, citing a longstanding rule, that applied to everyone. But I learnt from this, and desiring a bit more control in such interactions, would warn each new person beforehand, either through email, or through whomever was introducing us, to respect this boundary. 

It almost sounds petty. And you know what? I kind of get why you would think so. You see, I come from a culture that values tradition, and in many cases puts its merits, before religion. Personal boundaries are completely disregarded, and I have met several distant relatives who’d brush this all aside and hug and kiss me, as they wished. My attempts to enforce this rule met with much opposition and derision. But I hardly ever meet these people, you see, so I can deal with this circumstance once in a while. And its accompanying hypocritical sentiments. It kills me, this evident discriminatory treatment I have seemingly adopted, it does. Some of my work involves meeting with communities and constituents who live unimaginably difficult lives. It’s painful to decline someone’s hand, in these set of circumstances. Extremely so.

My day to day work however occupies a huge chunk of my life. And I must be comfortable, and at peace, if I’m to be productive. I recall one of my bosses telling me to lose this habit, if I wanted to progress. Lose myself you mean? It’s not that easy you know. I used to be bothered when people gave such unsolicited opinions, and went through unnecessary turmoil in refuting ignorant statements when I was younger, now I laugh about it. I shake old men’s hands. I shake children’s hands. Some Muslim women don’t find all this to be terribly important. It confuses people. It does, Wilbur, doesn’t it? What’s even more confusing though is that you noticed it, and would want all of us to act in the same manner. For you. And your comfort. Would you also like to pay my bills then, since you’re so invested in my life? No?

It singularly has to be one of the most negative first impressions one could make in this modern world. I’ve had several people completely decline to engage further with me. Muslims, even the most devout you’d think, have criticized me for it. But I cannot stomach the alternative. The alternative is immense sadness and extreme guilt from choosing to obey the creation over the Creator. How could I ever pick man, over God? How could I ever think I’d be successful by choosing to be dutiful to fickle, malcontent subjects, who have no real power over my life, before the Most High, who routinely fulfills the deepest of my desires. And how could I ever derive peace from such a decision?

My Lord has directed me not to do it, that is why I do not shake hands with strange men in my life. It’s not a recourse that interferes not with the central tenets of my religion, nor is it a discriminatory symbol of my faith that I could simply do away with (I’m looking at you ECJ), it’s my raison d’etre. It’s my sanity. There are many reasons behind it of course. This blog is not about those reasons, and the philosophy behind it all. It’s enough for me that my Provider is displeased to see me interacting in this manner, and that He would wish that I refrained from it. This far He’s brought me, this greatly He’s honoured me. This far He’s guided me, through much ferment, and brought immense happiness into my life, when I have least expected it. When I have least deserved it. And remains my lodestone in this tumultuous, chaotic world. Quite simply, He, and everything about Him, is the reason why I’m still alive today. That is your competition.

To live and let live, it sounds almost too simplistic. I don’t intend to interfere in your life, I won’t encroach into what brings you comfort. Why is it so hard to extend the same to me? Does it offend you? Your entire life does offend me if I’m honest with you. But I don’t care enough really to address it, I’ve got stuff to do. And as long as it does not harm me, I will never raise it to you. You’re entitled to my respect and dignity, as a human soul, however offensive your life. So why is it so inconvenient for you to extend the same favour? And why only you, and people like you? And who said you get to dictate how to interact with me?

It’s not trifling. And it’s not personal. I hate to see you embarrassed, it’s the last thing I want, believe me. I certainly don’t think I’m better than you. You write great books, I admire that. But this is way above you, and your offended sensibilities. The next time you meet a Muslim woman, try and behave like a reasonable human being, and errm, respect her views and personal boundaries? However offensive. Please?