Crimson Leopard-Print Headscarves: Wearing the Veil in Banda Aceh, Indonesia
Doug Bock Clark
Aisha has a date tonight. She is twenty-seven. Most of her friends are married. She is still pretty, but she worries she is losing her looks. Her figure, which she once described as “professional,” has bagged down with plumpness, the result of a love of fried bananas.
In Banda Aceh, Indonesia, where sharia (Islamic) law reigns, a single date signals a lot more than in the West. Meeting for coffee often means agreeing to be viewed as a couple in the eyes of Acehnese society. Certainly, after a second date, friends will start gossiping—jokingly and not—about a wedding.
Aisha isn’t sure if other people are labeling her and Fajar a couple yet, but she hopes so. They work together at the bank: she’s up front as a teller; he’s in back as an accountant. They’ve never gotten beyond casual conversation when he drops papers off at her desk because the other tellers are eavesdropping. Most of Aisha’s information about him comes from gossip and Facebook stalking, but she’s liked what she’s heard: quiet but friendly, a diligent employee, loyal to his widowed mother. She’s also noted that he’s older, expected to be promoted soon, dresses well, and drives an expensive Honda Tiger motorbike.
But in some ways he remains a mystery. Take, for example, the bruise—birthmark?—a little to the right of the center of his forehead. It’s so faint she’s not even sure it’s there. Could it be a developing zabiba, the callus exceptionally devote Muslims earn through a great deal of prayer, bowing repeatedly until their brows bump the tiles? Everyone knows Fajar never misses any of the five daily devotions, but he dresses very modernly in jeans and knock-off Adidas. She has never seen him in a peci, the traditional hat religious men wear.
But Aisha can’t waste too much time debating whether the spot is a zabiba or birthmark. It’s 3:00 p.m. and her shift at the bank has just ended. The date is at 7:30 p.m. at Q&L Coffee. If the night is going to be a success she needs a new outfit, especially a jilbab (headscarf).
Aisha knows her best friend, Putri, is a terrible person to ask for fashion advice, but she can’t imagine sorting through veils and weighing the messages they will send alone. She abandons caution and calls her.
In Banda Aceh, Indonesia, where sharia (Islamic) law reigns, a single date signals a lot more than in the West. Meeting for coffee often means agreeing to be viewed as a couple in the eyes of Acehnese society. Certainly, after a second date, friends will start gossiping—jokingly and not—about a wedding.
Aisha isn’t sure if other people are labeling her and Fajar a couple yet, but she hopes so. They work together at the bank: she’s up front as a teller; he’s in back as an accountant. They’ve never gotten beyond casual conversation when he drops papers off at her desk because the other tellers are eavesdropping. Most of Aisha’s information about him comes from gossip and Facebook stalking, but she’s liked what she’s heard: quiet but friendly, a diligent employee, loyal to his widowed mother. She’s also noted that he’s older, expected to be promoted soon, dresses well, and drives an expensive Honda Tiger motorbike.
But in some ways he remains a mystery. Take, for example, the bruise—birthmark?—a little to the right of the center of his forehead. It’s so faint she’s not even sure it’s there. Could it be a developing zabiba, the callus exceptionally devote Muslims earn through a great deal of prayer, bowing repeatedly until their brows bump the tiles? Everyone knows Fajar never misses any of the five daily devotions, but he dresses very modernly in jeans and knock-off Adidas. She has never seen him in a peci, the traditional hat religious men wear.
But Aisha can’t waste too much time debating whether the spot is a zabiba or birthmark. It’s 3:00 p.m. and her shift at the bank has just ended. The date is at 7:30 p.m. at Q&L Coffee. If the night is going to be a success she needs a new outfit, especially a jilbab (headscarf).
Aisha knows her best friend, Putri, is a terrible person to ask for fashion advice, but she can’t imagine sorting through veils and weighing the messages they will send alone. She abandons caution and calls her.
~
Aceh, Indonesia, is a scarred land. It is still recovering from twenty-five years of separatist, Islamist rebellion and the devastating 2004 tsunami, which killed approximately 125,000 people in Aceh Province. In ten minutes Banda Aceh, the region’s capital, lost about a fourth of its population: 60,000 souls.
The rebuilt Banda Aceh is a puzzle of crooked lanes. Motorbikes honk and swerve around stray cows and old men push kaki limas, wheeled food-carts, through traffic, ringing bells. The buildings are drab and single story, shedding peeling paint. The domes of hundreds of mosques dominate the skyline, their calls to prayer filling the city with haunting music five times a day.
When the azan, the call to prayer, echoes through Banda Aceh, the frenetic city suddenly calms. Choked streets empty into eerie stillness; restaurants and shops lock their doors and draw their blinds; the population files towards mosques and prayer rooms.
Islam is central to Acehnese identity. Banda Aceh was the first place in South East Asia to convert to Islam, around 1,200 C.E. It spread from there, eventually encompassing all of Malaysia, most of Indonesia, and portions of Thailand and the Philippines. The desire for sharia law has fueled separatist Islamist rebellions since the 1950s, as Indonesia’s central government has insisted the province remain subject to the country’s secular constitution. In 2001, however, Aceh was allowed to implement sharia law for Muslims (though not for Aceh’s minority Christian or Buddhist populations) in an attempt to appease the rebels.
All Western forms of modernity in Aceh accommodate themselves to Islam: signs hang in internet cafes asking men and women not to share computers; the TVs in roadside coffee shops rarely show the provocative music videos common elsewhere in Indonesia, instead sticking to European soccer; and though Acehnese women might wear jeans, they also cover their hair with headscarves. For a Muslim woman to show her hair on the streets is an offense punishable by law.
It is the responsibility of the sharia police to enforce prohibitions on all actions mesum (sexually inappropriate), from failing to wear a jilbab, a headscarf, to premarital sex, as well as infractions such as drinking and failure to attend Friday prayers. Punishments can include: caning, fines, and public shaming, including having buckets of raw sewage dumped on offenders in front of a crowd. Although such cases are extremely rare, sharia courts can also sentence adulterers to be stoned to death. The most powerful enforcer of Islamic standards, however, is the censure and gossip of Acehnese society.
But Banda Aceh is not Afghanistan. Burkas, the black “body tents” that conceal everything but a woman’s eyes, are extremely rare.
Walking down the street in Aceh reveals jilbabs of all colors and styles, combined in inventive ways with Western, Acehnese, and Islamic outfits. A daring student sports a sheer lime-green headscarf above a knee-length dress and black leggings; an old woman carries a basket of mangos on top of a tightly wound pashmina, her loose robe tangling around her; a housewife hurries down the street to buy sugar at a neighborhood convenience store, wearing only pajamas and a jilbab songkok, a pre-made headscarf favored for its ease of use; a rich woman keeps her chin high, careful not to disturb the elaborate, almost sculptural folds of her sequined veil…
The number of styles is almost endless, as are the signals they send, in a society that very much judges a woman on what she wears.
The rebuilt Banda Aceh is a puzzle of crooked lanes. Motorbikes honk and swerve around stray cows and old men push kaki limas, wheeled food-carts, through traffic, ringing bells. The buildings are drab and single story, shedding peeling paint. The domes of hundreds of mosques dominate the skyline, their calls to prayer filling the city with haunting music five times a day.
When the azan, the call to prayer, echoes through Banda Aceh, the frenetic city suddenly calms. Choked streets empty into eerie stillness; restaurants and shops lock their doors and draw their blinds; the population files towards mosques and prayer rooms.
Islam is central to Acehnese identity. Banda Aceh was the first place in South East Asia to convert to Islam, around 1,200 C.E. It spread from there, eventually encompassing all of Malaysia, most of Indonesia, and portions of Thailand and the Philippines. The desire for sharia law has fueled separatist Islamist rebellions since the 1950s, as Indonesia’s central government has insisted the province remain subject to the country’s secular constitution. In 2001, however, Aceh was allowed to implement sharia law for Muslims (though not for Aceh’s minority Christian or Buddhist populations) in an attempt to appease the rebels.
All Western forms of modernity in Aceh accommodate themselves to Islam: signs hang in internet cafes asking men and women not to share computers; the TVs in roadside coffee shops rarely show the provocative music videos common elsewhere in Indonesia, instead sticking to European soccer; and though Acehnese women might wear jeans, they also cover their hair with headscarves. For a Muslim woman to show her hair on the streets is an offense punishable by law.
It is the responsibility of the sharia police to enforce prohibitions on all actions mesum (sexually inappropriate), from failing to wear a jilbab, a headscarf, to premarital sex, as well as infractions such as drinking and failure to attend Friday prayers. Punishments can include: caning, fines, and public shaming, including having buckets of raw sewage dumped on offenders in front of a crowd. Although such cases are extremely rare, sharia courts can also sentence adulterers to be stoned to death. The most powerful enforcer of Islamic standards, however, is the censure and gossip of Acehnese society.
But Banda Aceh is not Afghanistan. Burkas, the black “body tents” that conceal everything but a woman’s eyes, are extremely rare.
Walking down the street in Aceh reveals jilbabs of all colors and styles, combined in inventive ways with Western, Acehnese, and Islamic outfits. A daring student sports a sheer lime-green headscarf above a knee-length dress and black leggings; an old woman carries a basket of mangos on top of a tightly wound pashmina, her loose robe tangling around her; a housewife hurries down the street to buy sugar at a neighborhood convenience store, wearing only pajamas and a jilbab songkok, a pre-made headscarf favored for its ease of use; a rich woman keeps her chin high, careful not to disturb the elaborate, almost sculptural folds of her sequined veil…
The number of styles is almost endless, as are the signals they send, in a society that very much judges a woman on what she wears.
~
Aisha and Putri shop at Suzuya, Banda Aceh’s biggest store, whose selection spans from durian fruit to knockoff Calvin Klein underwear. It has the feel of a scaled down Carrefour or Wal-Mart. They like it because they can try on clothes in the aisles and not bother folding them back up correctly, unlike in claustrophobic traditional market stalls where the owner always lurks, peeking over customers’ shoulders.
Around 3:45 p.m., Putri stops Aisha at a table of discount tablecloths, picks one up, and tries to wraps it around her friend’s head. “Here, this is it! And cheap too! Wouldn’t you look beautiful? And you’d be ready to serve!” Putri says, laughing.
Putri describes herself as a “firecracker,” “a modern person who lives in this place.” Certainly, her style calls a lot more attention to itself than Aisha’s. Putri wears a black and teal headscarf, the colors alternating in zebra stripes. The headscarf matches her outfit, a black pullover with a shimmering aquamarine skirt below. Beneath that are tight black jeans and flip-flops pounded paper thin by long use.
It’s often hard to notice Aisha next to the flamboyant Putri. Aisha’s headscarf is black and without pattern or texture, wrapped in a simple style, and pinned with an unobtrusive rhinestone brooch. She wears a baggy maroon shirt with knockoff Louis Vutton symbols stitched onto the sleeves. Her pants and flip-flops are the same mud brown. She thinks of herself as, “A good girl. Simple. Modest. I don’t demand a lot.” When someone talks to her, she has a habit of stepping back so that if the person reached out to touch her she would remain just beyond their fingertips. She lives at home with her mother who spends most of the day studying Arabic so that she can read the Koran without translation.
Aisha laughs and slaps away Putri, who is still attempting to wrap the tablecloth around her head.
They continue through the aisles, aiming for the jilbab section. The women appreciate the air conditioning: headscarves and full-body clothing are hot, especially in tropical climates. The loudspeakers play the Indonesian equivalent, in both poppiness and sappiness, of an American, Christmas, Top 50 radio tune—“Insyallah,” last Ramadan’s big hit. When it is time for one of the five daily prayers, the market broadcasts the azan over the same loudspeakers.
They reach the jilbab section and start sorting through the hundreds of scarves piled on the discount tables.
Putri describes herself as a “firecracker,” “a modern person who lives in this place.” Certainly, her style calls a lot more attention to itself than Aisha’s. Putri wears a black and teal headscarf, the colors alternating in zebra stripes. The headscarf matches her outfit, a black pullover with a shimmering aquamarine skirt below. Beneath that are tight black jeans and flip-flops pounded paper thin by long use.
It’s often hard to notice Aisha next to the flamboyant Putri. Aisha’s headscarf is black and without pattern or texture, wrapped in a simple style, and pinned with an unobtrusive rhinestone brooch. She wears a baggy maroon shirt with knockoff Louis Vutton symbols stitched onto the sleeves. Her pants and flip-flops are the same mud brown. She thinks of herself as, “A good girl. Simple. Modest. I don’t demand a lot.” When someone talks to her, she has a habit of stepping back so that if the person reached out to touch her she would remain just beyond their fingertips. She lives at home with her mother who spends most of the day studying Arabic so that she can read the Koran without translation.
Aisha laughs and slaps away Putri, who is still attempting to wrap the tablecloth around her head.
They continue through the aisles, aiming for the jilbab section. The women appreciate the air conditioning: headscarves and full-body clothing are hot, especially in tropical climates. The loudspeakers play the Indonesian equivalent, in both poppiness and sappiness, of an American, Christmas, Top 50 radio tune—“Insyallah,” last Ramadan’s big hit. When it is time for one of the five daily prayers, the market broadcasts the azan over the same loudspeakers.
They reach the jilbab section and start sorting through the hundreds of scarves piled on the discount tables.
~
There can be almost infinite variation in what constitutes a headscarf. Throughout history, women in cultures across the world have implied modesty and piety by covering their hair, from Catholic nuns who wear wimples, to the women of modern day Afghanistan who veil themselves with burkas.
The Islamic practice of veiling derives mainly from the following passage in the Koran, though there are also other shorter elaborating verses and hadith. In them, Allah commands through Muhammad:
O Prophet! Tell your wives and your daughters and the women of the believers to draw their jalabib [cloaks or veils] all over their bodies. That will be better, that they should be known [as Muslim women], so as not to be bothered. And Allah is Ever Oft-Forgiving, Most Merciful.
What exactly women are being ordered to do has been heatedly debated ever since. Some Muslim religious authorities have interpreted the passage as a directive for women to cover everything except their eyes—or even a single eye, which is all that is necessary to see with. Others take a more relativist approach, recommending that women should be modest within the context of their society and era. Anthropologists have suggested that the full body burkas worn today are significantly more cumbersome than those worn in Muhammad’s time. According to most Acehnese interpretations of the Koran, it is appropriate for women to show their faces, hands, and feet. The neck and ears are a gray, verging into black, area.
Westerners often think of headscarves as designed to cover only a woman’s hair, but they are also technically supposed to cover a woman’s breasts as well. This directive is usually obeyed cursorily, with women dangling a perfunctory corner of scarf down their fronts. A more orthodox woman, however, will wear a veil that covers her chest or even extends to the waist.
The word jilbab in most Islamic countries denotes a long veil that fully covers a woman, often to the ankles, but in Indonesia it refers only to headscarves. Indonesian jilbabs come in a diversity of colors and materials. They can be left loosely flowing or arranged into artistic sculptures with the help of pins. All sorts of accessories can be added, from glittering brooches to sun-visors. For every occasion, from playing volleyball to praying, there is a different kind of veil.
Today, in Indonesia, the first choice a potential jilbab buyer has to make is “loose” or “pre-made.”
Pre-made jilbabs, also known as jilbab songkok, are already formed, like hoods, with a facial opening and drape sewn into place, so that a user only has to pull it on to be presentable. Jilbab songkok are considered unfashionable in Banda Aceh, partly because of their popularity in the province’s many remote villages where women are more concerned with ease than style. These kinds of jilbabs are especially popular with children; many are made to look like popular cartoon characters or animals. A jilbab songkok with stuffed ears sewn onto the hood and tiger stripes was especially popular during the 2011 Ramadan season in Banda Aceh.
Aisha chooses a “loose” jilbab.
A “loose” or “free” jilbab starts as a square of cloth, usually measuring three-feet long and two-feet wide. They have to be arranged and pinned. Extra fabric allows for more elaborate designs, such as sculptural folds and whorls, while smaller cloths create tighter, sleeker fits. Scarves come in all colors and patterns, each with its own meaning. Dark solid colors convey conservatism or modesty; patterns of sequins or fancy stitching, often depicting flowers or religious themes, indicate wealth; western or non-traditional symbols, such as leopard skin or even the anarchist “A” show the wearer is “less fanatical,” in Putri’s words.
Paying attention to color is especially important when a woman is choosing a jilbab because Indonesia’s standards of beauty favor pale skin. A woman with dusky skin can’t wear a dark hue for fear of making her skin seem swarthier, while those with milder skin tones tend towards neutral colors like pinks and creams to whiten their complexions by association. Only the luckiest, and fairest, can get away with bright hues; sometimes, Aisha gets jealous just seeing an orange jilbab float through a crowd. Her favorite color is orange and it has always seemed unfair that she cannot wear the color because of her muddy complexion.
The Islamic practice of veiling derives mainly from the following passage in the Koran, though there are also other shorter elaborating verses and hadith. In them, Allah commands through Muhammad:
O Prophet! Tell your wives and your daughters and the women of the believers to draw their jalabib [cloaks or veils] all over their bodies. That will be better, that they should be known [as Muslim women], so as not to be bothered. And Allah is Ever Oft-Forgiving, Most Merciful.
What exactly women are being ordered to do has been heatedly debated ever since. Some Muslim religious authorities have interpreted the passage as a directive for women to cover everything except their eyes—or even a single eye, which is all that is necessary to see with. Others take a more relativist approach, recommending that women should be modest within the context of their society and era. Anthropologists have suggested that the full body burkas worn today are significantly more cumbersome than those worn in Muhammad’s time. According to most Acehnese interpretations of the Koran, it is appropriate for women to show their faces, hands, and feet. The neck and ears are a gray, verging into black, area.
Westerners often think of headscarves as designed to cover only a woman’s hair, but they are also technically supposed to cover a woman’s breasts as well. This directive is usually obeyed cursorily, with women dangling a perfunctory corner of scarf down their fronts. A more orthodox woman, however, will wear a veil that covers her chest or even extends to the waist.
The word jilbab in most Islamic countries denotes a long veil that fully covers a woman, often to the ankles, but in Indonesia it refers only to headscarves. Indonesian jilbabs come in a diversity of colors and materials. They can be left loosely flowing or arranged into artistic sculptures with the help of pins. All sorts of accessories can be added, from glittering brooches to sun-visors. For every occasion, from playing volleyball to praying, there is a different kind of veil.
Today, in Indonesia, the first choice a potential jilbab buyer has to make is “loose” or “pre-made.”
Pre-made jilbabs, also known as jilbab songkok, are already formed, like hoods, with a facial opening and drape sewn into place, so that a user only has to pull it on to be presentable. Jilbab songkok are considered unfashionable in Banda Aceh, partly because of their popularity in the province’s many remote villages where women are more concerned with ease than style. These kinds of jilbabs are especially popular with children; many are made to look like popular cartoon characters or animals. A jilbab songkok with stuffed ears sewn onto the hood and tiger stripes was especially popular during the 2011 Ramadan season in Banda Aceh.
Aisha chooses a “loose” jilbab.
A “loose” or “free” jilbab starts as a square of cloth, usually measuring three-feet long and two-feet wide. They have to be arranged and pinned. Extra fabric allows for more elaborate designs, such as sculptural folds and whorls, while smaller cloths create tighter, sleeker fits. Scarves come in all colors and patterns, each with its own meaning. Dark solid colors convey conservatism or modesty; patterns of sequins or fancy stitching, often depicting flowers or religious themes, indicate wealth; western or non-traditional symbols, such as leopard skin or even the anarchist “A” show the wearer is “less fanatical,” in Putri’s words.
Paying attention to color is especially important when a woman is choosing a jilbab because Indonesia’s standards of beauty favor pale skin. A woman with dusky skin can’t wear a dark hue for fear of making her skin seem swarthier, while those with milder skin tones tend towards neutral colors like pinks and creams to whiten their complexions by association. Only the luckiest, and fairest, can get away with bright hues; sometimes, Aisha gets jealous just seeing an orange jilbab float through a crowd. Her favorite color is orange and it has always seemed unfair that she cannot wear the color because of her muddy complexion.
~
By 4:15 p.m., the friends have thoroughly searched all the jilbabs on the discount tables and winnowed them to four selections. “How about this?” Putri says, holding up an ocean blue scarf, with a light blue and white pattern like watercolor clouds brushed on.
“I don’t want Fajar to think I’m already married to the American president,” Aisha answers. The headscarf Putri is waving is known as the “Obama headscarf” because of its popularity after the First Lady wore it on a diplomatic visit to Indonesia in 2010.
So the friends are down to three jilbabs, but now they’re stuck. Part of the problem is that they can’t figure out what, exactly, Fajar wants. Is he looking for a modern woman, someone with a bit of flair and westernized views? Should they signal that Aisha is bolder than the average woman with Putri’s first choice, an almost-sheer magenta headscarf, the tassels of which are strung with ruby-colored plastic globes?
Or does Fajar want someone more traditional? Would the second jilbab—a frilly scarf whose brazen ruffles are balanced by its leaf-green hue (reportedly Muhammad’s favorite color)—intrigue him with its blend of modernity and religiosity?
Or would he be embarrassed by the showiness of both choices but impressed by the humility and modesty of the last scarf: a simple black hood, unadorned except for a fringe of lace? Or might it strike him as dull and chilly?
Aisha also has to consider her neighbors: what would they think if they saw her in the magenta, tasseled veil?
The friends argue the choices over and over.
“You say he has the zabiba, that he’s religious. So chose something that would appeal to an imam,” Putri says, exasperated. She had been pushing for something bolder even than the magenta jilbab, pointing out the tasseled scarf isn’t that radical.
Eventually, they decide it is better to play it safe. No one will be offended by a conservative jilbab, but Fajar could discount Aisha immediately for wearing the magenta headscarf.
“Even if many guys say they don’t want a traditional wife, they really do, deep down. Or want you to act like one, for most things,” Aisha points out. That advice has been rattling in her head since reading an article in Paras, an Indonesian fashion magazine.
The magenta scarf is flung back onto the table.
Next, Aisha decides, “Green makes my skin look yellow,” and wraps the black jilbab around her head. When she looks in the mirror, she sees a version of herself which is just a little bit more elegant than the everyday with the fringe of black lace framing her face, but which is still her. “If I wear the other two, it’s like false advertising,” she says.
“You do look really pretty,” Putri says, laying her head on Aisha’s shoulder.
“I don’t want Fajar to think I’m already married to the American president,” Aisha answers. The headscarf Putri is waving is known as the “Obama headscarf” because of its popularity after the First Lady wore it on a diplomatic visit to Indonesia in 2010.
So the friends are down to three jilbabs, but now they’re stuck. Part of the problem is that they can’t figure out what, exactly, Fajar wants. Is he looking for a modern woman, someone with a bit of flair and westernized views? Should they signal that Aisha is bolder than the average woman with Putri’s first choice, an almost-sheer magenta headscarf, the tassels of which are strung with ruby-colored plastic globes?
Or does Fajar want someone more traditional? Would the second jilbab—a frilly scarf whose brazen ruffles are balanced by its leaf-green hue (reportedly Muhammad’s favorite color)—intrigue him with its blend of modernity and religiosity?
Or would he be embarrassed by the showiness of both choices but impressed by the humility and modesty of the last scarf: a simple black hood, unadorned except for a fringe of lace? Or might it strike him as dull and chilly?
Aisha also has to consider her neighbors: what would they think if they saw her in the magenta, tasseled veil?
The friends argue the choices over and over.
“You say he has the zabiba, that he’s religious. So chose something that would appeal to an imam,” Putri says, exasperated. She had been pushing for something bolder even than the magenta jilbab, pointing out the tasseled scarf isn’t that radical.
Eventually, they decide it is better to play it safe. No one will be offended by a conservative jilbab, but Fajar could discount Aisha immediately for wearing the magenta headscarf.
“Even if many guys say they don’t want a traditional wife, they really do, deep down. Or want you to act like one, for most things,” Aisha points out. That advice has been rattling in her head since reading an article in Paras, an Indonesian fashion magazine.
The magenta scarf is flung back onto the table.
Next, Aisha decides, “Green makes my skin look yellow,” and wraps the black jilbab around her head. When she looks in the mirror, she sees a version of herself which is just a little bit more elegant than the everyday with the fringe of black lace framing her face, but which is still her. “If I wear the other two, it’s like false advertising,” she says.
“You do look really pretty,” Putri says, laying her head on Aisha’s shoulder.
~
Now it’s time to assemble the rest of the outfit. Putri pushes graphic t-shirts with snarky cartoons on the front, but she knows Aisha won’t bite—she’s mostly doing it for her own amusement. Aisha has taken out a selection of Paras magazines and is paging through them for inspiration. Finally, she settles on a flowing white blouse, its top like a man’s formal shirt with a collar and a row of buttons, and its bottom a billowing skirt ending just below the knees. “I’d like him to think I’m a business woman, that I’m successful, but the dress shows I’m still a woman,” Aisha explains.
In the shoe department, as it strikes 4:30 p.m., Aisha falls for a pair of gleaming white pumps with a tiny window at the front so her big toe can be seen, but which otherwise cover her skin. No arguments from Putri: the shoes are that nice. Since the dress and shoes are both white, they decide that color is obviously the theme of the outfit. To make sure that Aisha doesn’t look like a blank canvas, they add a purple waist belt and cream-colored slacks. Putri approves of the first pair of pants Aisha tries on, which show a half-moon of her plump bottom, but Aisha decides to buy a size up. “Better safe than sorry,” she says again. That too is a sentiment from an article in Paras.
In the shoe department, as it strikes 4:30 p.m., Aisha falls for a pair of gleaming white pumps with a tiny window at the front so her big toe can be seen, but which otherwise cover her skin. No arguments from Putri: the shoes are that nice. Since the dress and shoes are both white, they decide that color is obviously the theme of the outfit. To make sure that Aisha doesn’t look like a blank canvas, they add a purple waist belt and cream-colored slacks. Putri approves of the first pair of pants Aisha tries on, which show a half-moon of her plump bottom, but Aisha decides to buy a size up. “Better safe than sorry,” she says again. That too is a sentiment from an article in Paras.
~
Jilbabs are part of a greater Islamic practice known as hijab, an Arabic word which means “cover” or “curtain.” Hijab usually refers to appropriate Islamic dress for women, of which a headscarf is just a part, but it can also mean the veil, impossible to penetrate, drawn between man and Allah.
Some Islamic theorists, especially those supporting burkas, suggest that hijab was established not only to protect female modesty from men, but to guard women against their own vanity. A black featureless sheet, they argue, makes it hard to be vain about one’s body or clothing, allowing for a woman to focus on spiritual concerns.
In Islamic countries where burkas are not the norm, hajib has often had the opposite effect, making women extremely conscious of their dress. Women are brought up to see their clothes as expressing their religion and identities. Expecting to be judged even on the smallest accessory, fashion becomes especially important to them. The Middle East plays a key role in supporting the French haute couture industry, despite the fact that most of the designer garments are shown off only in private.
Glossy magazines shape fashion in Indonesia, just as they do in the West. Walk into any bookstore and you will find racks of journals pitched to every degree of religiosity. The most liberal are the international stalwarts, Vogue, etc., translated into Indonesian and with the same photos as anywhere else, as well as a few country-specific articles thrown in, but those are difficult to find in Banda Aceh. Magazines targeted at Muslim women, such as Paras, are more popular and significantly more conservative, showing only hand and facial skin, though occasionally publishing pictures of suggestive form-hugging outfits and articles like, “Sex: The First Night” and “Asymmetrical Jilbab Arrangement.” Truly conservative magazines feature burkas. All of them are filled out with recipes, gossipy profiles of Indonesian or Arab pop stars, light reportage, informative articles about Islam (a sample title: “Islamic Info: the Tradition of Kissing the Hand”), and encouragement to remain true to the magazine’s interpretation Islam. They also, of course, display sponsored fashion shoots, advertisements, and pages of outfits and beauty products.
In one advertisement, “Secret Garden Collection,” an Indonesian woman with very white skin poses before the ivy-entangled wall of an English manor, leaning slightly into the vines as if pushed by an invisible force. She wears a duchess’s riding jacket with a pattern of roses, a high-waisted Victorian dress with a corset just visible beneath, and a red velvet sunhat decorated by a gift-wrap bow. Mixed in with all this is a jilbab, under the hat, and, in a quirk of some Indonesian models, a wedding ring.
Many of the fashions displayed in the magazines and most of the outfits seen in Banda Aceh’s packed cafes on a Saturday night rely on suggestion. Putri, for example, has been noticing a certain style: a bang carefully combed so that it dangles just under the lip of the jilbab, almost like gravity has innocently teased it into that position. What is that lock hinting at?
Aisha and Putri analyze the bang like it is evidence in a murder mystery. When Putri tries to explain her reactions to the hairstyle, she finds herself tripping on her own words. Perhaps what she means by calling it “sexy but not really sexy” is that the hair is not explicitly flirtatious, but rather hints that the woman has sexuality—but is that actually seductive? More importantly, that twist of hair suggests the girl disagrees with the authorities, that she’s daring, a little westernized…
Aisha points out that maybe the bang signals the girl is “approachable,” that you could “ask her on a date.” Putri picks up on this, “Some women in Banda Aceh don’t date before they get married. Sometimes the guy shows up, asks her father first, talks to her last, and right away, that day, it’s agreed. Maybe it’s a way to have a choice about guys. Because it’s a lot harder to ask someone on a date if they’re in a very religious jilbab.”
In the end, neither Aisha nor Putri can quite pin the styled bang down. They agree it probably has meanings they can’t puzzle out. What is the bang trying to say? Maybe only the woman knows. Maybe the woman couldn’t quite say herself.
Some Islamic theorists, especially those supporting burkas, suggest that hijab was established not only to protect female modesty from men, but to guard women against their own vanity. A black featureless sheet, they argue, makes it hard to be vain about one’s body or clothing, allowing for a woman to focus on spiritual concerns.
In Islamic countries where burkas are not the norm, hajib has often had the opposite effect, making women extremely conscious of their dress. Women are brought up to see their clothes as expressing their religion and identities. Expecting to be judged even on the smallest accessory, fashion becomes especially important to them. The Middle East plays a key role in supporting the French haute couture industry, despite the fact that most of the designer garments are shown off only in private.
Glossy magazines shape fashion in Indonesia, just as they do in the West. Walk into any bookstore and you will find racks of journals pitched to every degree of religiosity. The most liberal are the international stalwarts, Vogue, etc., translated into Indonesian and with the same photos as anywhere else, as well as a few country-specific articles thrown in, but those are difficult to find in Banda Aceh. Magazines targeted at Muslim women, such as Paras, are more popular and significantly more conservative, showing only hand and facial skin, though occasionally publishing pictures of suggestive form-hugging outfits and articles like, “Sex: The First Night” and “Asymmetrical Jilbab Arrangement.” Truly conservative magazines feature burkas. All of them are filled out with recipes, gossipy profiles of Indonesian or Arab pop stars, light reportage, informative articles about Islam (a sample title: “Islamic Info: the Tradition of Kissing the Hand”), and encouragement to remain true to the magazine’s interpretation Islam. They also, of course, display sponsored fashion shoots, advertisements, and pages of outfits and beauty products.
In one advertisement, “Secret Garden Collection,” an Indonesian woman with very white skin poses before the ivy-entangled wall of an English manor, leaning slightly into the vines as if pushed by an invisible force. She wears a duchess’s riding jacket with a pattern of roses, a high-waisted Victorian dress with a corset just visible beneath, and a red velvet sunhat decorated by a gift-wrap bow. Mixed in with all this is a jilbab, under the hat, and, in a quirk of some Indonesian models, a wedding ring.
Many of the fashions displayed in the magazines and most of the outfits seen in Banda Aceh’s packed cafes on a Saturday night rely on suggestion. Putri, for example, has been noticing a certain style: a bang carefully combed so that it dangles just under the lip of the jilbab, almost like gravity has innocently teased it into that position. What is that lock hinting at?
Aisha and Putri analyze the bang like it is evidence in a murder mystery. When Putri tries to explain her reactions to the hairstyle, she finds herself tripping on her own words. Perhaps what she means by calling it “sexy but not really sexy” is that the hair is not explicitly flirtatious, but rather hints that the woman has sexuality—but is that actually seductive? More importantly, that twist of hair suggests the girl disagrees with the authorities, that she’s daring, a little westernized…
Aisha points out that maybe the bang signals the girl is “approachable,” that you could “ask her on a date.” Putri picks up on this, “Some women in Banda Aceh don’t date before they get married. Sometimes the guy shows up, asks her father first, talks to her last, and right away, that day, it’s agreed. Maybe it’s a way to have a choice about guys. Because it’s a lot harder to ask someone on a date if they’re in a very religious jilbab.”
In the end, neither Aisha nor Putri can quite pin the styled bang down. They agree it probably has meanings they can’t puzzle out. What is the bang trying to say? Maybe only the woman knows. Maybe the woman couldn’t quite say herself.
~
By now, it’s 5:15 p.m. Aisha is supposed to meet Fajar at 7:30 p.m., after the magrib evening prayers. As they hustle towards the cashier, Putri stops and pulls a headscarf from a rack: it is crimson with a leopard-skin pattern of black spots. “How about this one?” she giggles.
Aisha can’t stop laughing. “Do you want him to think I’m a wild animal?” But Putri gets her to try it on and pulls her to a mirror. The face that stares back at Aisha is recognizable as her own, but also different: someone she only vaguely knows, capable of doing deeds she would never be brave (or stupid) enough to dare. It’s like meeting a long lost twin, someone she shares a primordial connection with, but who she doesn’t know how to talk to.
“It’s so amazing. If you’re not going to buy it, I am,” Putri says.
Aisha can’t stop laughing. “Do you want him to think I’m a wild animal?” But Putri gets her to try it on and pulls her to a mirror. The face that stares back at Aisha is recognizable as her own, but also different: someone she only vaguely knows, capable of doing deeds she would never be brave (or stupid) enough to dare. It’s like meeting a long lost twin, someone she shares a primordial connection with, but who she doesn’t know how to talk to.
“It’s so amazing. If you’re not going to buy it, I am,” Putri says.
~
When the friends reach Aisha’s home at 6:00 p.m., they take off their jilbabs. Jilbabs are required in public by sharia law, but not in private or among family members. Even Aisha is a glad to be free of the scarf now that it’s appropriate. The cloth had been scratching her cheek and one of its pins kept poking her in the neck.
A bucket shower is Aisha’s first order of business. Aisha’s mother takes a break from translating the Koran to cook the two a fortifying snack of fried bananas. After washing, Aisha stands in front of a fan to dry her hair enough to put a headscarf over it.
Once Aisha is dressed, it is time for the jilbab. She gathers up her hair, bunching it so that she can slip on a songkong, an extra tight-fitting hood that goes under a loose headscarf to make sure no hair escapes (not to be confused with jilbab sonkong).
Putri sighs in disgust, “Your hair’s so pretty, at least let a few pieces out.”
If Putri could, she wouldn’t wear a jilbab. There were times in her youth when she didn’t. Even though her rebellious phase was before 2001, when sharia law was made official, she still got plenty of verbal harassment and “advice” from teachers and authority figures, and overheard the rumors tiptoeing through the neighborhood. Eventually, she proved the whispers right by dating a Norwegian NGO worker after the tsunami. Over the years, one might think she’d have grown numb to the criticism, but that’s not the case at all: she’s just gotten better at hiding her frustration and hurt. She hopes to get a scholarship soon, to America or Europe, somewhere she can abandon her jilbab and all the baggage that goes with it.
When travelling in more liberal parts of Indonesia—in westernized parts of Jakarta or in Indonesian provinces where Christians are the majority—Aisha has experimented with not wearing a headscarf. She liked how the wind tangled in her hair. Even better, her hair didn’t smell of sweat after taking her veil off. But ultimately she decided to keep wearing a jilbab. She has tried to explain to Putri that it’s not that she felt naked or threatened without it—it’s that she felt like the style wasn’t her. The jilbab is part of her faith, part of how she sees herself, part of her identity.
In the West, many organizations and individuals have attacked headscarves as anachronistic and repressive. There is an assumption that if women had a choice, they would remove them. Aisha knows many women for whom this is true, but she doubts the majority would. All the other provinces in Indonesia lack sharia law, she reasons, and most women in those places still wear headscarves.
Putri does not agree with Aisha. She is sure that if sharia law were lifted, “ninety percent” of the population would fling off their veils. She believes most women, like her, wear the jilbab in frustrated acquiescence. “Just look at the teenagers downtown on a Saturday night. Already some of them are getting braver. Sometimes they wear very loose veils, sometimes none at all. I like seeing their hair. It is beautiful.”
The exact number of women who would choose either side is uncertain. Apocryphal figures of how many Acehnese women wore jilbabs before sharia law was introduced vary wildly, usually depending on the speaker’s degree of religious devotion. (Though it is perhaps telling that liberals confidently claim ninety percent of people would abandon their jilbabs, while conservatives hedge and haw, before asserting that “less than half, maybe forty percent, would remove their veils: many of the young people don’t like it.”) Both sides claim a silent majority. Both allege a higher moral ground. Liberal activists claim the practice is Neolithic and barbaric. Some male imams warn that if a woman does not wear a jilbab she will go to hell.
One point, however, most women, liberal and conservative, seem to agree on, is that individuals who abstain from wearing jilbabs are not damned.
“How do people even know,” Putri asks, “exactly what someone was saying a thousand years ago meant? Maybe Muhammad only meant it for his time. And there are a lot of interpretations of those verses. They can’t say I’m going to hell for not wearing it.”
“Allah,” Aisha agrees, “is very kind. Allah is mostly concerned with people not doing evil, not hurting each other. It is pretty silly saying you’ll go to hell for not wearing a jilbab.”
Most women they know hold a similarly benign view of future punishments. It is usually men who make more drastic claims.
As for accusations that jilbabs are repressive and anachronistic, Banda Aceh’s women are acutely aware of the image of headscarves in Western eyes. Less than two weeks before Aisha’s date with Fajar, students from Banda Aceh’s universities took over the main intersection in the city, waving placards that read, “I am beautiful in my jilbab.” Some of the demonstrators wore very conservative dress with their headscarves; others matched their veils with jeans and other Western clothes. They were protesting French laws that ban headscarves in public institutions and burkas outside the home.
Putri cheers the French ban on headscarves, her smirk suggesting she sees irony in other Muslim woman being forbidden to wear veils while she is forced to cover up. When asked to describe what it feels like to wear a jilbab, her voice roughens with frustration and humiliation. “How can I be myself wearing this? Headscarves stop me from being myself; they stop society from being fair in judging people because no one sees me when I don’t wear this. They only see—,” she flails her hands. “It makes it impossible to be equal between men and women. And it stops me from being normal and accepted in the international community. They will always look down on me because I am a Muslim.”
Part of France’s rational for banning veils is that they erase a woman’s identity. But, according to Aisha, while full-body burkas strip women of their identities, jilbabs do not always do so. Certainly, a burka is very different than the jilbab Aisha now wears: as Aisha looks into the mirror, she recognizes herself. The simple black cloth with the fringe of lace—it’s her—the same way the aquamarine and black zebra-stripe jilbab is, in some way, Putri. Aisha would be concealing something if she didn’t wear it.
A bucket shower is Aisha’s first order of business. Aisha’s mother takes a break from translating the Koran to cook the two a fortifying snack of fried bananas. After washing, Aisha stands in front of a fan to dry her hair enough to put a headscarf over it.
Once Aisha is dressed, it is time for the jilbab. She gathers up her hair, bunching it so that she can slip on a songkong, an extra tight-fitting hood that goes under a loose headscarf to make sure no hair escapes (not to be confused with jilbab sonkong).
Putri sighs in disgust, “Your hair’s so pretty, at least let a few pieces out.”
If Putri could, she wouldn’t wear a jilbab. There were times in her youth when she didn’t. Even though her rebellious phase was before 2001, when sharia law was made official, she still got plenty of verbal harassment and “advice” from teachers and authority figures, and overheard the rumors tiptoeing through the neighborhood. Eventually, she proved the whispers right by dating a Norwegian NGO worker after the tsunami. Over the years, one might think she’d have grown numb to the criticism, but that’s not the case at all: she’s just gotten better at hiding her frustration and hurt. She hopes to get a scholarship soon, to America or Europe, somewhere she can abandon her jilbab and all the baggage that goes with it.
When travelling in more liberal parts of Indonesia—in westernized parts of Jakarta or in Indonesian provinces where Christians are the majority—Aisha has experimented with not wearing a headscarf. She liked how the wind tangled in her hair. Even better, her hair didn’t smell of sweat after taking her veil off. But ultimately she decided to keep wearing a jilbab. She has tried to explain to Putri that it’s not that she felt naked or threatened without it—it’s that she felt like the style wasn’t her. The jilbab is part of her faith, part of how she sees herself, part of her identity.
In the West, many organizations and individuals have attacked headscarves as anachronistic and repressive. There is an assumption that if women had a choice, they would remove them. Aisha knows many women for whom this is true, but she doubts the majority would. All the other provinces in Indonesia lack sharia law, she reasons, and most women in those places still wear headscarves.
Putri does not agree with Aisha. She is sure that if sharia law were lifted, “ninety percent” of the population would fling off their veils. She believes most women, like her, wear the jilbab in frustrated acquiescence. “Just look at the teenagers downtown on a Saturday night. Already some of them are getting braver. Sometimes they wear very loose veils, sometimes none at all. I like seeing their hair. It is beautiful.”
The exact number of women who would choose either side is uncertain. Apocryphal figures of how many Acehnese women wore jilbabs before sharia law was introduced vary wildly, usually depending on the speaker’s degree of religious devotion. (Though it is perhaps telling that liberals confidently claim ninety percent of people would abandon their jilbabs, while conservatives hedge and haw, before asserting that “less than half, maybe forty percent, would remove their veils: many of the young people don’t like it.”) Both sides claim a silent majority. Both allege a higher moral ground. Liberal activists claim the practice is Neolithic and barbaric. Some male imams warn that if a woman does not wear a jilbab she will go to hell.
One point, however, most women, liberal and conservative, seem to agree on, is that individuals who abstain from wearing jilbabs are not damned.
“How do people even know,” Putri asks, “exactly what someone was saying a thousand years ago meant? Maybe Muhammad only meant it for his time. And there are a lot of interpretations of those verses. They can’t say I’m going to hell for not wearing it.”
“Allah,” Aisha agrees, “is very kind. Allah is mostly concerned with people not doing evil, not hurting each other. It is pretty silly saying you’ll go to hell for not wearing a jilbab.”
Most women they know hold a similarly benign view of future punishments. It is usually men who make more drastic claims.
As for accusations that jilbabs are repressive and anachronistic, Banda Aceh’s women are acutely aware of the image of headscarves in Western eyes. Less than two weeks before Aisha’s date with Fajar, students from Banda Aceh’s universities took over the main intersection in the city, waving placards that read, “I am beautiful in my jilbab.” Some of the demonstrators wore very conservative dress with their headscarves; others matched their veils with jeans and other Western clothes. They were protesting French laws that ban headscarves in public institutions and burkas outside the home.
Putri cheers the French ban on headscarves, her smirk suggesting she sees irony in other Muslim woman being forbidden to wear veils while she is forced to cover up. When asked to describe what it feels like to wear a jilbab, her voice roughens with frustration and humiliation. “How can I be myself wearing this? Headscarves stop me from being myself; they stop society from being fair in judging people because no one sees me when I don’t wear this. They only see—,” she flails her hands. “It makes it impossible to be equal between men and women. And it stops me from being normal and accepted in the international community. They will always look down on me because I am a Muslim.”
Part of France’s rational for banning veils is that they erase a woman’s identity. But, according to Aisha, while full-body burkas strip women of their identities, jilbabs do not always do so. Certainly, a burka is very different than the jilbab Aisha now wears: as Aisha looks into the mirror, she recognizes herself. The simple black cloth with the fringe of lace—it’s her—the same way the aquamarine and black zebra-stripe jilbab is, in some way, Putri. Aisha would be concealing something if she didn’t wear it.
~
At 6:45 p.m., Putri paints Aisha’s toenails red so that her big toe shines bright as a diamond, emphasized by the oval window in the toe of her white shoe. The single drop of color is glaringly evident against the otherwise white and black outfit.
Aisha dusts her face with whitening powder. Its crisp dryness and sweet smell sooths her nerves. Then she completes her preparations by pinning the folds of her jilbab across her chest with an heirloom brooch. Her grandmother, who lived before the implementation of sharia law, once used the same piece of jewelry to fasten her jilbab on holidays or when her grandchildren came to visit. That is when the old woman wore a jilbab. Sometimes she chose not to.
Aisha dusts her face with whitening powder. Its crisp dryness and sweet smell sooths her nerves. Then she completes her preparations by pinning the folds of her jilbab across her chest with an heirloom brooch. Her grandmother, who lived before the implementation of sharia law, once used the same piece of jewelry to fasten her jilbab on holidays or when her grandchildren came to visit. That is when the old woman wore a jilbab. Sometimes she chose not to.
~
Aisha pulls into the parking lot of Q&L Coffee fashionably late, at 7:40 p.m.
She glances around, wondering if she will see Fajar lounging at a table, smoking, scrutinizing her. Instead, a young couple rushes by, almost elbowing her into the gutter.
Aisha is about to snap at them, but then she notices the girl’s headscarf: it is not crimson, but it has a leopard-print pattern. She stares at their retreating backs, noticing how close they walk, a thin inch apart, with such comfortable familiarity that she is sure they must touch when no one else is around. She remembers the girl’s face: pouty, a little defiant, certainly in love.
What if Aisha had worn the crimson leopard-print headscarf? She has a vision of herself in that jilbab, strutting into the café, a different person, another future waiting for her. Some part of her will always be wondering what it would be like to sport a provocative headscarf, even to let her hair free, just as she knows Putri will always be questioning, in the attic of her heart, if it is her divinely mandated duty to happily wear a jilbab.
Aisha shakes the question away. I am who I am, she thinks. She takes out a pocket mirror, adjusts the black jilbab, and reapplies her lipstick.
She is ready to be judged.
She glances around, wondering if she will see Fajar lounging at a table, smoking, scrutinizing her. Instead, a young couple rushes by, almost elbowing her into the gutter.
Aisha is about to snap at them, but then she notices the girl’s headscarf: it is not crimson, but it has a leopard-print pattern. She stares at their retreating backs, noticing how close they walk, a thin inch apart, with such comfortable familiarity that she is sure they must touch when no one else is around. She remembers the girl’s face: pouty, a little defiant, certainly in love.
What if Aisha had worn the crimson leopard-print headscarf? She has a vision of herself in that jilbab, strutting into the café, a different person, another future waiting for her. Some part of her will always be wondering what it would be like to sport a provocative headscarf, even to let her hair free, just as she knows Putri will always be questioning, in the attic of her heart, if it is her divinely mandated duty to happily wear a jilbab.
Aisha shakes the question away. I am who I am, she thinks. She takes out a pocket mirror, adjusts the black jilbab, and reapplies her lipstick.
She is ready to be judged.
~
Note: Several names, places, and events have been altered to protect the individuals who participated in this project. This article was written with the support of a Glimpse Fellowship, a travel writing grant partly sponsored by National Geographic. It was anthologized by Oxford University Press.