I’m a shocking starer. Truly disgraceful. When someone sparks my interest, I’m seized by desperate curiosity, a need for behind-the-scenes information and the stupid hope it will magically appear if I keep looking. People simply fascinate me.
Imagine my delight when I boarded a recent flight and noticed the woman across the aisle was wearing a niqab, swathed completely in black with only her eyes showing through a slit in the fabric. She was travelling with her husband and their three kids and I was beside myself with fascination.
I’ve only ever had two opportunities to look closely at someone in niqab. Both times in shops. The first was at GAP in Paris when a dozen refrigerator-sized men wearing earpieces walked into the store ahead of five veiled women.
Once inside, the bodyguards fanned out, surrounding the women who wandered around excitedly, choosing t-shirts, maternity jeans and accessories. All I could see were their hands which were decorated with some serious sparklers. Their eyes sparkled too.
A few years later, in my local Best & Less, two women walked in wearing niqab. After they left, I overheard the woman in front of me say to the sales assistant, “Goodness, I was worried they were going to blow us up!” I cringed at this, appalled.
Still, like many, I’ve always suspected that women who wear niqab are oppressed, downtrodden and mind-controlled by extremist husbands, fathers and other male relatives.
Now on the plane, I was within a couple of feet of one such woman and I had eight hours to consider her plight.
Here are some of the things I thought:
1. Poor thing. Her husband must be a scary man.
2. How sad for her children to not see their mother’s face in public. What must that little girl think about her own future?
3. I wish I could talk to her and liberate her from this oppression.
4. I wonder what she thinks of me sitting here in my singlet and cardi with my fluoro purple bra strap showing.
5. Her husband must think I am a disgrace and disappointment to my own husband. I bet he wishes I’d cover up.