[Reader-list] Aadab In A Time Of Allah Hafiz

Tue Jul 12 21:42:13 IST 2011

I must say I am going to be very spontaneous in this response. So if it reads too emotional, my apologies. Neither is this any definitive statement. This is a thinking through, something I or rather we should mediate on together.
Some years back my friend Khadeeja Arif and I started a research project with support from The Sarai Independent Research Fellowship.  We named it 'Lives of Women in Jamia Nagar' without realizing that the fragmented nature of material such an inquiry would generate . It lead us to questions of form and the way one frames the question, what one searches for. We have been baffled with the open endedness of the material since and have repeatedly wondered about how to make sense of a material that does not allow a closure this way or that.The stories we collected  were fragmented narratives of muslim women who go about the everyday through a series of well crafted strategies -they wear the burqa when they know they can't get away with it and fling it once they reach the India Gate lawn. Infact, Khadija's thesis film Elsewhere at MCRC follows a girl who works in a salon and leads a comfortably double life. So I have always found it very difficult to
 read the burqa as a sign of pure regression. It is a sign of making do with what you have when you negotiate an increasingly radicalized community on the street. To talk about radicalization, is well another story for another time.The women in their stories talk about the pleasure of duping men who think they can control them by making them wear the burqa.These are stories about women who do not give up the desire to walk the streets or sit in phatphat sewa and see the city just because they are aware of being watched, they negotiate with 'looked-at-ness'. It is there that their struggle lies.So I have wondered how those stories have come to be lost. How can the history of an entire community be decided on the basis of where we stop listening?How can an entire history be one of regression, radicalization and victimization? How can there not be stories of resistance, desire, pleasure seeking and love? Banal stories?Stories keep unfolding but we want
 to make closed narratives out of them. So we pause listening when we get what we want.

thanks, ambarien.

--- On Tue, 12/7/11, Ujwala Samarth <ujwala at openspaceindia.org> wrote:

From: Ujwala Samarth <ujwala at openspaceindia.org>
Subject: [Reader-list] Aadab In A Time Of Allah Hafiz
To: "sarai list" <reader-list at sarai.net>
Cc: "Samina Mishra" <saminamishra at gmail.com>
Date: Tuesday, 12 July, 2011, 11:28

Language, especially the words and colloquialisms we use in our everyday
interactions, is a sharp but subtle indicator of changing mores, shifts in
socio-political realities and the collective 'pulse' of a community...In
this article written for *Open Space/CCDS,* Pune, Samina Mishra reflects on
the trajectory from “adaab” to “asalam waleikum”, from “khuda hafiz” to
“Allah hafiz”,  and on why people feel the need to group around markers of
identities…

*http://www.openspaceindia.org/express/articles-a-essays/item/749.html
*

*Aadab In A Time Of Allah Hafiz*

Some months ago, I was chastised by a woman for saying “adaab”, instead of
“assalam wa leikum”, the latter being the “the proper Islamic greeting” in
her opinion, to be exchanged between Muslims. I grew up as a Muslim and
learnt to say “adaab” when I met someone and “khuda hafiz” when we parted
ways. Originating from a North Indian Islamicate high culture, “adaab” as a
form of greeting was imbued with a certain class hierarchy. It was a
familiar greeting even in many elite non-Muslim households in North India,
households that were closely associated with that cultural space. Among many
other Muslim populations, the Arabic greeting “assalam wa leikum”, meaning
“may peace be upon you” was also used. But, there was no formal dictum about
the usage while I was growing up and there could be overlaps. So, as a child
I often replied with an “adaab” to someone who came in saying “assalam wa
leikum” and it was not considered inappropriate. As for “Allah hafiz” (may
god keep you safe), I did not hear the term until about a decade ago. The
word “khuda” originates from Persian but because it is used in other
languages too, it can be seen as a more embracing word for God than Allah.
The latter is a more specific reference to god in Islam and is confined to
its Arabic origins, at least so far. Thus, although they emerge from a
specific North Indian Muslim culture, “adaab” and “khuda hafiz” have had a
more inclusive history.

Today, these terms are being given up by many Muslims in India, from
different class backgrounds, in favour of the more unambiguously Islamic
“assalam waleikum” and “Allah hafiz”. For those of us who seek to draw
attention to the complicated greys that lie between the uncompromising
blacks and whites, this notion of unambiguity is naturally problematic. But,
in this trajectory of change from “adaab” to “asalam waleikum”, from “khuda
hafiz” to “Allah hafiz”, there are other stories too, stories about why
people group around markers of identities, about what gives people a sense
of security and comfort, about what creates new groupings. So, even as I
feel uncomfortable about puritanical Islamic practices creeping in around
me, I recognise that our lives are composed of many overlapping stories, as
the novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche has so eloquently spoken about, stories
that need to be told to avoid what she calls “the danger of the single
story”.

So, in the context of adaab and khuda hafiz, what are these other stories?

Consider some of these:

In the late 1960s, a young girl joins a college hostel and as the lone
Muslim girl, she is made to eat separately in the dining hall and put her
used dishes apart from the rest.

In the 1980s, one Muslim family loses 56 members to communal rioting,
including the murder of an uncle at the hands of his best friend.

In the 1990s, a woman from a small town in UP with a BA, MA and BEd moves to
Delhi to teach in a school. She moves back within a month – “I wear a burkha
and the whole environment there was not suited for me…”

In the years since 2002, a dynamic young woman, founder of an NGO to help
poor and dalit Muslims, stops telling people her real name while travelling
on trains because of being looked at with suspicion.

In the mid-2000s, a teacher attends a workshop in which participants are
asked to introduce themselves by talking about their biggest fears. One
participant shares that hers is that her son will marry a Muslim - because
they are dirty.

In 2008, a young girl, who likes going to school and does well at studies,
wonders why the school celebrates Holi and Christmas but not Eid.

In 2009, a media person who offers her neighbour the use of her flat during
wedding festivities is told by colleagues that she should not have done so
since the groom was a Muslim man from Azamgarh. The same woman remembers a
Muslim boy who worked for a while in her office – “He was referred to as
jihadi!”

This is a sample of stories that I have encountered in the course of a
two-year research project on Muslim women and their experiences of education
in parts of western UP. It is only a sample and it is only one person’s
encounter. What, I wonder, would a more comprehensive collection reveal?
But, even in this sprinkling of voices, there is a larger narrative of
exclusion. A story of people being grouped together, in both subtle and
direct ways. People are identified by the religion they practise or are born
into. Not in itself a bad thing since human beings choose a variety of
groupings - around class/caste/religion, schools, football teams, movie
stars, work ethics, fashion statements, job aspirations. The list is
endless. But when that identification becomes the sole defining identity, it
presents itself as the natural order of things instead of the construction
that it is. It becomes a wall that seeks to make itself invisible.

And when the cloak of invisibility falls off and the wall shows up – in the
form of a veil, a riot or a separate greeting code – who is the one who
built it? The ones who sought to keep out? Or the ones who chose to stay in?
And what of those who wanted windows instead of walls? Continuing to say
“adaab” and “khuda hafiz” is my way of acknowledging that while there is a
wall, it can have an open window.

--*Samina Mishra is a documentary filmmaker and media practitioner based in
New Delhi.*

-- 
Ujwala Samarth
(Programme Coordinator, Open Space)

www.openspaceindia.org
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