In this week's Camino a Ítaca I'm reminded of the perseverance of some of my brave, female students in Yemen. If they could, I can. Click over to read the original in Spanish or the English version below. (PDF en castellano abajo).
Standing in front of a new
class is always somewhat nerve-wracking, especially if it’s in a new country. Looking
out over a class and seeing fifty percent of your students with curved daggers tucked
in their belts and Kalashnikovs carelessly slung on their shoulders like
handbags, while the other half are swathed head to toe in black with their faces
completely covered, with only their kohl-outlined eyes to latch on to, means
taking this disquiet to an entirely new level. This was my day-to-day
experience while teaching English in the only coed school in the Yemeni capital
of Sana’a.
The sight was also an explicit
metaphor. Even if many of the machine guns were held together with duct tape,
the message they conveyed was clear. Power dictates who wears the mask and who
doesn’t. There was no explicit law stating that women had to cover their faces in
public and, unlike in neighboring Saudi Arabia, there wasn’t a law mandating
that women had to cover their hair in public. Yet the majority still do. This
message of subjugation was more a cultural phenomenon than political or even religious,
even if exegetical attempts are made to justify it using the latter.
My challenge as a teacher
was to recognize and differentiate between my masked students. The dehumanizing
mask and veil is meant to render women invisible, but even under these
difficult circumstances, they were able to pronounce their individuality,
albeit subtly. These courageous women saw this rare crack in the stratified social
conventions of the region as a possible outlet towards a better future and if
it meant covering up to appease social conventions, then so be it.
At first it was near
impossible to tell them apart but after time I began to notice the smallest of
signs beyond the outline of the kohl around their eyes. Subtle, yet powerful
statements that silently cried out, ‘this is me.’ It might have been an
inconspicuous arabesque on the hem of their abaya or an almost imperceptible design
on the edge of their niqab, but it was just enough to distinguish themselves
amongst the rest. The mask may have covered them from view but it couldn’t
erase who they were.
I had often thought of
these women over the years. I will always remember their determination to learn
and their certainty that learning was the key to their future. They have also
come to mind whenever attempts around Europe arise to ban burkas in the public
sphere. It’s only recently though that I have thought about them almost every
day.
I think of them as I pant
my way up hills, gasping for air as I near the top. I’m reminded of them as I
pass by people that I know in the street without recognizing them and saying
hello. Each time my glasses fog up and I have to stop to clean them before
looking out at a class where everyone is now wearing a mask, they come to mind.
I relive their
determination and their resoluteness, no matter the obstacles in front of them.
And then I put my mask back on, keep climbing the hill and think, just a little
while longer now.
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