What I Learned From My Abaya
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in Naples, Italy; youngest child is joining us today for a few days of ruins and views and pizza.
What I Learned From My Abaya
Preface: My uniform of choice is a pair of baggy, knee-skimming linen shorts, and a long-ish sleeveless linen blouse. This is what I wear every day, assuming the weather cooperates. I have five sets, and I rotate through, do the laundry, and start over.
Before Lee and I left Dubai last month, we took a little jaunt to find a place called the Abaya Mall. We were planning to spend a week in Saudi Arabia; mostly in the (aspirational) resort area of AlUla, but also in Madinah. In Saudi Arabia as a whole, the abaya and head coverings are no longer required, but Madinah is one of the two holy pilgrimage cities, and we knew people would be dressed much more conservatively. I didn’t want to stand out, but I also didn’t want to buy a whole new wardrobe. After much consideration (and studying many YouTube videos), we decided that an abaya would be the simplest solution.
There are LOTS of malls in Dubai; most seem to sell primarily Chanel handbags and Louboutin stilettos. This particular mall sold exactly what you’d guess—abayas, in every size, shape, color, style, fabric, and price. I was a little nervous at first (I mean, I was wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse, a lot of the salespeople were men wearing the traditional thobe, and I was trying to buy something I didn’t fully understand—anyone who thinks I wasn’t a little nervous just doesn’t know me very well). But it was a Grand Adventure, of my favorite kind: retail. Plus Lee was with me, which was an absolute guarantee that one way or another, a purchase would be made. The man does not dither.
Eventually I relaxed into the adventure vibe, and went from shop to shop comparing which might be conservative enough, but wouldn’t make me too hot. I didn’t work up the nerve to start trying them on until I found a Filipina saleswoman, wearing skinny jeans and a t-shirt, who spoke perfect English and totally understood what I was trying to accomplish. When I slipped my arms into that first abaya (a pale khaki color), something happened. Suddenly, I was wrapped in elegance. I turned to look in the mirror, and the robe swirled. I took a few steps, and felt like I was gliding.
I can’t tell you how much I didn’t expect that.
The khaki one was eventually deemed to be too snug in the wrists (by me) and a couple of inches too short in length (by the saleswoman). I wound up with a lovely pale gray one with long, straight cuffs (almost like a leg o’ mutton sleeve) and tiny knotted bobbles in a decorative pattern. It skims the tops of my sneakers, not short enough to show ankle, but also (mostly) not long enough to drag the ground.
I bundled it up in my backpack before we got on the plane, then spent the 90 minute flight fretting over when I ought to put it on. Maybe five percent of the women on the plane were wearing long pants and tunic-style shirts; the rest—all at the beginning of a pilgrimage—were covered from head to toe. The second we began to descend, I went into the bathroom and put it on.
The woman next to me (a Wisconsin resident whose family emigrated from Pakistan) patted my knee and thanked me for covering up. Okay then, I thought. I’m on the right track.
But the next morning, when I got ready to leave the hotel room in search of breakfast, I had trouble getting my sneakers on while juggling my cross body purse, my surgical mask, and the abaya. Things were dangling and dragging; my glasses fogged up and I couldn’t see to adjust my shoes. I stepped on the hem and dropped my phone.
For the first two days we spent in Madinah, I was self-conscious, overheated, afraid of tripping, afraid of showing too much leg, and mostly terrified I’d offend someone, in one way or another. We went on the hop-on, hop-off bus tour of the city; I spent most of it tugging at my headscarf, trying to keep my hair from blowing loose in the breeze. We were in the holy quarter having a mocha when Friday afternoon prayers began; someone shooed us out of the Starbucks so they could close up shop. Lee wanted to wander around the area and just observe, but I was beyond any kind of enjoyable wandering. The scarf interfered with my peripheral vision, and I was reduced to these weird little mincing steps, trying not to trip. Back in the privacy of the hotel room, I unpinned the scarf and hung the abaya back in the closet, relieved to be able to move freely and feel the air conditioning on my skin.
When we got into our rental car and headed north into the desert, I tossed the abaya into the back seat and began enjoying myself for the first time since we arrived in the country—this was the first thing we’ve done since the beginning of the pandemic that felt like a real adventure. Suddenly I was having ideas and itching to write them down. I hadn’t noticed how much my anxieties about the clothing were obscuring my curiosity and inspiration.
I put it back on every time we stopped to use a toilet (and they were all filthy squatters—that was fun in a long robe) or fill the car with gas, and I wore it when we were checking into our hotel in the desert. We sat in the lobby, waiting for our room to be ready, but once we got settled, I switched to long pants and long-ish shirt—winter in the desert can be cold, and like I said above, abayas are no longer required outside of the holy cities.
The cool desert air was delightful, the scenery was stunning, and it was my first time doing little baby hikes since the ankle surgery, so I had a great time. It was an energizing nature break, and I was invigorated.
When we got back to Madinah, I went back to the abaya, and found myself suddenly moving more slowly. One day when we were trying to find a restaurant open for lunch, I kept randomly wanting to sit down. I creaked and groaned a little when I stood up.
I finally realized: the abaya was turning me into a little old lady. I was suddenly feeling and acting much older than I had the day before, when I was scrambling around in the red rock canyons of the desert.
The next week, though, when we landed in Iraq (which is much, much less conservative than Saudi Arabia), I slipped the abaya back on, and had another little epiphany in the airport. The abaya allowed me to blend in with the other women, in a place that I found sort of intense. The visa counter was chaos—a mass of men smoking, yelling, waving papers in the air. Lee elbowed his way in, but after a minute of trying to figure out what was going on, I gave up and found a seat. All the women were sitting. I was able to relax, and get my little bit of anxiety under control. Going through immigration always makes me a little tense, especially in a place where tourists are unusual. Not standing out was a big advantage at that moment. I wrapped my robe around me and happily faded into anonymity. I had come full circle in my feelings about the abaya, in just two weeks.
We talked to our Iraqi guides about head coverings, and the choices their respective fiancées have made. One wears the hijab, one doesn’t. Both men were adamant that it should be the woman’s choice. When we were in Turkey a few years ago, I learned that women there have fought for the right to cover their heads whenever and wherever they want. The hijab was banned under Ataturk in the early 20th century, and Turkish women have come to view the government’s involvement in their clothing choices as oppressive.
To be clear, I don’t have an opinion about abayas, or hijabs, or for that matter the Spanish mantilla or the Jewish mitpahat, the cap of the Amish and Mennonite, or whatever someone might choose to wear to honor their religious beliefs. I have only my experience. What I have learned from my abaya is that it’s really no different from the rest of my clothing: sometimes I’m comfortable in what I’m wearing, but sometimes I’m not.
Take care,
Lisa
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