i Report Issue No. 3 2005 - Philippine Center for Investigative ...

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CHANGING FACE. Muslim
women are slowly moving out
of the safe cocoons of clan
and community.
like those I have, and so have yet
to bridge a generational gap that
has formed. During the National
Muslim Youth Summit held at the
Asian Institute of Management in
2003, “confusion” was the catchword
in the workshop discussions.
The speakers were learned
elders. The participants, meanwhile,
were part of Generation
M(uslim). Although they came
from different cultural communities,
they were all multilingual
and educated in some of the top
schools around the country and
even abroad.
One of the speakers
crowed that this was the “new
generation of future Muslim
leaders”—mobile, techie, and
assertive. But some of the participants
expressed disappointment
at their elders’ lack of
sympathy for their “confusion.”
“I don’t wear a veil but no
one can question my faith,”
said 24-year-old Maguindanaon
Nora, a Manila-based nurse.
“We are confused because we
are curious.” She raised the
issue of smuggling by a few
Muslim entrepreneurs to which
some elders had been willing to
turn a blind eye, so long as the
proceeds were given as zakat
or charity. “Can (smuggling)
be made permissible by giving
(the proceeds) as zakat?” an
incredulous Nora asked.
“Have you read the whole
Qur’an?” posed Lucman, offering
advice from the elders. “Pray
five times and affirm yourself
with the graces of Allah.”
All the speakers had advised
us to “learn Islam.” Former MSU
regent Ansary Alonto also said,
“Islam is a system, a way of life.”
But the older yuppies among
the participants advised the
youngsters to maintain an open
mind. Said Aldean Alonto, who
had gone to Oxford University
on an interfaith event: “Islam is
a process, and (acknowledges)
an effort to find yourself.”
For me, that process is still
ongoing. When I was a child,
I thought I would end up as a
singer. I had been starstruck as
a kid and was a big movie fan;
I loved performing as well. Yet
being Maranao—and a girl—
meant there were many things
I could not do. Interest in the
arts was discouraged because
of its perceived anti-Islamicism.
Even today many of us
are still unable to deviate from
professions chosen for us, like
T H E L O S T G E N E R A T I O N
nursing, medicine, engineering,
and law. I took up law at the
behest of my parents, although
my heart wasn’t in it. It was
only when I failed major prelaw
courses that I allowed myself
to follow my desire, which
by then was no longer singing,
but journalism.
As the eldest of five, I had
learned early on to be conscious
of the larger group, to
sacrifice and put the group’s
interests first. Following tradition,
we girls had to be very
careful in choosing our friends.
While my brothers had girlfriends,
my sisters and I were
chaperoned to avoid “developing”
our crushes. We weren’t
allowed to date or sleep over
at other people’s houses. Contrary
to what many outsiders
assume, however, we girls—at
least those in my family—were
made to excel in academics.
Mother wanted to be sure that
if we were to marry and then
were left by our husbands, we
could use our education to
survive on our own. (Mother’s
own father had left their family
for another woman.) Father,
too, put a premium on education
for his children. He was
from a clan that placed professionals
on pedestals and was
himself an inspiration to many
of his relatives to acquire an
education and land a good job.
Yet for all the restrictions and
expectations put upon us, I still
managed to have fun in high
school. I was lucky because Father
was a career diplomat and I
was exposed to Western education.
Traveling was an eye-opener.
I learned to be sensitive and
be open to other cultures aside
from my own. Practicing my
faith had its ups and downs, but
I was soon to learn that to know
my religion, I had to experience
the lack of it.
THAT CAME when I reached
college. I suddenly had the
freedom to party and socialize.
That freedom, however, also
brought me one dilemma after
another. While my upbringing
taught me precaution, the
ethos on campus was to live
life. While I was boxed in by
rules before, I was now being
urged to make my own rules.
My response in part was to
widen my search for myself. I
met atheists who questioned
God and all the fundamentals
of existence. I attended masses,
learned of the Christian faith. I
read alternative literature aside
from the religious text. Yet as I
searched, I had one tangible evidence
of my Muslim identity: my
hijab, which I began wearing at
age 17. I had made the decision
to wear one on my own, without
any parental prodding, without
a mullah lecture, without
pressure from my peers. I had
read through the Qu’ran and
saw in there the rationale for the
veil. Rather than being segregationist
or purist, the hijab is an
acknowledgement that women
can work alongside any individual,
male or non-Muslim. I do
not have to be judged based on
my physical appearance, even as
my hijab makes me aware that
I have to be “good” to earn my
keep for the afterlife.
I have since noticed that
others wear the veil as a matter
of convenience or culture,
with the hijab taking on different
nuances, depending on the
wearer’s community or tribe.
Women of the Tausug tribe wear
their caps with sequins, those
in Maguindanao prefer colored
nets, and the Maranao go for
PHILIPPINE CENTER FOR INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISM
I REPORT
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