Aliya Siya
Aliya Siya is an aspiring writer based in Chennai, Tamil Nadu and a master’s student in English at the University of Madras. Their work explores themes of identity, culture and female experience.
Noor
Noor : It is more difficult to write about Muslim women than being a Muslim woman.
It is daunting to write about Muslim women, as it impels me to confront my
fragmented beliefs. The more I resisted seeking a definite solution to my despair, the
deeper I was thrown into the abyss of existential crisis that I kept fighting so hard to
escape. The religion I’m born into, which is meant to unburden me becomes a
looming apparition of my shallow existence. It’s not easy to strip away an identity
that I never chose for myself. Yet, ultimately, it defines who I am, the devious
paradox of organised religion.
When I put on the veil—a symbol of modesty and faith in Islam— it wilts into a
facade masking my ingenuity towards the religion. How I wish it sanctified me like
the Muslim women who are exalted to the utmost state of devotion and
transcendence, the Muslim women whose scaffolds protected me. The Muslim
woman who I will never be.
I have learned to be content with my selfhood of in-betweenness, it may look absurd
to everyone but me; however, it works, for the most part. Though I sometimes feel
like a cheat for not being able to entirely sever my ties from my religion,
concomitantly, I have to bear the brunt of not living the life I was taught to live ever
since I was a child. This cognitive dissonance sometimes plunges me into the fathoms
of overwhelming vulnerability, the hijab does help to hide this feeling as I smile at
the good samaritans of the religion, but I’m also engulfed by the judgements they
may have on me if they knew what I really am, a mujirim—dishonourable. Thus, my
hijab strips me naked as I try to blend in with a culture that has become alien to me,
one that was once the vortex of my existence.
****
My life made of lies is honest enough for me but never in the presence of my
grandmother. Her faith embedded with utmost veneration leaves me in awe and
slightly envious if I’m being honest, not a day passes by without me wanting to be
like her, she is perfect and I’m way beyond repair.
Noor means light in Arabic and it is my grandmother’s name. No one could be so
aptly named than her, she is the light of my life and I’m hers. I grew up under her
shadow, her faith became my safety, her chants resonate in my mind as I try to write
about her. It stings because I will never be like her—full of grace and warmth— even
though she would remind me to pray not just for my wellbeing but for everyone
under the sky, I know that her prayers are selflessly for me, everything even herself
comes second. To put oneself last is something expected of a woman : her husband,
children, grandchildren and her siblings.
My grandmother is the fourth of seven siblings and my Ummacha ( great-
grandmother) who was a widow struggled to make ends meet, to keep her children
fed at least twice a day was a burden, and the only thing she could hold on to was her
faith and it became her guiding light, her Noor. My grandmother’s sister once told me
that my grandmother never complained about her hardships growing up, she kept it
all to herself. While her siblings were more vocal about their condition, she always
stood by Ummacha, she was the most understanding of her mother’s plight.
When my grandmother was admitted to a government college to study architecture in
the neighbouring district—her only chance to put herself first— her older brother
refused to allow as it was not accepted of unmarried Muslim women to stay away
from home. She didn’t revolt instead accepted her fate because the oldest man in the
family said no. I asked her if she’d have married my grandfather if she had become
an architect, she laughed it off. He had spent twenty-five years in Saudi Arabia as a
taxi driver, while she was left alone with their children to take care of, just like her
mother before her. However, my mother broke the cycle became a government
employee, only woman in her family to do it.
****
I left home for college to a place where I wouldn’t have been able to go if not for my
grandmother standing up for me and my dreams, she made sure that I get to do the
things she was barred from pursuing.
When I visited her on my last semester break, I woke up to a sight of my
grandmother on her prayer mat reciting Ayatul Kursi in a state of liminality where it
is just her and her God ; as her face gleamed in the morning sunlight, for the first
time, I noticed how much she resembles Ummacha. Perhaps she had always looked
like her mother, or maybe I was simply not ready to acknowledge the truth that she is
growing old. I forever want her to be the Noor of my life, my sanctuary, her love, not
her faith.
****