PURDAH I
by Imtiaz Dharker
(Bloodaxe Poetry Introductions 1, Bloodaxe)

One day they said
she was old enough to learn some shame.
She found it came quite naturally.

Purdah is a kind of safety.
The body finds a place to hide.
The cloth fans out against the skin
much like the earth that falls
on coffins after they put the dead men in.

People she has known
stand up, sit down as they have always done.
But they make different angles
in the light, their eyes aslant,
a little sly.

She half-remembers things
from someone else’s life,
perhaps from yours, or mine —
carefully carrying what we do not own:
between the thighs, a sense of sin.

We sit still, letting the cloth grow
a little closer to our skin.
A light filters inward
through our bodies’ walls.
Voices speak inside us,
echoing in the spaces we have just left.

She stands outside herself,
sometimes in all four corners of a room.
Wherever she goes, she is always
inching past herself,
as if she were a clod of earth
and the roots as well,
scratching for a hold
between the first and second rib.

Passing constantly out of her own hands
into the corner of someone else’s eyes . . .
while doors keep opening
inward and again inward.

Imtiaz Dharker was born in Pakistan and brought up a Muslim Calvinist in Glasgow. I chose this particular poem because it takes us right inside the fabric of the Muslim veil, a topic that is very current at the moment. Poetry is infinitely flexible. It can magnify the little things that describe us and give us a better look; but it can also be relevant and political, sometimes using one person’s experience to illuminate a much bigger picture.

Purdah literally means the keeping of women in seclusion, concealing their faces and bodies completely when in public. I imagine the covering in this poem to be a niqab, with just a slit for the eyes (as opposed to a burka, with only a fabric grille to see through). We are drawn into the story from the moment of seclusion: “One day they said/ she was old enough to learn some shame.”

It seems the young woman is considered to be one gigantic sexual organ the moment she reaches puberty, and since such organs must not be put on public display, she must cover herself. After all, men must not be tempted. Or perhaps they find women who are recognisable as individuals and therefore visually equal, offensive. These impressions are emphasised with the words: “carefully carrying what we do not own:/ between the thighs, a sense of sin.” The young women does not own the sin, it is a burden of blame that she is forced to bear through no choice of her own, for being female.

The subjugation continues as “The cloth fans out against the skin/ much like the earth that falls/ on coffins after they put the dead men in.” The covering is akin to burial as the woman who is covered becomes removed from those around her because of the barrier she wears: “People she has known/ stand up, sit down as they have always done.” The key word “known” is in the past tense; she no longer knows them and they cannot know her behind her disguise.

Our facial expression is vital in our efforts to communicate with each other. We also need to recognise each other in order to form relationships outside our family. No one can deny the difference between speaking to a person’s face and someone whose features are inaccessible. Deceit is more easily maintained if the expression does not have to learn subterfuge too.

Even without words, our expression explains us, pleads on our behalf, rejoices in meeting others, conveys horror or disgust sometimes better than words, shares happiness and asks for understanding. Combined, the look in our eyes, the movement of our eyebrows, mouth, and the small muscles in our face give weight and authenticity to our tone of voice. Communication can be so much more than simply language.

I think it is fine if some women want to hide all that makes them individual, providing it is their own choice and they live in a country where this is the norm. But how can anyone get to know a woman in a niqab or a burka? Do they recognise each other? How can two women exchange smiles beneath niqabs?

Niqabs are a physical impediment, reduce vision, disguise the individual and separate them from the people around them, which is an affront in a society where human beings like to be able to “read” each other’s faces and recognise one another. The smile, the most important of wordless greetings among strangers and friends alike, is taken away by the niqab.

“Purdah is a kind of safety./ The body finds a place to hide,” writes Dharker, and being disguised does indeed offer the safety of anonymity (and the ability to break into the local off-licence without being recognised on closed-circuit television).

But the poem imparts an escalating sense of disembodiment from the self, which is now detached from the environment by this new barrier: “She stands outside herself,/ sometimes in all four corners of a room./ Wherever she goes, she is always/ inching past herself,/ as if she were a clod of earth...” The woman in it is carried further and further away from her ability to communicate and engage with those around her, “Passing constantly out of her own hands”.

She is not in control of her life while acceding to the restrictions that have been placed upon her, and “while doors keep opening/ inward and again/ inward.” I see a woman going deeper and deeper into herself because the route outwards is barred to her. She is disappearing. I want her to come back and be seen.

frieda.hughes@thetimes.co.uk