A Servant to Many Gods Part 2
In 1997, my mother decided to permanently move to Belize. During the first couple years, I learned that my dreadlocks were a symbol of disdain; my hair was wooly, unkept, wild, and uncivilized to average Church going Belizean. But I would also learn how to use this disdain to my advantage.
~
A cloud of dust curls into the air as I sweep the bumpy cement floor in the kitchen. My arms cramp, but I tighten my fingers around the old broom and sway to its scratchy rhythm as its bristles caress the concrete. Shick. Shick. The broom sings. Shick. Shick. Shick. My bleeding finger tips are squeezing the broom as the withered straws remove filth from the floor's surface. I make a mental note to be careful when grating the cabbage, because I sometimes grate my finger tips and nails by accident. I need to be mindful of this because I work in the Belize City Clara Muhammad Elementary School cafeteria, which is an Islamic based school. ‘It is very important to keep all bodily fluids out of the kitchen’ Ms. Sarita says.
Ms. Sarita, the head cook pays me to help her prepare lunch and snacks for the children during break time. My earnings for the week are enough to buy two pounds of flour, sugar, and rice. Sometimes I take a few dollars extra, while Ms. Sarita isn't looking, just to get a little something for myself: pads, deodorant, lip balm. Ms. Sarita wraps bright colored scarves around her head to cover her hair; the colors are so bright they outshine her tired eyes. Her skin resembles an old plantain in both color and texture. Sometimes when she sees me coming to the school cafeteria, she sighs, but still lets me stay to help out. She encourages me to keep reading and writing, and believes that I will go back to school one day;
but for now, I am her assistant.
I sprinkle water on the dusty cement, to rain on the curling dust clouds and dampen their efforts. I continue to sweep. Shick. Shick. I know Ms. Sarita likes me because she sends me on errands or leaves me in charge when she needs to go to the rest room. She always asks me to check a sizzling pan full of chicken or a steaming pot of rice. Her broad Belizean Creole is musical, “Mek sure yuh tuhn di rice and tuhn down di stove, okay?” Yes Maum, I always answer.
I rest the broom on the cracked wall and skip to the stove. The rice is almost ready, as I comb the fork through the steamy fluff and turn down the fire. Lunch time is the busiest part of the day and preparing food for almost a hundred children, leads to tall piles of dishes. I open a cabinet and start to set out the plates, spoons, and forks on the wobbly table. Ms. Sarita should be back soon; I think I hear her coming. I might even see Amira, my sister. She goes to this school and is in the 6th grade. I look up, oh, it’s the Imam. He’s the prayer leader of Clara Muhammad’s Mosque and preaches to us every Friday about being a good Muslim.
“Asalamwalaikum sista.” He says while leaning toward the door. His long white robe fills with air and his skin seems darker than usual.
“Walaikum Salam.” I look up from the plates and see his eyes darting around my uncovered head.
“You know sista, Allah seh a woman should cova her beauty.” I look at him and feel guilty. Even though my matted locks are in a pony tail, I am guilty of showing a man my hair, which Islam prohibits. I want to tell him that I just needed a break from my scarf; that only children come to kitchen; no one comes here to lust off my hair or my beauty. But I know it won’t matter if I say this. I am wrong. I should cover my hair.
Islam requires me to save my beauty for my husband and thus requires me to cover my developing curves and shiny black hair. A woman, who covers her hair in this life, will have a constant glow projected from her head in the next—every Muslim woman needs to remember that the hereafter is better than this life—she needs to keep paradise as her sole goal. In paradise her beauty will shine like the sun, but only if she covers it in this life. The Imam leaves the door frame; I search for my scarf and wrap it around my head that is dripping with sweat.
~
I pulled my scarf off for what seemed like a second that day, to feel some breeze blow through my scalp, and of course the Imam—the leader of the Mosque—visited the school and witnessed my malpractice of Islam. He saw my dread locks and made me feel ashamed of my hair—the epitome of a woman’s beauty in Islam. I knew he was uncomfortable not only with a Muslim girl who did not cover her hair but also with a Muslim girl who had dreadlocks; having dreadlocks meant that I worshipped another God besides Allah, and that was the greatest sin I could commit as a Muslim.
Dreadlocks are a symbol of the Rastafarian religion; the Rastas kink and knot their hair and call God, Jah. But I didn’t decide to have dreadlocks or to be Rasta; my mother anointed me into that world, she planted the seeds of dreadlocks that now hung down my back. And, I secretly defied her, even though I had dreadlocks, I still devotedly worshipped Allah as a Muslim. And so, I thought, so what if my hair can't slide through the teeth of a comb. So what if I, a Muslim, had dreadlocks? I knew that there was a physical difference between Islam and Rastafarianism, but the principles were the same.
But in Belize, dreadlocks equal Rastafarian and whether or not I was actually practicing Rastafarian beliefs or activities were irrelevant. My matted locks were a symbol of the Rastafarian religion; another form of belief, and so I was guilty as charged.
Even if I tried to explain to the Imam that matting my hair into dreadlocks did not have to represent my religion, he would have denounced me. And even though I still faced the east and communed with Allah five times a day, I was different. I was different because I looked like I practiced another religion, but I really didn’t. Even so, I was a sinner in the eyes of the Imam.
I knew that the concepts behind the religions were the same; therefore weren’t the people practicing them all the same in their desires? Hopes? But who was I to try to go against the defined line that separated those religions? I was just some thirteen year old girl, what did I know about the unity of people? I was just a child, a Muslim child, working at a Muslim school that I could not attend. I scrubbed, swept, mopped, and cooked and ultimately had a lot of time to reflect on religion.
I realized that the Muslim school and the other Christian based schools in Belize did not want a Rastafarian attending their institution. And since I looked the part, Islam and Christianity finally agreed on one thing: no dreadlocks allowed. I could work for them, but I could not attend their schools. It was that simple.
I hadn’t attended a real school for more than three years because my mother, who had paraded around Belize City with her flaring dreadlocks, took me to schools that would not accept me—accept us. They would never accept the dreadlocks. As soon as the school officials saw her matted locks, they turned us away.
I know you are wondering why a child would be denied an education due to her hair style (but in my case lets keep in mine that it was my mother’s decision that I had dreadlocks). Having dreadlocks in Belize represents the marijuana that you pull in by the tons across the Mexican border, your matted hair is filled with fleas and bugs beyond description, and you are nasty; mud is your shampoo—all of which were untrue, at least for me and my mother.
In America, some forms of piercing, tattoos, and having a criminal record can deter one to get a job. So, think of my dreadlocks in that way. I had dreadlocks and thus I was denied an education. Even so, my mother refused to take them out because to her having dreadlocks meant that she could defy the “Man” and the “system” that turned people into money making robots. Dreadlocks showed defiance to any form of assimilation and normalcy to societies that are influenced by Western thought; societies like Belize; even though I understood all this, I secretly wanted my mother to give me permission to cut out the dreadlocks, but she did not. I had dreadlocks and so I worked. I worked for three years.
~
Think about your own hair. Think about it's heaviness after a shower. Imagine if it was matted and wet. Can you feel the tension in your neck? Now, imagine a cloth—an equivalent to a towel—being wrapped around your hair, pressing around your head. How long do you think you could keep it on? All day? For three years?
Well, after the Imam saw my dreadlocks, I pulled my scarf on extra tight, until my temples throbbed; sometimes, until I got dizzy.
~
Ms. Elese gives me books to read being that I am not in school. She is a pale skinned Belizean woman and from afar she seems to be a heavy-set white woman, with blue-green eyes. She is a retired teacher and my mother’s friend. She gives me writing assignments, math problems, and so many books to read. When I pray, I say Alhamdulilah to Ms. Elese and ask Allah to bless.
I walk to her house everyday and scavenge through her living room library. Her entire living room has shelves of knowledge that I need. When I see the dusty textbook, I run my fingers over them: Social Studies with a picture George Washington, Arithmetic with plus and subtract signs and English Literature with a felt tip pen shinning on the cover.
Ms. Elese gives me essay and story prompts and I just write and write, orchestrating grand tales of glass houses and magical creatures that inhabit it. With a pile of note books and novels in my hands, I have evidence of my efforts to seek knowledge and proudly stroll through the busy streets of Belize City. Look I want to say to the people, I can read. I am not stupid, so don't feel sorry for me because I am not in school. Don’t believe those stereotypes about my dreadlocks. But, I know they will not believe me. These people on the streets are sweating, working, and going about their daily lives with their daily beliefs, and I am walking through their busy flock with a tall pile of books as my dreadlocks fall down my back; heavier than the load I carry.
I read any and everything for three years: the dictionary, the Qu’ran and the Bible. As long as I am reading, I don’t miss school that much; one of the books that I love is Captains and Kings. The main character, Joseph, is an Irish immigrant that works as a child. His will power surpasses the societal constraints that are put on him.
Joseph can't go to school either, but he has the will power to do anything. And I start to believe in will power and how it propels humans, how it propels our destinies forward. I immerse myself into decrepit pages of fantastical tales, seeking evidence of characters that can uplift themselves through hope, will power, and endurance.
And then, one day, just like in the novels, someone wants to fight to get me into school. Someone thinks that it is foolish that I am not in school because of my hair. However that is another tale on its own, but I will tell you that my cousin, William Neal argues with my mother until she yields; she still isn’t going to cut my hair, but gives him permission to try to enroll. William is the CNN representative for Belize, there is no doubt that he will get me in school. But I won’t believe it until it happens, and so I continue to go to work.
~
Amira cut her dreadlocks off and my mother beat her with everything near by: a piece of wood, a machete, a hammer. Amira got tired of dreadlocks and didn’t want them anymore, but my mother wouldn’t let her cut them off. I wish I was like Amira because she never wavered.
“I already cut mi hair. So, fine. Beat mi, but I already do it.” She said. But I couldn’t be this bold because I was the older girl. I was the one that listened, obeyed, and revered my mother so selflessly; everyone expected me to act like this, even I did. When my mother told me, “No loose dem out” I listened and I obeyed.
I obeyed because I didn’t want to add to her long list of problems (plus after watching Amira wail after her thrashing, I kept quiet about how my dreadlocks were hurting me). I wanted to be the perfect daughter; I wanted to clean my mother’s wounds and be her disciple. I wanted to be her salvation and therefore I went along with her passionate decisions of synchronization of religions and I held fast to her every wish. I wanted her to have everything, even though I had nothing and felt like nothing.
~
I recently call home and tell my mother that I am taking out my dreadlocks. There is a long pause on the phone and then she responds, "Well, I cut mi dreads aff, aff, aff."
"All of them?" I asked.
"Yes, all a dehn."
I want to ask her why, but I know better. Instead I say, “Well, I never wanted dreadlocks and since you put them in, you have to take them out when I come home this summer.”
Long pause. Then she responds, “People with dreadlocks in Belize have a bad reputation Maryam and I can’t put myself through the pain of being marginalized.”
I don’t know if she even hears me, hears that I am taking out the dreadlocks she labored for me to have; the dreadlocks that kept me from so many things. And as a faithful servant I want her godly ears to hear me; but does a god ever hear the whisper of a faithful servant?
My mother’s name is Fahima, which means understanding. And now I know that even gods of understanding leave their followers in wretched doubt, but I wallow in suffering because I am her devotee, more so to her than any other religion.
~
A cloud of dust curls into the air as I sweep the bumpy cement floor in the kitchen. My arms cramp, but I tighten my fingers around the old broom and sway to its scratchy rhythm as its bristles caress the concrete. Shick. Shick. The broom sings. Shick. Shick. Shick. My bleeding finger tips are squeezing the broom as the withered straws remove filth from the floor's surface. I make a mental note to be careful when grating the cabbage, because I sometimes grate my finger tips and nails by accident. I need to be mindful of this because I work in the Belize City Clara Muhammad Elementary School cafeteria, which is an Islamic based school. ‘It is very important to keep all bodily fluids out of the kitchen’ Ms. Sarita says.
Ms. Sarita, the head cook pays me to help her prepare lunch and snacks for the children during break time. My earnings for the week are enough to buy two pounds of flour, sugar, and rice. Sometimes I take a few dollars extra, while Ms. Sarita isn't looking, just to get a little something for myself: pads, deodorant, lip balm. Ms. Sarita wraps bright colored scarves around her head to cover her hair; the colors are so bright they outshine her tired eyes. Her skin resembles an old plantain in both color and texture. Sometimes when she sees me coming to the school cafeteria, she sighs, but still lets me stay to help out. She encourages me to keep reading and writing, and believes that I will go back to school one day;
but for now, I am her assistant.
I sprinkle water on the dusty cement, to rain on the curling dust clouds and dampen their efforts. I continue to sweep. Shick. Shick. I know Ms. Sarita likes me because she sends me on errands or leaves me in charge when she needs to go to the rest room. She always asks me to check a sizzling pan full of chicken or a steaming pot of rice. Her broad Belizean Creole is musical, “Mek sure yuh tuhn di rice and tuhn down di stove, okay?” Yes Maum, I always answer.
I rest the broom on the cracked wall and skip to the stove. The rice is almost ready, as I comb the fork through the steamy fluff and turn down the fire. Lunch time is the busiest part of the day and preparing food for almost a hundred children, leads to tall piles of dishes. I open a cabinet and start to set out the plates, spoons, and forks on the wobbly table. Ms. Sarita should be back soon; I think I hear her coming. I might even see Amira, my sister. She goes to this school and is in the 6th grade. I look up, oh, it’s the Imam. He’s the prayer leader of Clara Muhammad’s Mosque and preaches to us every Friday about being a good Muslim.
“Asalamwalaikum sista.” He says while leaning toward the door. His long white robe fills with air and his skin seems darker than usual.
“Walaikum Salam.” I look up from the plates and see his eyes darting around my uncovered head.
“You know sista, Allah seh a woman should cova her beauty.” I look at him and feel guilty. Even though my matted locks are in a pony tail, I am guilty of showing a man my hair, which Islam prohibits. I want to tell him that I just needed a break from my scarf; that only children come to kitchen; no one comes here to lust off my hair or my beauty. But I know it won’t matter if I say this. I am wrong. I should cover my hair.
Islam requires me to save my beauty for my husband and thus requires me to cover my developing curves and shiny black hair. A woman, who covers her hair in this life, will have a constant glow projected from her head in the next—every Muslim woman needs to remember that the hereafter is better than this life—she needs to keep paradise as her sole goal. In paradise her beauty will shine like the sun, but only if she covers it in this life. The Imam leaves the door frame; I search for my scarf and wrap it around my head that is dripping with sweat.
~
I pulled my scarf off for what seemed like a second that day, to feel some breeze blow through my scalp, and of course the Imam—the leader of the Mosque—visited the school and witnessed my malpractice of Islam. He saw my dread locks and made me feel ashamed of my hair—the epitome of a woman’s beauty in Islam. I knew he was uncomfortable not only with a Muslim girl who did not cover her hair but also with a Muslim girl who had dreadlocks; having dreadlocks meant that I worshipped another God besides Allah, and that was the greatest sin I could commit as a Muslim.
Dreadlocks are a symbol of the Rastafarian religion; the Rastas kink and knot their hair and call God, Jah. But I didn’t decide to have dreadlocks or to be Rasta; my mother anointed me into that world, she planted the seeds of dreadlocks that now hung down my back. And, I secretly defied her, even though I had dreadlocks, I still devotedly worshipped Allah as a Muslim. And so, I thought, so what if my hair can't slide through the teeth of a comb. So what if I, a Muslim, had dreadlocks? I knew that there was a physical difference between Islam and Rastafarianism, but the principles were the same.
But in Belize, dreadlocks equal Rastafarian and whether or not I was actually practicing Rastafarian beliefs or activities were irrelevant. My matted locks were a symbol of the Rastafarian religion; another form of belief, and so I was guilty as charged.
Even if I tried to explain to the Imam that matting my hair into dreadlocks did not have to represent my religion, he would have denounced me. And even though I still faced the east and communed with Allah five times a day, I was different. I was different because I looked like I practiced another religion, but I really didn’t. Even so, I was a sinner in the eyes of the Imam.
I knew that the concepts behind the religions were the same; therefore weren’t the people practicing them all the same in their desires? Hopes? But who was I to try to go against the defined line that separated those religions? I was just some thirteen year old girl, what did I know about the unity of people? I was just a child, a Muslim child, working at a Muslim school that I could not attend. I scrubbed, swept, mopped, and cooked and ultimately had a lot of time to reflect on religion.
I realized that the Muslim school and the other Christian based schools in Belize did not want a Rastafarian attending their institution. And since I looked the part, Islam and Christianity finally agreed on one thing: no dreadlocks allowed. I could work for them, but I could not attend their schools. It was that simple.
I hadn’t attended a real school for more than three years because my mother, who had paraded around Belize City with her flaring dreadlocks, took me to schools that would not accept me—accept us. They would never accept the dreadlocks. As soon as the school officials saw her matted locks, they turned us away.
I know you are wondering why a child would be denied an education due to her hair style (but in my case lets keep in mine that it was my mother’s decision that I had dreadlocks). Having dreadlocks in Belize represents the marijuana that you pull in by the tons across the Mexican border, your matted hair is filled with fleas and bugs beyond description, and you are nasty; mud is your shampoo—all of which were untrue, at least for me and my mother.
In America, some forms of piercing, tattoos, and having a criminal record can deter one to get a job. So, think of my dreadlocks in that way. I had dreadlocks and thus I was denied an education. Even so, my mother refused to take them out because to her having dreadlocks meant that she could defy the “Man” and the “system” that turned people into money making robots. Dreadlocks showed defiance to any form of assimilation and normalcy to societies that are influenced by Western thought; societies like Belize; even though I understood all this, I secretly wanted my mother to give me permission to cut out the dreadlocks, but she did not. I had dreadlocks and so I worked. I worked for three years.
~
Think about your own hair. Think about it's heaviness after a shower. Imagine if it was matted and wet. Can you feel the tension in your neck? Now, imagine a cloth—an equivalent to a towel—being wrapped around your hair, pressing around your head. How long do you think you could keep it on? All day? For three years?
Well, after the Imam saw my dreadlocks, I pulled my scarf on extra tight, until my temples throbbed; sometimes, until I got dizzy.
~
Ms. Elese gives me books to read being that I am not in school. She is a pale skinned Belizean woman and from afar she seems to be a heavy-set white woman, with blue-green eyes. She is a retired teacher and my mother’s friend. She gives me writing assignments, math problems, and so many books to read. When I pray, I say Alhamdulilah to Ms. Elese and ask Allah to bless.
I walk to her house everyday and scavenge through her living room library. Her entire living room has shelves of knowledge that I need. When I see the dusty textbook, I run my fingers over them: Social Studies with a picture George Washington, Arithmetic with plus and subtract signs and English Literature with a felt tip pen shinning on the cover.
Ms. Elese gives me essay and story prompts and I just write and write, orchestrating grand tales of glass houses and magical creatures that inhabit it. With a pile of note books and novels in my hands, I have evidence of my efforts to seek knowledge and proudly stroll through the busy streets of Belize City. Look I want to say to the people, I can read. I am not stupid, so don't feel sorry for me because I am not in school. Don’t believe those stereotypes about my dreadlocks. But, I know they will not believe me. These people on the streets are sweating, working, and going about their daily lives with their daily beliefs, and I am walking through their busy flock with a tall pile of books as my dreadlocks fall down my back; heavier than the load I carry.
I read any and everything for three years: the dictionary, the Qu’ran and the Bible. As long as I am reading, I don’t miss school that much; one of the books that I love is Captains and Kings. The main character, Joseph, is an Irish immigrant that works as a child. His will power surpasses the societal constraints that are put on him.
Joseph can't go to school either, but he has the will power to do anything. And I start to believe in will power and how it propels humans, how it propels our destinies forward. I immerse myself into decrepit pages of fantastical tales, seeking evidence of characters that can uplift themselves through hope, will power, and endurance.
And then, one day, just like in the novels, someone wants to fight to get me into school. Someone thinks that it is foolish that I am not in school because of my hair. However that is another tale on its own, but I will tell you that my cousin, William Neal argues with my mother until she yields; she still isn’t going to cut my hair, but gives him permission to try to enroll. William is the CNN representative for Belize, there is no doubt that he will get me in school. But I won’t believe it until it happens, and so I continue to go to work.
~
Amira cut her dreadlocks off and my mother beat her with everything near by: a piece of wood, a machete, a hammer. Amira got tired of dreadlocks and didn’t want them anymore, but my mother wouldn’t let her cut them off. I wish I was like Amira because she never wavered.
“I already cut mi hair. So, fine. Beat mi, but I already do it.” She said. But I couldn’t be this bold because I was the older girl. I was the one that listened, obeyed, and revered my mother so selflessly; everyone expected me to act like this, even I did. When my mother told me, “No loose dem out” I listened and I obeyed.
I obeyed because I didn’t want to add to her long list of problems (plus after watching Amira wail after her thrashing, I kept quiet about how my dreadlocks were hurting me). I wanted to be the perfect daughter; I wanted to clean my mother’s wounds and be her disciple. I wanted to be her salvation and therefore I went along with her passionate decisions of synchronization of religions and I held fast to her every wish. I wanted her to have everything, even though I had nothing and felt like nothing.
~
I recently call home and tell my mother that I am taking out my dreadlocks. There is a long pause on the phone and then she responds, "Well, I cut mi dreads aff, aff, aff."
"All of them?" I asked.
"Yes, all a dehn."
I want to ask her why, but I know better. Instead I say, “Well, I never wanted dreadlocks and since you put them in, you have to take them out when I come home this summer.”
Long pause. Then she responds, “People with dreadlocks in Belize have a bad reputation Maryam and I can’t put myself through the pain of being marginalized.”
I don’t know if she even hears me, hears that I am taking out the dreadlocks she labored for me to have; the dreadlocks that kept me from so many things. And as a faithful servant I want her godly ears to hear me; but does a god ever hear the whisper of a faithful servant?
My mother’s name is Fahima, which means understanding. And now I know that even gods of understanding leave their followers in wretched doubt, but I wallow in suffering because I am her devotee, more so to her than any other religion.
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