A recent conversation prompted by RedRoom author Sherry Jones's post about the veil irritated the heck out of me. Like most Muslim women, I slap my forehead whenever I see the title "Behind the Veil" attached to anything. (To put this in perspective, a Google search for ' "behind the veil" islam ' returns 39,800 hits. My forehead is getting pretty tired.) The post itself is benign enough--a summary of Fatima Mernissi's excellent scholarship on the history of women in Islam. The conversation that follows is what gets me. There's a lot of condescending speculation about just what is wrong with Muslim women who choose to cover their heads. At this point, an observation: when you infantilize us, and talk about us like we can't hear you, it hardly inspires us to want to be more like you.

Sherry asserts: "When you wear the veil, you are not escaping men's control over your sexuality, you are succumbing to it." She's right. 

Yup. Now it's my coreligionists' turn to gasp. But this should come as no surprise. If society was comprised entirely of women, there would be no need for the veil. The veil exists because men exist. When you put on a headscarf, your wardrobe is prioritized, coded, and catered to male sexuality. You are agreeing that it is the responsibility of women to manage the male gaze. The presence of men is the central arbiter of your visible relationship with the outside world.

But let us for a moment turn the magnifying glass the other way, and consider the author. Sherry is looking lovely in her profile picture, with a fashionable haircut, hair dyed deep red, foundation, blush and a flattering shade of lipstick. Now, as much as women everywhere like to pretend we roll out of bed looking gorgeous (what makeup do I use? Why, just a little powder here and there...) it is usually (and often obviously) not the case. It takes peroxide, canuba wax, tweezing, curling, spackling. 

But it's okay. Because it's our choice. We don't have to wear makeup or dye our hair. We are taking charge of our sexuality, our self-expression and our relationship with the world. 

Let's cut the crap, shall we? Pots, meet kettles. 

Unless you live in a cave, when you walk outside you become, to one extent or another, defined by gender: your relationship to your own sex, and your relationship to the opposite sex. In almost all societies, women have historically been defined in opposition to men, rather than independently of them. This has fouled up even the most dedicated of women's-rights movements. Look at the conflict between "lipstick" feminists and second-wave feminists. Rejecting habits that catered to male sexuality--makeup, high heels, the shaving of body hair--was once integral to feminism. Now, a new generation of feminists is fighting to get all those things back. The return to traditional definitions of femininity--especially with regard to dress--is not a phenomenon limited to those poor brainwashed Muslim cultures. Not by a long shot. 

Both in the Muslim world and here in the West, young women are adopting the traditional symbols of male dominance--the headscarf, the stiletto--as symbols of feminine empowerment. Is that what they are? In my cynical opinion, no, and the rhetorical backbends women do to defend their 'choices' are often insults to their considerable intellect. But these are movements initiated, fueled and driven by women, framed in the context of women's rights. Dismissing them as irrelevant or wrong would be a mistake. 

Where do I fit into all this? I cover my body and my hair, but not in a way that would satisfy most religious conservatives. (I don't wear a scarf while jogging or at the beach, and I've been known to wear 3/4 length sleeves.) I also wear makeup. I have never owned a pair of high heels. I don't consider myself a feminist. Do I 'choose' to practice modest dress? Yes, in the sense that no one hurts or bullies me when I don't. I 'choose' to wear makeup in the same sense. I refuse to romanticize either choice--I am neither an ideal Muslim nor an ideal westerner. Like most writers I'm not a good example of anything except voluntary poverty. I'm not here with answers; only observations. 

Here's my final one: despite the supposedly crushing limitations imposed on me by my scarf, I'm married to a man I adore, I make a living doing what I love, and I'm lucky enough to be surrounded by friends and colleagues who inspire me. I'm having a hard time understanding what it is you think I'm missing.