So there I was, standing in the queue at the supermarket till with my weekly shop. The customers in front were a couple with a young child. The woman was wearing a burqa. I noticed the only part of her face visible was her eyes.
As an avid reader of newspapers and of every shade of commentator from far right to far left, my head was swimming with views on this scene. I'm not proud to admit that one of my first thoughts was "the creeping Islamification of society." I thought of a story I heard - apocryphal? - of a woman stopped by security in some western airport. Asked to remove her niqab, she duly obliged - to reveal a clamped mouth. Is there any stronger symbol of female oppression on earth, I asked myself?
The family had almost finished putting their groceries through the checkout, and were packing them into bags. The last item was scanned. It was time to pay. The man began rummaging in his pockets. The cashier looked on, waiting for payment. I earwigged, trying to find out the reason for the delay. It turned out the man had forgotten his money-off vouchers, and wanted to return to his car for them. The cashier explained that, due to the length of the queue, all the items would have to be cancelled while the man went to get his vouchers, rather than have everyone wait. The cashier added it could all be put through again when he came back. The couple seemed to accept this, and the cashier duly cancelled their purchases.
Then a sound erupted, one with which I am intimately acquainted. It was a sound that strikes terror into the heart of any married man: the unmistakable tone of a wife delivering a right royal telling-off to a hapless husband. From beneath her hood, her mouth invisible to onlookers, the lady laid waste to her flustered spouse. The language itself was indecipherable, but there was little doubt that he was being berated as a bloody fool for having forgotten the vouchers. On and on the tirade went while, hangdog, he took the verbal blows.
Now, having been on the receiving end of a few sharp words in my time, I recognise when somebody decides their best course of action is to scarper. And that is precisely what he did. The man, whom I had taken to be some class of oppressor, scurried off to his car as quickly as he could, in abject obedience to his wife's command.
With the aid of a member of staff, the burqa-clad wife, fresh from admonishing her spouse, removed the cancelled shopping from the counter to await his return. As I moved up the queue, ready to pay for my goods, I cowered slightly, sensing her anger even if I could not see it. I handed the cashier my points fob and kept the head down.
The episode was a revelation. I shall never look at a woman in this traditional form of dress in quite the same way again. How wrong I was to assume that those who don such garb are an oppressed lot. The lady in the supermarket may have been wearing a burqa but, clearly, she was also wearing the trousers.
© Brian
Ahern 2016
Comments
Post a Comment