GOOD-BYE TO YOUTH—TAKING THE VEIL
TERRITET, _Jan._ 1907.
I am thinking of a sad spring morning of long ago. I was twelve years
old, but the constant terror in which I had lived had increased my
tendency towards uneasiness and melancholy. The life I was forced to
lead had nothing in common with my nature. Ever since I can remember, I
had loved the bright light, open horizons, galloping on horses against
the wind, and all my surroundings were calm and monotonous.
As time went on, I put off every day the moment for wakening, because
I had to open my eyes in the same room, and the same white muslin
curtains were always there to greet me.
How can I explain to you my jealousy at seeing how contentedly all the
furniture lay in the soft light which filtered through the latticed
windows of our harems? A heavy weight was pressing on my spirit! How
many times when the governess came into my room did she not find me in
tears!
“What is the matter, my darling?” she would ask, and under the
influence of this unexpected tenderness I would sob without even
knowing the cause of my sorrow.
Then I dressed myself slowly, so that there should be less time to
live. How was it, I wondered, that some people feared death? Death
would have been such a change—the only change to which a Turkish woman
could look forward.
In our house there was scarcely a sound; hardly were the steps of the
young Circassian slaves heard as they passed along the corridors.
Our mother was kind but stern, and her beautiful face had an expression
of calm resignation. She lived like a stranger amongst us, not being
able to associate herself with either our thoughts or our ideals.
The schoolroom where we worked the greater part of the day looked on
to a garden thick with trees and perfumed with the early roses. Its
furniture consisted of a big oak table and chairs, shelves full of
books, a globe, and three busts in plaster of Paris, of Napoleon,
Dante, and Mozart. What strange thoughts have those three men, so
different and yet so interesting, not suggested to me! What a curious
influence they all three had on my child mind!
It was in this schoolroom, twice a week, that we studied the Koran; but
before the lesson began an old servant covered up the three great men
in plaster. The _Hodja_[10] must not see these heathenish figures.
When the Imam arrived, my sister and I went to the door to meet him,
kissing his hand as a sign of respect. Then he used to pass his bony
fingers over our hair, saying as a greeting, “May Allah protect you, my
children.”
With the Hodja Effendi came into our schoolroom a perfume of incense of
burnt henna and sandal-wood. His green tunic and turban, which showed
he had visited the Holy Tomb at Mecca, made his beard so white and his
eyes so pale, that he seemed like a person from another world—indeed he
reminded me, not a little, of those Indian Fakirs, who live on prayers.
From the moment he sat down at the table, my sorrows seemed to
vanish for a while, and an atmosphere of calm and blessed peace took
possession of my soul.
“Only God is God,” he began.
“And Mahomet is His Prophet,” we responded, as we opened the Koran at
the place he had chosen for the lesson.
“Read, my child,” he said.
I took the book, and began to read the prayer, which is a rhythmed
chant. The Imam read with me in a soft, low voice, and when the chapter
was finished he murmured, “You read well, Neyr; may Allah protect you.”
Then he questioned us on the prayers we had learnt, on the good we had
to do and the evil to avoid, and his voice was so monotonous that each
sentence sounded like a prayer.
When we had finished, he asked, as he always did, to see our governess.
I went to find her in the garden, and she came at once.
As the Hodja could not speak English, he asked us to say to her, “You
have a fine face. Allah loves the good and the kind and those who go
the way they should go. He will be with you.” And before he went away,
taking with him the delightful perfume of incense, he shook the hand of
the Englishwoman in his.
[Illustration: TURKISH LADY IN TCHARCHAFF. OUTDOOR COSTUME
During the reign of Abdul Aziz (_vide_ text) Turkish ladies wore the
Yashmak in the street, now they wear a thick black veil through which
they can see and are not supposed to be seen. The women must always
wear gloves.]
Another day he came, and after the lesson he said to me, “Neyr, you are
twelve years old; you must be veiled. You can no longer have your
hair exposed and your face uncovered—you must be veiled. Your mother
has not noticed you have grown a big girl, I therefore must. I teach
you to love Allah, you are my spiritual child, and for that reason I
must warn you of the danger henceforward of going out unveiled. Neyr,
you must be veiled.”
I was not even listening to the Imam! An awful agony had seized and
numbed my soul; the words which he had uttered resounded in my brain,
and little by little sank into my understanding—“Neyr, you must be
veiled”—that is to say, to be forever cloistered like those who live
around you; to be a slave like your mother, and your cousins, and your
elder sister; to belong henceforth to the harem; no longer to play in
the garden unveiled; nor ride Arabian ponies in the country; to have
a veil over your eyes, and your soul; to be always silent, always
forgotten, to be always and always _a thing_.
“Neyr, you must be veiled,” the old Hodja began again.
I raised my head. “Yes, I know, Hodja Effendi, I shall be veiled, since
it is necessary.” Then I was silent.
The old Imam went away, not understanding what had happened to me, and
without my having kissed his hand. I remained in the same place, my
elbows on the table. I was alone. All around was deadly still.
Suddenly, however, Miss M. opened the door; her eyes were red. Gently
shutting the door and coming towards me, she said:
“Neyr, I have seen the Imam, and I understand that from to-morrow you
must be veiled.”
I saw the pain stamped on her face, but I could say nothing. Already
she had taken me in her arms and carried me into her room at the end of
the corridor, murmuring all the while, “The brutes!”
Together we wept; I, without unnecessary complaints, she without
useless consolation.
Once my sorrow had passed a little, I questioned my governess.
“You are English, are you not?”
“Yes, dear, I am English.”
“In England are the women veiled, and the children free?”
“The women and children are free.”
“Then I will go to England.”
“Silence, Neyr, silence.”
“Take me to England.”
“I cannot, Neyr,” she answered.
But all that day and all that night I dreamt of dear, free England, I
longed to see.
* * * * *
The country house where we lived was large, with big rooms, long
corridors, and dark halls. Now and again carriages passed, bringing
excursionists to the neighbouring wood, and when we heard the wheels
rumbling over the uneven road, we rushed to the latticed windows to see
all we could.
Sometimes we used to go with Miss M. to see Stamboul, which was on the
opposite shore. Miss M. loved the town, and used to take us there as
often as possible. Sometimes we used to ride with my brother in the
country, and I loved to feel the wind blowing through my untidy hair,
but all that would be over now. Sometimes my father would take me to
see friends of his—foreigners they were—and the girls and boys played
together, and I laughed and played with them. But I understood that I
was only on the margin of their great life, that each day part of my
right to existence would be taken from me, a veil would soon cover my
face, and I would only be a Moslem woman, whose every aspiration and
emotion would be trampled under foot.
That moment had come.
* * * * *
We were to go out with mother that afternoon. On my bed in the
monotonous room I disliked so much, a black mantle, a cape, and a veil
were placed.
Several persons had come to see me veiled for the first time. Awkwardly
I placed the pleated skirt round my waist, the cape over my shoulders,
and the veil over my face; but, in order that the tears which were
falling should not be seen, I did not lift it up again.
“Neyr,” asked mother, “are you ready?”
“Yes,” I answered, and followed her with my head up in spite of this
mourning. And from that day, from that moment, I had determined on
revolt.
MELEK (N. NEYR-EL-NIRSA).