I'm really happy to announce the publication of my first feature article in an online magazine.
It's called
Contenders Magazine and my article is
Filming El Hijab.
Check them both out!
Here's the link to my article.
http://contendersmagazine.com/blog/filming-el-hijab/
It appears the server for this magazine no longer functions. Here is the text and photos from a copy I made:
Contenders Magazine
the journal of the perpetually
up-and-coming
Filming El Hijab
August 23, 2013, Lemia Mahayni
When I flew to Damascus, Syria in the
fall of 2010 to begin making my documentary film El Hijab, I had no idea how monumental the task I had
set for myself was. I believed that my primary challenges would be getting
people to take a woman seriously as a filmmaker, and functioning in a language
I hadn’t spoken regularly for many years. While that was certainly the case,
they represented only the beginning of my logistical problems, and didn’t
include the most important: myself.
The five years between my birth in Oregon and my
family moving to Syria had biased me against hijab – the practice among Muslim
women of wearing modest garments to show their submission to God. Yes, I said
God, not men, not government. While family and peer pressures are a major
factor, the whole practice of hijab in Syria is commonly viewed as an act of
personal conscience and culture, not government. Among those who choose it,
wearing hijab can signify that a girl has reached womanhood (menses), or that
she has set aside her carefree youth and is serious about Islam. In the society
where I grew up, she is then seen as mature enough to become engaged to be
married. Instead of seeing hijab as a right of passage like my
cousins did, I saw it as an
unreasonable restriction, an archaic affectation.
 |
| One of my cousins playing in the snow with her daughters |
|
Knowing my opinion was so strong, I
had previously recused myself from approaching the topic of hijab in
film or in writing. But upon graduating from film school, I was challenged by
my friend Bérénice Reynaud, international film festival curator and lecturer,
to make a documentary about hijab. She felt that no one had made a film about
it from the perspective of Arab women. I agreed that most films focused on
hijab worn in the West – where it stood out as alien – or approached hijab from
the outside looking in. I saw a mission I could embrace: capturing Arab women
speaking for themselves.
I could also see that Syria was a good place to make such a film.
Historically, women in Syria have not been forced by law to wear any type of
hijab. On the contrary, in July of 2010, the government banned the face veil
style of hijab – called niqab – from all classrooms, public and private. With
the law, Syria joined Tunisia and Turkey in the small club of Muslim states to
have banned any form of hijab (a similar ban was lifted in Tunisia after 2011,
and in Turkey veiling remains a contentious issue, with the constitutional
court there upholding a constitutional ban against wearing hijab in public
buildings in 2008, much to the chagrin of the conservative parliament). This
ban caused ripples of hostility that contributed to the civil war, giving
Muslim fundamentalists, Bashar Al-Assad’s most outspoken opponents, a cause to
seize on. However, zealots who favored the niqab were in the minority. The most
common form of hijab in Syria is a scarf covering the hair and throat along
with clothing extending to the wrists and ankles. And it’s far from a universal
dress code: many Muslim women in Syria choose not to wear hijab at all, and
there is a significant Christian population. Even members of my conservative
Muslim family were satisfied that the new law safeguarded our university
students against people cheating on exams or attending under false identities.
When I arrived in October the controversy seemed dead.
I believed that since I’d grown up in Damascus, my
cousins and aunts would treat me like an insider, that I would have
unprecedented access to their lives for my film. I underestimated the extreme
privacy in Syrian society and the effect of my years of absence. Instead, I
experienced frequent but polite instances of misdirection and ran up against
restrictive family politics.
 |
| A view of Damascus from Quassyum Mountain | | | |
The centerpiece of my film was to be
a personal view of a teenage girl making the transition into wearing hijab, but
scheduling my trip to Syria around my father’s vacation meant that two of my
top subjects were so busy with school once I arrived that I had little hope of
interviewing them, much less following them through their days or filming them
with their friends. Everywhere I turned, I got encouraging words, but little
cooperation. I credited this deficiency to a lack of familiarity with the film
process, but my father explained that single women didn’t want to ruin their
chances at marriage by being so immodest as to appear on camera. To my face,
women agreed to appointments that were never to be confirmed. Married women
were at least frank enough to say they were camera shy.
 |
| Hauling Gear through Old Damascus |
Cooperation wasn’t the only problem.
I’d brought a high-definition camera and microphone with me, but for lighting
equipment I was relying on local vendors, since Syrian power was 220 voltage –
double North America’s 110 voltage standard. You can’t do much in
Syria without connections, but usually anything involving trade is just a
matter of finding the right shop and striking a deal with the owner. I was
unhappy to find that Syria was infatuated
with small halogen bulbs that produced harsh directional light best suited for
horror films. All I needed were three lights and some colored light filters,
simple items, but searching for them became a futile month long project.
Next
came certification. For decades Damascus has been a primary producer of Arabic
language soap operas, so there is no lack of film professionals in the city.
However, I was told that in order to work in film or television in Syria every
cameraman, director, or producer was required to be certified through the High
Institute for Theatrical Arts. The right connections could have gotten me
around this barrier but I didn’t have them. To rent lights, or engage
assistance, I would have to approach production companies and beg for favors
from people who did not know me and were legally not supposed to help me. To
get a production permit as a foreigner through the Ministry of Tourism meant
months of ingratiating myself, submitting my project proposal for approval, and
having to share copies of my footage, putting all my interviewees in a precarious
position. I didn’t want the Ministry of Tourism to become my de facto producer
and editor, or worse: forbid my film from being circulated. I’d have to do
without certification, and improvise lighting.
For some in my family, my filmmaking
“hobby” was puzzling. Mostly they just declined to engage in the project, and
asked me to dinner instead. To a few, the fact that I didn’t wear hijab was an
affront. In one instance, I was all but openly attacked on camera by an in-law
for not wearing hijab, implying my arrogance disgraced the family. I’d dreaded
the possibility of such a confrontation. I didn’t know of any other Mahayni
woman who didn’t wear hijab and my family took great pride in their
conservative reputation. Could I gain the confidence of my interviewees if they
thought I was insulting them?
 |
| A hint of wedding bling! |
On another occasion, I was invited
to a segregated wedding (conservative Muslim weddings hold separate receptions
for the men and women). Excited to show at least the opulent fabrics women wore
– think, awards show meets drag queen competition – I snuck a small still
camera in with me, only to have my cousins caution me not to take any photos. I
was shocked. When I was growing up, there were always some women who refused to
have their picture taken at weddings and some who didn’t mind, as long as you
promised not to show the photo to any men. I thought the anonymity of showing
ruffles and sequins rather than faces would fly under the radar, but apparently
not. In the end, a cousin took my photo alone on the bridal dais – hardly the
shot I was hoping for!
That
night, a cousin in-law refused to shake my hand – like I was a stranger – even
after she was told who I was. Family names are important in Arab culture; the
Mahaynis are well known and highly respected throughout the Middle East and I’m
a granddaughter of a powerful family leader, so snubbing me at a family wedding
was a big deal. My cousins were embarrassed and apologetic. Back in the days
when my mother was a foreign bride, no one had ever dared do that to her, and
here I was, a blood relation, dissed by an in-law! A few weeks later, the
bride’s father died.
Knowing how rampant
superstitions and gossip were in the family, I was glad not to have made a
scene with my camera. For all I know there are women in that part of the family
who think I put the evil eye on the wedding.
A few of my close relatives figured
out I was Christian and I shot up several levels in their esteem. They had
probably suspected all along, since my mother is a devout Christian. I was
relieved. For years my father had asked me not to reveal my religion because
inheritance laws in Syria used to forbid Christians from inheriting from
Muslims and vice versa. He feared that, even though the laws had changed, my
relatives might make trouble. But, to my family, being a “sister in the book” –
what Arabs call fellow followers of the Abrahamic Religions – was far
preferable to the prospect of a non-practicing Muslim. My grandmother had
taken pride in being sure my mother never wore a scarf on her head in public; grandmother didn’t want the neighbors
to think the family had forced hijab on my mother. A famous 18th Century
Mahayni had been commended by Napoleon III for protecting Christians during a
civil war, so grandmother wanted everyone to know she was proud my mother
was a Christian. But, in 2010, my grandmother’s generation was gone, and I was
not making very good progress with my own peers who feared the disapproval of
in-laws and neighbors. The lively story I’d planned to tell was quickly pulling
out of reach.
Equally challenging was that there
seemed a general belief that no one woman had the authority to speak for all. I
tried to convince women that if a diverse sampling of them spoke, it would
reveal that their opinions were unique, each one valid. That was not reassuring
to them. In a culture where the group is more important than the individual,
there seemed a hope, especially among my family, that all women were alike in
their thinking.
When I approached one married aunt
for an interview, she responded by asking why I insisted on playing at
filmmaking instead of being a dutiful daughter. Why didn’t I put my family
first? She urged me not to show anything ugly about Syria. “Show [the West]
something beautiful. Don’t let them think it’s all ugliness here. Give them
something to respect.” But she refused to appear on camera even to tell
stories of Old Damascus, when Christians, Muslims, and Jews were proud to live
side by side, working and worshipping in the same ancient city. Another aunt, an
outspoken widow, was willing to be filmed. She offered stories of wearing a
full face veil in her youth because she believed it was theologically correct,
but changing her mind over time as she studied the Qur’an. I knew she would be
a fantastic interview, but my father kept delaying my return visits to her home
because there was an unrelated argument between her and another aunt who lived
in the same building. The feud was so schismatic that even the hope of
interviewing the two together, thereby giving them equal time, was impossible.
Finally, a male friend from grammar
school helped me set up an interview with a businesswoman who had gone to our
alma mater. She had even worn hijab during her time there (her early teens).
After a wonderful warm-up interview, it became apparent that she had not
understood I was intending to videotape her. One moment she was informing me
that women’s rights in Syria were legally and politically the best in the
Middle East, the next, she began pulling at her scarf and her sleeves, saying
she could not do Islam justice; I should speak to a scholar. She then declined
to be filmed. When she promised she’d find me someone else to appear on camera,
I was doubtful. But, she was as good as her word, better even. Her sister,
Sabah, also a businesswoman, was a Muslim scholar and willing to be videotaped.
I eventually filmed some eight interviews while I was in Syria, but the
interview with Sabah was the one that gave me the most information, insight,
and inspiration. As I edit the film, Sabah’s is the voice I am most passionate
to bring to the public.
This project has been more of a
personal journey than I was prepared to take. I thought making this film would
establish me as a filmmaker; instead, it taught me about innovation and expectation,
exposed my vulnerabilities, and rewarded me in ways I had not foreseen. El Hijab is still teaching me, as I sift
through footage and memories of a culture and people that have an uncertain
future, increasingly aware that I am the portal through which their voices will
reach people in the west.
***
Lemia Mahayni is a filmmaker based
in Eugene, OR. In 2010, her short film Alpha and Omega: the Struggle for Survival earned
an Accolade Competition Award of Merit and previous documentary work
include Earl in Our Memories (2008) and Beladi:
Syria (2006). She is in the midst of editing El Hijab, but in
the meantime you can follow her work on her blog
(foreignersdaughtersyria.blogspot.com).
This is her first article for Contenders.
