Thursday, 17 of May of 2012

The Olympics are coming to London: along with traffic, warzones and pandemics. No wonder I feel grumpy

My weekly newspaper column for The National published today.

The Olympics are almost upon us. The correct response should be “Hurrah!” but that’s not how I feel at all. I am unexcited, despondent and frankly just a teeny bit scared.

Last weekend, 40,000 people attended an opening ceremony at Olympic Stadium, where the Games will begin on July 27. The day before the weekend event, a newspaper smuggled a fake bomb into the Olympic site.

I was driving past the stadium going to a wedding, and through the gaps in the glorious infrastructure I glimpsed London’s beautiful people assembled to mark the formal opening.

While rubbernecking the crowd I had to screech to a halt because of traffic congestion. Not hurrah.

It’s not just Olympic traffic that bothers me. London is being turned into a war zone. This week, fighter jets flew low above my suburban home, so close that the floors started vibrating and my baby started crying. And missiles are being placed on the roofs of urban buildings.

Even with more than two months to go, London is morphing into a different kind of city, and I don’t like it one bit.

Worse, I don’t like not liking it. I believe I ought to feel ecstatic, as though Harry Potter, the Tooth Fairy and Elvis Presley were all gathering for a never-before-never-again magic joy-fest.

When London won the bid to host these Olympics, we were told we would have to pick up the cost, estimated at Dh33bn, or, as it was described to us, “the cost of a Walnut Whip a day”. This refers to a small, wrapped chocolate costing about Dh3. Now, seven years and 2,500 imaginary Walnut Whips later, I feel short-changed and miserable.

It’s probably the Brit in me that makes me pessimistic about potentially good things, makes me expect failure. For example, compared to the spectacular Beijing Olympics – in which all one billion Chinese seemed to take part in a perfectly choreographed ceremony – our failure can be nothing but utterly dismal.

And if fighter jets, missiles and fake bombs weren’t enough, the crowds might kill us.

With a joyful melange of the global population gathering in one small space from all the world’s infected backwaters, London is at risk of hosting a global pandemic: the black death meets Sars meets I Am Legend. And we won’t even be able to get away, because there will be just too much traffic.

So I will be languishing in my London living room this August; I won’t get the chance to be an actual part of the Olympics. Just as if the Olympics were in Beijing or Barcelona, I will be watching them on television.

But I will be all the more despondent, grumpy even, because I have paid for them, and because even though I applied for tickets, I didn’t get any.

For Muslims, about the only bright side of London as a commercial city shutting down is that the Olympics and Ramadan coincide. So many Muslims will be able to work from home during the long fasts, rather than commuting into muggy crowded London in the summer heat.

Actually, though, for the price of a Walnut Whip every day for seven years, I could have bought myself a month on a paradise island with no crowded trains, no fighter jets and little risk of deadly viruses.

And I still could have enjoyed watching the Olympics on television.


Stop this drip feed of hatred in Europe

A little belatedly, one of my ‘Her Say‘ columns for The National newspaper

Europe is once again in confusion over how to deal with European Muslims.

In Germany, a small Muslim group, identified as extreme Salafi by the government, wants to distribute 25 million free copies of the Quran in Germany, Austria and Switzerland. The authorities believe the Quran campaign is a cover for jihadist recruitment. The leader of Chancellor Angela Merkel’s parliamentary group “strongly condemns” the campaign.

Equating free Qurans with recruitment for terrorism is a rather surprising leap. The campaign and the Quran’s contents are hardly covert. Billions of Muslims around the world read the Quran and lead unexciting, peaceful and boldly un-jihadist lifestyles, and giving out free Qurans is an entirely legal activity in Germany.

Politicians have conflated those whom they believe are engaging in extremist activities with the core platform of Islam. Rightly, there are no governments in Europe that “strongly condemn” the millions of Bibles that are given away, or the organisations that leave them in hotel rooms. Condemning free Qurans is just another manifestation of the misguided and downright dangerous idea that absolutely anything to do with Islam is a step on the road to terrorism. Such incidents add up to a wider, corrosive atmosphere of hatred.

We can see this in the case of Anders Behring Breivik, on trial in Norway this week, who claims that his actions, which resulted in the deaths of 77 people, were “self-defence”.

It’s hard not to see a man who is filled with hatred built up of these seemingly tiny and innocuous negative conflations. His ocean of hatred is being painted as belonging to just one loon, rather than built from the drip drip drip of deep-seated anti-Muslim sentiment that is being allowed to percolate through Europe.

Yet Breivik’s thinking shows clear evidence of influence from European and American writers and anti-Muslim movements. Breivik also connects himself to Europe’s dark chapter of Nazism by stating: “I have done the most spectacular and sophisticated attack on Europe since the Second World War.”

Breivik claims he was in touch with English Defence League members in the UK and provided them with “ideological material”. If he is telling the truth, it is further evidence of the fact that he is not a one-off, but instead is part of an alarming wave of hatred building up in the continent.

The EDL is also a concoction of these ignorant tiny conflations that fuel hatred. The EDL’s co-founder, Tommy Robinson, this week found a photograph of cricket being played outside a mosque on Twitter’s home page and tweeted: “Welcome to Twitter home page has a picture of a mosque. What a joke #creepingsharia”. His attempt at stoking hatred against Muslims was derailed by other more humorous tweets: something that gives us hope against the perfidious drip of hatred.

Mocking tweets include examples such as “I skipped breakfast this morning. Clearly fasting subconsciously. #CreepingSharia” and “If you look really carefully, a packet of iced gems looks like lots & lots of little Mosques. #creepingsharia”.

Let’s hope that whether facing tiny drops of hatred, or utter venom, that humour and common sense will prevail. Europe has already once suffered by listening to the drip feed of hatred. It’s time to stop this new tide of hatred right now.


The West appreciates Islamic art – so why don’t Muslims?

My op-ed published in The National newspaper last week.

Last week, an unprecedented exhibition about the Haj finally closed at the British Museum in London, having gathered praise around the world. The coverage focused on how this was the first known exhibition of its kind about the Haj anywhere in the world, let alone in the West; and how it moved audiences away from the political discourse about Islam and into the human experience of being Muslim.

Showcasing Islamic art has become a widespread trend in the West, a movement that can be traced to the aftermath of the events of September 11, 2001. There is a palpable desire in the West to understand Muslims better through arts and culture. After all, art is traditionally a vehicle through which the West makes sense of its place in the world, and which acts as a safe space to discuss thorny cultural and political issues. One of the curators of the exhibition captured this by expressing her aspiration that the show would allow people to stand in Muslim shoes. It seems to be working.

In Paris, the Louvre will open its Arts of Islam gallery later this summer with a specially designed roof inspired by an Islamic veil. At a time of heightened racial and religious tensions in France, and record support for the anti-immigrant Front National, this is both an irony and a sign of hope. Perhaps through art France can suck the politics and hatred out of its relationship with its Muslim citizens.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York reopened its Islamic art galleries at the end of last year after an eight-year closure. Its curator describes how Islamic arts can illuminate the meaning that Islam brings to a vast global population. “Islam is not a single lens through which we view and interpret the art,” said Navina Najat Haidar, curator and coordinator in the Met’s department of Islamic art. “Rather, it’s an inverted lens that reveals great diversity.”

The surprise, however, is not that the West is producing and devouring art and heritage from the Muslim world, but that Muslims themselves are proving much slower at the same activities. However, they are gradually beginning to grasp that the arts are a means of dialogue and mutual understanding.

In Canberra, Australia, a Muslim group is seeking to build an Islamic art and history museum to “educate people on their magnificent contribution” and their long history with the nation, with Muslims trading from what is now Indonesia long before the arrival of the first white settlers.

It would also strengthen ties with two of Australia’s biggest trading partners, Indonesia and Malaysia. They are right that art has a way of revealing humanity and reality that can be obscured by political extremism, rhetoric and downright hatred. There is also a certain symmetry to using historic trade and cultural relationships in order to foster future trade and culture.

In a global climate where walls are being built between Islam and the West faster than they are being torn down, the arts create a much needed chink of light.

But these developments also leave me wondering about whether there is an appreciation among Muslims, for other Muslims to experience the joy of creativity and the preservation of heritage? Do Muslims see art as a means of intra-ummah dialogue and an understanding of our own selves and our contexts?

Sometimes I despair that it is too much for show, trying too hard to prove our artistic and cultural heritage rather than to enjoy and learn from it for ourselves. I want Muslims to enjoy, preserve and use arts for themselves, as well as for dialogue. We need to establish definitively that the arts are important. We need to invest in them. And we need to offer up creative space to them to develop new forms.

In fact there is a peculiar dichotomy of wanting to show off our arts and culture to others, while diminishing their value to the ummah. When others destroy Islamic heritage (in Israel, for example), Muslims are quick to point it out – and rightly so. However, when respected archaeologists raise similar concerns for heritage sites in countries such as Saudi Arabia, there is thundering silence.

Heritage must be preserved so that we can understand the context of who we are. In my opinion, for Muslims this is a divine command, as the Quran talks clearly about travelling the world to see what has passed before.

The Gulf slowly but surely is realising the value of recognising the importance of its cultural roots. There has been a mushrooming of museums and galleries being commissioned and opened over recent years, attempting to tell the story of the region’s heritage. The British Museum and the Louvre are in the forefront of the creation of Saadiyat island’s cultural district.

The question is, who is this all for, and what is the purpose? The museums, artistic endeavours and exhibitions should be there to help us work through the issues of the present, by offering new lenses on current predicaments. They must allow us to delve into our past – both the good and the gory – to make sense of the current challenges in the Muslim world, to allow us to converse across countries, ethnicities, languages and cultures and make sense of why we are where we are.

In short, we need the arts to understand how we got here today and why we are facing the challenges we face. We need the arts to offer us up creative vistas on how we move forward from today’s challenges.

We are still at the early stages – still only able to put forward a rose-tinted view of Muslim heritage that serves the much-needed purpose of building our confidence, and introducing us to our own past. But in getting to know the past we must get to know not just the positives but the ups and downs, the contentions, the challenges and all those stories we might want to forget, that don’t fit with the glorious narrative we wish to display.

Part of the problem is that we don’t know how to understand, how to embrace and promote arts. We must open ourselves up to new influences in theatre, poetry, music, language, rhythm, architecture even as we remain true to our Islamic artistic heritage. We must incorporate them willingly instead of rejecting new forms as “un-Islamic”, or only reluctantly accept them as part of Islamic expression. Where do we think the art forms we now promote so passionately come from in the first place?

New music development, for example, is in its early stages but is usually frowned upon. Yet people love Qawwali, which itself must have been a struggling new medium once before blossoming into the art form it is today. Theatre is the same: a new shape to the storytelling heritage of the Muslim world. We need to give time and investment for art forms to develop.

The arts have their place in civilisational dialogue, for sure. But to limit that dialogue to politics is to short-change the arts and ourselves. Worse is to use the arts as a public relations tool while disregarding their ability to help us understand ourselves, our faith and our history. Used wisely, the arts also have the creative power to help us shape our future.

Shelina Zahra Janmohamed is the author of Love in a Headscarf and writes a blog at www.spirit21.co.uk


Dear men, time to support us women…

My weekly column ‘Her Say’ for The National newspaper, published on Saturday…

More than a year on from the start of the Arab uprisings, it’s time to ask: are things getting better for the Arab world? More specifically: are things getting better for Arab women?

War, social upheaval and often a low starting point for women’s rights have made us hopeful of radical transformation. But this fundamental question – are things getting better for women? – can be applied to any country, any ethnicity and any religion. In fact it must be applied to all, because women everywhere need things to get better.

In India millions of pregnancies are terminated simply because the foetus is female. In China women are kidnapped as brides because the one-child policy has led to a surplus of men. In France one in 10 women is a victim of domestic violence. Two women are killed each week in the UK by current or former male partners. In the US women earn approximately 77 cents for every dollar that men earn.

Across cultural, religious and geographic divides, women are discriminated against in similar ways, just with different manifestations. We are all in this together, and should all be fighting on the same side. But how one defines “we” must change. It is important that men step into this debate, too. Not at a political or academic level, but at the human, emotional and enraged-by-the-lack-of-justice level.

I understand that this is an issue first for women, and that men might not want to be seen as telling women how they feel and what they want. But the fact is, men rarely ask why women feel this way, and how men can help change things. Why is it that when public cries are raised about women’s issues such as oppression, discrimination, physical and psychological abuse, and downright secondrate treatment, male voices are so rare in the conversation? Men have an innate sense of fairness, love and justice. So why do they show it so rarely on this topic? Why is there such reluctance to hold other males accountable for their silence?

Perhaps the trouble is that some men see women’s rights as a problem of individuals, nasty single men who perpetuate these crimes. That doesn’t make the collective silence right.

We need to ask these questions because the answers can help us create strategies that lead to real change. Real change is the ultimate goal for all women, no matter where they are.


The burden of gold jewellery must be removed from weddings

This is my weekly column published in The National yesterday.

The wedding season is upon us. Young people might be thinking about love, but for families this can be a time of great anxiety as weddings mean hefty bills. And this year they have one additional worry: the eye-wateringly high price of gold.

From a young age, my family and wider community would talk with concern about building up wedding trousseaus for their daughters, made up of fancy frocks and gold jewellery. During wedding festivities, jewellery and clothes would be put on display for in-laws to inspect. The purpose was never clear to me, although I assumed it was to show-off how endowed the bride was, and more importantly to stop snide remarks from the in-laws about stingy or poor parents. It all felt shallow and exhibitionist to me.

Nonetheless, once I started work and before I got married I started to purchase gold jewellery for myself as I’m fond of the sparkly stuff. The fact that it would add to my collection when I got married – oh happy day! (but first I had to find a groom) – was a lovely bonus. Although the gold jewellery was an indulgence, compared to today’s prices I was fortunate that the price of gold at that time was comparatively reasonable.

By the time my wedding date was set, I had a respectable amount of gold jewellery for my wedding so that my family did not need to take out a mortgage to purchase more. I bought it because I liked it, not because I had to. Besides, what an anachronism to give gold, when the groom is already getting the girl: is she not valuable enough, yet we have to bribe him with gold on top?

If there is pressure on the bride’s family to stump up gold, the groom feels the burden too, often preventing or delaying marriage. He can’t turn up to the wedding empty-handed. After all, what kind of self-respecting father of the bride could accept a son-in-law with no pointless trinkets to sit in the bank even if he has to take out a loan to get them, or can’t afford a house and other basic necessities (but at least he has a shiny necklace to give)?

In India, 10 million annual weddings clock up consumption of half the world’s gold. The average middle class family spends more than Dh18,000 on wedding jewellery. Worried you won’t have enough gold to marry off your daughter? Savings accounts are on offer for families to build a gold fund from birth. After the wedding, the gold probably goes back in the bank.

What a shame, the money could be put to far better use: the deposit on a house, a car, education, or simply savings for a rainy day. But no, it’s all about status, a deeply crass form of putting wealth on display. And it drives families into paralysing and totally unnecessary debt, or delays couples getting married.

The problem is that the gold-giving custom is so entrenched in so many cultures it’s going to take some radical couples to dispense with it. However, I think the time has come to get rid of the mandatory and all-encompassing nature of this tradition. I’m all for pretty jewellery, but we should temper expectations and pressure. Perhaps it’s time to introduce the idea of passing just one small item of jewellery down from mother to daughter as a sign of prestige, and make piles of shiny new bling the second rate choice.

While you’ve been reading this, the price of gold has gone up again. Bet you wished you’d started that gold fund.


Easter should be for Christian remembrance, not for chocolate

Here’s my weekly newspaper column published today in The National

The shelves at my local supermarket are straining beneath the weight of chocolate eggs and hot cross buns, in anticipation of Easter this weekend. While these luxuries are being wolfed down by many, Christians are marking their belief in the event of Jesus’s crucifixion, burial and subsequent resurrection.

As I enter the store I’m hit by the notion that this weekend is not Easter, but a Festival of Sugar. As a lover of chocolate in particular, I’d be right behind the creation of Chocoholic Sunday (marketers take note: you heard it here first). But why oh why does a very serious religious celebration about betrayal, sacrifice and redemption need to be turned into a cutesy commercial extravaganza?

While Easter is pivotal to Christian doctrine, as a Muslim, I don’t accept the premise of crucifixion and resurrection. For me, Jesus was not God, nor the Son of God, nor part of a Trinity. He was a human being, albeit a prophet, whom I hold in extremely high status. However, like significant events in all religions, I believe it is important to respect the believers of that religion and their reverence for the event. Just as I feel dismayed at the increasing commercialisation of Ramadan and Eid, I feel the same dismay at the commercialisation of Easter.

Easter doesn’t suffer as badly as Christmas, which has turned into an extenuated and indulgent shopping fest. That’s probably because the gory events of Easter are much less easy to paint with a romantic cuddly brush. But at least most people have an inkling of the core message of Christmas: the birth of Jesus, hope, peace and goodwill. Easter’s more complex messages are waylaid at the hollow altar of crème eggs and cuddly bunnies.

Survey after survey show that the meaning of Easter is slowly being lost. In the United States, Barna Group noted that only 42 per cent of adults could identify that Easter was about resurrection. Yet the National Retail Federation says Easter spending could top $16bn (Dh59bn) this year, the average household spending $145.

The story is the same in the UK, where Reader’s Digest found only 48 per cent of people could identify the story of Easter. Shopping has become such an ingrained part of the occasion, that a supermarket managed to mess up, not once but twice. The Somerfield chain had to reissue a press release about the meaning of Easter, claiming first it was about the birth of Christ, and then about his “rebirth”.

So why, as a Muslim, do I care? Shouldn’t I be pleased that a religious occasion at odds with my own theology is disappearing? Far from it. It’s important to respect other faiths, and even more so to share the universal morals from their stories. Easter follows the occasion of Lent, a period of self-restraint, reminiscent of Ramadan. Then there is the lesson of betrayal: those who sell themselves out like Judas will live and die with regret. And a vital point: there are those who believe in the ideals of justice and equality with such passion that they are willing to sacrifice their own lives.

Bunnies are cute, and chocolate eggs are tasty. And it’s true that there’s a gap in the calendar for a Chocoholic Sunday. It doesn’t need to be on Easter Sunday.

While we might not accept the premise of the occasions of other religions, we should mourn the fact that festivals such as Easter and Ramadan – which have much to tell us about ourselves and the human predicament – are being turned into shopping and eating extravaganzas.


Pasties, power and forgotten promises to the the people

A little belatedly, here is my column from last week’s National

Leaders around the world, beware! If you’ve forgotten how important it is to be in touch with those you lead, then take an object lesson this week from the British chancellor, George Osborne. In his latest budget pronouncement, he introduced a tax on hot pasties – those deep-filled pastries so beloved of ordinary Brits during their lunchtimes.

Osborne was asked with barely-hidden derision about the last time he bought a pasty from Greggs, the country’s largest high street bakery. He looked stumped and this has had the media running headlines underscoring the fact that his party is out of touch with ordinary people.

In fact, in just the last two weeks, his Conservative Party appears to be less and less in touch with “normal” people. Its co-treasurer was secretly filmed offering access to dinner with the prime minister, David Cameron, along with the possibility to influence policy for £250,000 (Dh1.46 million); they’ve cut tax for the richest earners; and refused to raise allowances for pensioners, creating more headlines about “granny taxes”. They couldn’t have paid for better re-enforcement of their brand as the party of the rich if they’d tried.

The accusation of being out of touch with people is damning for any form of government, but it is the worst form of insult in a democracy where power is supposed to reside with the people. As the Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu put it, leaders are worst “when people are contemptuous”.

But leaders, beware! Danger also lies the other way. The French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, is pandering to the extreme right to win voters back from the Front National, by playing up to the lowest common denominator of anti-immigrant racist sentiment. In a country that already faces huge social problems, and in whose living memory remain the horrors of Nazi atrocities and the Second World War, his actions in fomenting such attitudes to win votes are despicable.

While democracy empowers people, surely one of its unavoidable curses is that leaders must divert their energies, attentions and resources while wooing the electorate. Watch any US presidential hopeful and you’ll see the vast financial outlay, the hordes of volunteers, the months (if not years) dedicated towards voter seduction. The 2008 elections are said to have cost $1.8 billion (Dh6.6bn), double the amount of 2004. This year’s race will probably cost even more. Is this really power to the people, or is the truth that money talks, and big money brings big power?

Even social activists and religious leaders understand that they must win the hearts of the public if they hope to effect the change that they believe society needs.

Ultimately, inspiring and effective leaders are those who combine the visionary with the common touch. They understand the here-and-now of our lives but can galvanise us towards something different, something better.

What we hope from politicians is that they show moral leadership and move countries forward while remaining in touch with the reality of life as most of us live it. We expect some backbone and some respect. We are not aliens who should eat colder food, have base attitudes fanned, nor have our allegiances bought. Leaders, beware: we are the people, and in your actions you are accountable to us.


Baby books offer words of wisdom I can do without

This is my weekly column published today in The National

When it comes to all those bossy baby books, mothers should throw them out with the bath water.

Motherhood is a lucrative industry, especially for “baby experts” who sell millions of books each year to new mums looking for guidance. Their philosophies vary wildly, even contradict each other. But they have this in common: they are all equally convinced of their righteousness.

courtesy of mamasays.co.uk

I admit to having spent money on such books, believing I’d be a better mother for reading them. Like drugs, they offer a temporary high of advice and information with one hand, but take away a new mother’s instinct, peace of mind and self-confidence with the other.

There are numerous baby gurus around the world. Among them is Gina Ford, who advocates extremely strict and controversial routines, outlining a minute by minute timetable for the day. When I read her book the first time during my second trimester, I wept. Having a baby sounded like going to boot camp. If your baby doesn’t get with the programme, then you make her cry till she does.

Tracey Hogg known as the “Baby Whisperer” lays out an “E-A-S-Y” routine, where the baby Eats (or drinks), you do an Activity, then it’s Sleep time, and finally Mummy gets some “You” time.

Sears and Sears propound “attachment parenting” where baby is with you at all times, constantly bonding and sleeping in your bed till she is four years old. Mummy needs to make the sacrifice for the long term.

Gina Ford has just published her latest book, The Contented Mother’s Guide. She advises mothers to reignite intimate relations within four weeks, and leave baby with a babysitter for “date nights” forbidding any talk about baby, the centre of our world. No pressure on mothers, eh? Ask most mums and at four weeks the most attractive thing a man can do for his wife is to let her sleep in peace.

Every time I bought a new baby manual, my husband would hang his head in despair knowing the self-confidence they were sapping from me. Each day I would come up with a new theory on how to burp, nappy change or feed the baby. “Didn’t you say the opposite yesterday?” he would ask gently. “I did, but then I read this book…” and he would bite his lip and agree, knowing this was the best response to a sleep-deprived, postnatal mum.

A report published this week by the University of Warwick looked at 50 years of parenting self-help books, through interviews with 160 mothers. It concludes that instead of helping mothers, such books leave us feeling dispirited and inadequate. Whatever the advice, it was given as an order, with a threat of dire consequences if mother or child failed to behave as expected.

Baby books usually offer advice on how to deal with family and friends who want to “help”, their code wordfor”interfere”. The irony is that it is exactly these friends and family who once were the guides, support and sources of wisdom.

The first few months for me were an intense learning experience about caring for a newborn and reassessing who I was as a woman. It was a period of transition from which I emerged entirely changed. I didn’t need dictators to make the transition even more difficult.

I admit the books had snippets of useful information, but it was my friends, peers and older women from my family who taught me what I needed to know. Books have an expensive price, on the pocket and on self-esteem. Family and friends offer wisdom that is priceless.


Warning: Muslims have a sense of humour and we’ll be using it

This is my op-ed published in The National today

The last year has been no laughing matter in the Middle East. But its epic events – especially its use of peaceful protest and national unity as resources towards building self-determination – have made the wider world realise that Muslims are not as alien as they might have thought.

Image: Pep Montserrat for The National

Amid the darkest moments, the world also saw another glimpse of the universal humanity of Muslims – through comedy. Reuters reported that before his death, eastern Libya was full of anti-Qaddafi humour. Graffiti showed the colonel in a Superman costume with a dollar sign instead of an “S” on his chest. Another showed him in a dustbin labelled “history”. A particularly damning cartoon urged him to “surrender himself to the ‘national council of hairdressers’”.

It’s a secret that needs to be let out: Muslims have a deep-rooted sense of humour and are not afraid to use it.

Let’s get these important points out of the way first. I know there are deeply miserable people out there who can’t possibly believe what I’m telling them: that Muslims both have and appreciate a sense of humour. Their argument is that Muslims will slap a fatwa on anyone who tries to make a joke or poke fun.

And we will. But only on anyone who makes a truly terrible joke. Substandard comedy, no matter where it comes from, should never be tolerated and deserves every fatwa it gets.

There isn’t any place either for dressing up prejudice, aggression or sheer ignorance as comedy. We are all too familiar with those misery-boots types who make barbed cracks, then throw up their hands to say: “What? You can’t take a joke?” Comedy is not a clever way to be rude or offensive. We can see straight through that.

In an entirely unscientific poll of friends, tweeps and Facebook fans, I asked what the funniest things were that they had been asked as Muslims. While wearing a pink headscarf one woman was asked: “Why do Muslim women wear black all the time?”

A rather baffling question that is often put to Muslims – who generally belong to quite sociable communities – is: “If you don’t drink, how do you meet people?”

And what is one to make of the question: “Is it true that light green is the official colour of Al Qaeda?”

Perhaps my favourite of all time, is: “Now that you’re engaged, will you have a forced marriage?”

These questions project such a one-dimensional, stereotypical understanding of Muslims that it is hard not to laugh. But we don’t. And that’s probably why some people think we are so serious and earnest all the time.

In the face of such questioning, Muslims place upon themselves the onerous burden of answering in the nicest possible way. Also, we’re never sure how non-Muslims will respond to humour. I’ve tried being funny when replying, and mostly the reaction is a blank stare. We like that people want to understand, but forgive us if you catch us suppressing an occasional smirk.

Since 9/11, a crop of young, feisty Muslim comedians have made it onto the scene. This has been accompanied by a growing number of comedy festivals, films, internet videos and blogs. Abu Dhabi last week month hosted an international comedy festival featuring the Lebanese stand-up Nemr Abou Nassar.

In the United States, a group of stand-up comics call themselves “Allah Made Me Funny“, comprising a black American, an Arab American and an Asian American. In the UK, acts like Imran Yusuf, an East African Asian, and Shaista Aziz, a British Pakistani, vie for attention. We also have stand-ups such as Riaad Moosa in South Africa.

Slowly but surely we are seeing Muslims depicted on western screens in comedy, rather than just as scary terrorists. Mainstream productions include such films as The Muslims Are Coming!, which follows a Muslim comedy troupe around the American Deep South. The Infidel tells the story of a Muslim who finds out he has Jewish roots while his daughter is being courted by the son of a deeply conservative Muslim family, and Looking For Comedy In The Muslim World follows the actor and comedian Albert Brooks to South Asia. But perhaps the most widely known movie is Four Lions, an acclaimed British comedy about four young Muslim men who plot to carry out a suicide bombing, which was directed by the ever controversial Chris Morris.

In 2010, the American journalist Katie Couric suggested that what her country needed if it were going to normalise its understanding of Muslims was a “Muslim Cosby Show”. Her wish may be about to come true as Preacher Moss of Allah Made Me Funny is attempting to pilot such a show, currently titled Here Come The Muhammads. He says that “by making it funny, you make it accessible. People can say: ‘You mean I can actually laugh at that?’”

Yes, it’s true that Muslims and others can in fact joke about Muslims.

At a preview of Four Lions, I found myself the only Muslim among 30 very serious film critics. While others looked around nervously, I was cackling with laughter (no doubt to their annoyance). The film worked because it showed a deep understanding of Muslim cultures, and the break between expectation and reality, both of which are rich seams of humour. It was intelligent, not offensive.

The film opens with the would-be terrorist cell recording their suicide video. The idiot of the group is centre stage and is being mocked for holding a small gun. “Not a small gun,” he protests. “Big hands.” Even suicide-video production is subject to the inflated egos common in the media.

Muslim humour and self-deprecation are, of course, not recent phenomena. There must be thousands of tales of Mullah Nasruddin, one of the great entertainer-comedian-wisemen of Muslim history, dating back to the Middle Ages. I particularly like this one: A certain conqueror said to Nasruddin, “Mullah, all the great rulers of the past had honorific titles with the name of God in them. There was, for instance, ‘God-Gifted’, and ‘God-Accepted’, and so on. How about some such name for me?” “God Forbid,” said Nasruddin.

Comedy also serves different purposes within different Muslim communities. While one group of young comedians is using humour to introduce Muslims to a world apprehensive about their faith, another is using it to point out the challenges of their cultures and politics.

In Saudi Arabia, YouTube comedies address religious and political pressures alongside social observation. On The Fly, for instance, has tackled subjects such as the Egyptian uprising as well as TV coverage of Arabs Got Talent.

The internet allows usually unmentionable subjects to be tackled. A mainstream TV show, Tash Ma Tash uses humour to explore social convention. One particularly controversial episode addressed the cultural taboos around discussing polygamy by having a woman with four husbands.

Such developments are the hidden gems of Muslim cultures today. The most powerful thing about their humour is its universality: while the cultural contexts may vary, they take down human foibles and misadventures in ways that all cultures can connect with.

After all, the funniest jokes are the ones that you see yourself in, and which connect to your own experiences.

So here’s a multi-faith one to sign off with. A priest, a rabbi and a mullah walk into a bar. The barman says: “What is this, a joke?”

Shelina Zahra Janmohamed is the author of Love in a Headscarf and writes a blog at www.spirit21.co.uk


BBC Radio 2’s Pause for Thought: On International Women’s Day

This is the text of my segment broadcast this morning on BBC Radio 2.

When I was expecting our first child, the question of what we would call the baby was one that followed almost immediately after congratulations had been offered. I started collecting names fervently, having morphed into a nesting mother hen, trying them out to see if they sounded cute and pretty, if I wanted this name permanently in my life.

But I felt the name choice carried a greater weight than this, because as a Muslim we’re advised that one of the significant responsibilities for a parent is to give the child a good name. The name influences how the child sees themselves, and also how others see them.

Eventually we chose the name Hana, mentioned in Islamic as well as Biblical tradition, the mother of Mary, the mother of Jesus. According to the Quran Hana vowed that if she had a child she would dedicate it to live and serve in the temple. But when the child was born, it was of course a girl – Mary. At that time, only men were permitted into the temple. Hana says “God, it is a girl”, sounding surprised, but I feel she wanted to draw public attention to the fact that women are also chosen to participate in the public and religious domains.

Our hope for Hana was that her name would inspire her to participate with full heart and joy in the civic space, and to know that her talents and spirit will be a positive force whatever she chooses to do. As today is International Women’s Day, in a world where women continue to face challenges this wish for her and her female peers is particularly potent.

My husband and I enjoy lightheartedly predicting Hana’s future, as parents often do. Prime minister, or TV presenter, astronaut or train driver? We wonder. At the end of the day the kind of woman we want to bring up for this world is the kind of woman who believes that she can be anything she wants to be, and goes out to make it happen. But more than that: a woman who makes a positive change on the lives of those around her. The original Hana is a great inspiration that brings together faith traditions. If the Hana of scripture can change the world around her, then my little Hana, and all the women of the future should be supported to do it too.