Many years ago, I participated in a benefit for the women of Afghanistan. It was the first I had really heard of the Taliban, and Mavis Leno was heading an activist movement to educate American women about the grave state of gender politics in Afghanistan. All the Hollywood actresses, famous and obscure, the Judds (all three!), television and film luminaries, pretty much everyone from Debra Gibson to Carol Burnett came to show their support for the cause.
I don’t like events like this. They make me thirsty and tired. The food is usually the driest chicken in the world. I am going to ask for the recipe next time, in case I want to throw a political fundraiser. Donor Dry Chicken, which sticks in your throat, making you unable to say no when they ask you to volunteer. Not that volunteering is a bad thing. On the contrary, it is the best thing to do, because then you can stay behind the scenes with a headset and let your friends into restricted areas. However, being an attendee at one of these banquets seems to be the last thing anyone wants to do, as you can tell by the attitude of the participants. Everyone is uptight, busting their ass to get good photo-ops, being cloyingly nice to people they don’t like and wondering when they can leave.
This evening wasn’t as bad as they usually are, mostly because I believe in the cause. Global subjugation of women is a perennial outrage, and the way that all these women rallied together to make a statement about their sisters on the other side of the world was a tender gesture. Tenderness is more of a show of strength than brute force, because it is harder to be compassionate than it is to be mighty. Compassion is the paper to might’s stone, it covers completely. We all gave very compassionate soundbites for the rolling cameras. “I can’t believe that in this day and age we can have a society that would allow a woman only ONE OUTFIT!!!” This was example of my brilliance at the time.
There was an awe inspiring group photo, with several generations of Hollywood women, all together, looking at the camera and smiling, in one shot. This was a gargantuan feat of scheduling if nothing else. That is what impresses me most about the Music or Hollywood or any other thematic Vanity Fair cover portraits done by Annie Leibowitz. It is a testament to her own starpower as a photographer, or iconographer, that she can have so many living legends agree to one particular time and place. She must plan really far in advance.
While we were all primping for this grand photographic display of glamour, wealth, power, talent, renown, fame and excess, there was a small gathering of women outside who no one was taking pictures of. They were Muslim women, mostly in Hijabs, the head covering worn as a token of modesty and faith. They carried signs that said, “You don’t understand!”, for what else could they say? The reason why we were unable to understand them wouldn’t fit on one sign, or many signs, because that explanation is such a long one. It encompasses so much history, political upheaval, feminism, advancement toward equality or delusional advancement toward equality.
We as Western women, completely uneducated in the customs of Islam, the subtleties within their laws, the why and how things happen in Muslim culture, can only look at the Taliban’s oppressiveness and misogyny from our own perspective. What if they made us quit our jobs and cover up all our Dolce & Gabbana and Prada with those all encompassing burquas? What if you could only go to the Beverly Center accompanied by a male relative and if you let your arm slip out of the voluminous folds of fabric, they could beat the offending body part with a government issued stick? I would knock that stick right out of my brother’s hand and chase him all the way to the Beverly CONNECTION!!!
Anger at this hideousness is right and completely valid, but it also contains a seed of superiority, as if the women of Afghanistan could not possibly help themselves. They need us, the Ashley Judds and Sharon Stones of the world to step up and lend a perfectly manicured hand. As if the perfectly worded press release or astute observation could possibly solve the world problem. It can, but it also matters to understand what you are talking about, to really observe yourself along with the rest.
The Taliban’s view of women, which centers directly on our bodies, is based in fear. The basic philosophy behind all misogyny is the same. The details merely help us identify the longitude and latitude. Women’s bodies need to be controlled because they are inherently dangerous. Why, I haven’t figured out that far yet, but they apparently just are. To thwart danger, the women of Afghanistan are covered head to toe in fabric. The women of Hollywood are constantly remodeled and modified by dieting and plastic surgery, racked with eating disorders, bombarded with images of what to look like, so many that the images of what not to look like are relegated to artist’s renderings and fear based fantasy portrayals. I think the ideal of youth and thinness is much harder to obtain and maintain than a burqua. Don’t we need help from the women of Afghanistan too?
I don’t mean to belittle the brave and astonishingly powerful work done on behalf of the women of Afghanistan, especially by Mavis Leno. Things have changed drastically since the fall of the Taliban, and according to Donald Rumsfeld, women can walk freely in the street, liberated and unencumbered by extremist laws. I hate it when the neo-cons tout feminism as the reasoning behind invading the Middle East. Like Rumsfeld has a nightshirt that reads “C-U-N-T.”
If I could turn back time like Cher, then I would go back to that benefit and stand with the women outside and tell them, “I still don’t understand, but I am trying to.” Really that is all that we can do, isn’t it? Stand together and try to understand each other?