In Conversation with Maliha Abidi, Hair and the Policing of Women’s Bodies.

Maliha Abidi is a Pakistani-American artist and author, who works on the question of women’s rights and women’s bodies. With colorful and bright paintings or digital works, she revisits her own memories, as well as more general scenes of Pakistani life, to question how women’s bodies are being policed and considered. A recurring theme in her work is the question of women’s hair, in relation to religion, feminism and politics. She answered New Wave’s questions on this topic, which is at the center of today’s political scene. 

What does hair mean to you, and what place has it held in your life?

Hair was a very important element of my childhood; I admired the hair of actresses in Hindi cinema and watched my aunt and my grandmother take care of their own, even as they grew older. It was a moment of bonding, and love in the domestic setting, when my aunt used to cut or oil my hair so they would become stronger. But it wasn’t about vanity or how we are perceived by others, it was a genuine love for our hair as South Asian women; it was about tradition, culture and family. 

Machis by Maliha Abidi

When did you first start becoming aware of hair as something that was politically used against women? 

“I realized that as soon as I moved to the United States, if I'm being very honest. When I migrated, I started seeing a lot of conversations directed towards me. I only started to wear the scarf permanently when I turned 18, so throughout high school I would sometimes wear it and sometimes not. It was a personal choice of mine as I was still like navigating my relationship with wearing the headscarf. 

Depending on whether or not I was covering my hair, certain questions would be thrown at me. For instance, on days when I wore a scarf, if I rode a bicycle, people would tell me that they didn’t know I was allowed to do that. I think it’s because there are a lot of strings attached to the identity of the headscarf in the eyes of others. And so I started to realize that while in the United States, I was being treated differently depending on if I decide to cover my hair or not, whereas in Pakistan, it was just a thing. We sometimes wear it, and we sometimes don't; it’s a very fluid decision. And it sometimes has to do with culture, and not religion, like when women wear the dupatta.

And so I started to see that the headscarf was tied to a lot of Western beliefs, like that of women being forced to wear it, or it being a sign of oppression. And sometimes it can be, but it wasn’t my experience. On the contrary, my dad used to be very concerned for my safety and would ask me to not wear it in certain places, or to cover it up with a hoodie because he was aware of the Islamophobia of the West.

The thing is that you have countries where the headscarf is forced on women, but there are also countries where women are forced to take it off, like France or Switzerland. So we are once again facing the question of choice and autonomy. Because in the media, we are seeing conversation about women, where no actual women are asked about the issue at hand. They decide for us what is good and what is bad, what we care or not care about, and they weaponize muslim women and use us as tokens. 

It all spans from the hypocrisy of the West and of politicians who try to distract us from the question of choice by stating certain affirmations such as ‘you wear a headscarf therefore you are oppressed’. There is no space for nuance and so no space for choice, which is very dangerous. Because for example, I wear a headscarf but I'm not oppressed. I don’t want to be perceived as oppressed, but I also don’t want to be used as a billboard for others. Every story is different.”

Seem by Maliha Abidi.

Does your personal decision to wear the hijab have to do with that politicisation of hair?

“When I originally started wearing the headscarf, no. It was about feeling connected to my faith and to where I come from. But now it is also about how protected I feel wearing it. I do feel concerned, living in an islamophobic society, because it makes me very visibly muslim. So it is about resisting and pushing back against the hypocrisy and double standards that come into play with fashion and the headscarf. 

If a non muslim woman uses the scarf as an accessory, nobody bats an eye. But if the context of the scarf changes, then the reaction and the discussion shifts too. Wearing the scarf is now part of my identity. I enjoy wearing it, and at the start it was not a choice made because of politics.”

What made you want to talk about hair with your art? 

“I have only started to reflect on hair recently because my broader practice has always been about women’s stories and narratives. So I have been quite drawn towards the shape of braided hair in South Asia; I have been trying to find layers to it and what it means in a domestic setting and why we care so much about it. 

Again, growing up in Pakistan we had times when it was all about taking care of our hair, and it brought calmness and bonding. You would sit while your mother or your grandmother oil your hair and you would talk about your day. It’s almost like having coffee with your girlfriends. 

During an exhibition at the Orca, people from many different cultures came and told me things like ‘I remember how my mother used to braid my hair’. And it was people from Saudi Arabia or from Nigeria, Brazil, Mexico and other countries.This shows that hair is about the human experience. It’s not just particular to South Asia. And this is what my practice is about.”

Do you think that how we see hair and how hair is politicized is a reflection of how women's bodies in general are politicized?

“100%. Through the conversation around the politics of hair, I’m trying to talk about the question of autonomy. Because you could remove those conversations from the context of the headscarf, and it would still apply to any clothing or situation where women, or non-binary people are being forced to do or not do something. So how do we navigate those conversations? And, more importantly, how do dominant narratives and power structure navigate those topics? We need to stop putting individuals in categories or labelling marginalized groups, because there is always nuance. Not all muslim women are oppressed or forced to wear the headscarf; some are, and some aren’t.”

Sanp-Seeri by Maliha Abidi.

Do you think that now that you have started to talk about these political questions around women, it has made you re-evaluate your own experience? 

“Yes. For instance, I have this one painting called ‘The Faceless Barber’ that I displayed during a garage show. It is a piece inspired by memories of time spent with my uncle when he used to take me to the barbershop as a child, because he wasn’t allowed in women’s hair salons. In Pakistan, genders each have their own hair parlor, and it’s not socially accepted for a woman to go to a barbershop or for a man to go to a hair salon, at least in Hyderabad where I am from. But these rules don’t apply to children, so they usually just follow the adults. If I went to a barbershop today as an adult, it would be a tense situation. And it also applies to other situations, like certain tea shops that we call Dhaba, where you wouldn’t really see women. 

Through this work I was trying to talk about how certain spaces are very gendered in certain societies like in Pakistan. So I question who gets to go in what space within the public setting, and through that I of course re-visit memories through an inquisitive lens.”

Jar - Hair - Scissors by Maliha Abidi

You've mentioned that you've had great reactions from a lot of people from different communities. Did you ever have less positive reactions to your work?

“No, my experience has been very positive. The only experience I remember that was a bit tainted had to do with a prominent Indian gallery. And I'd like to say that this is not a reflection of all Indian galleries. But I wanted to exhibit there, but I received an email saying that it was challenging to show an artist from Pakistan or with links to Pakistan. It made me hyper aware of my Pakistani identity, especially in light of the recent conflicts between India and Pakistan. And maybe they were just being honest and not malicious, but I thought that they could have just ignored email, they did not have to say that it was because of my identity. 

But I wasn’t scared off by this interaction because within the arts, you already know that statistically as a woman artist you won’t be shown as much as your male peers or not paid as much. And when you add up being a woman of color or an immigrant woman, then it’s even more challenging. But I am grateful to be coming from an institution like the RCA where I found that my professors were really amazing, and had political views that are just as strong as mine. 

I’ve been practising art for the past 13 years and I'm happy that I was able to find my community who is supportive of what I’m trying to build. So to emerging artists I want to say that you should stay honest and authentic because you will find your place within the art space and you will find people who resonate with what you are saying through your art.”

And lastly, if you could give your younger self some advice, what would it be? 

“I think that in terms of art, I wouldn’t really have any advice to give myself because I think I did the best thing, which is that I rejected the traditional notions of what an art career needs to look like. But I think that I would tell my younger self to keep on fighting and to keep on pushing forward, that you will eventually find yourself a safe space. Maybe my answer will change in a few years, but for now that’s pretty much it.”

Red Waves by Maliha Abidi.