Island IV – Meetings · Part 1

Island IV – Meetings · Part 1 (1/21)
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Introduction

Isla Del Sur, the Island Of The South, does not appear on any published maps. Satellite photographs show only an empty stretch of the Indian Ocean, assuming one knew where to look. There are no nearby sea lanes, and it is far from the air routes between Africa and Australia. There are a few historical references to the archipelago, though if those documents surface, they quickly disappear.

Discovered in the 16th century by a Portuguese merchantman when it drifted off course enroute to Japan, the location was considered a state secret and locked away in the Portuguese royal archives, where it was soon lost. It was unexplored and uninhabited until the late 19th century, when a British utopian society purchased the location from an archivist in Lisbon. As with all such endeavors the great experiment soon failed and Isla Del Sur was once again banished to obscurity.

At the dawn of the 20th century the location was uncovered and sold by a researcher into Victorian utopian societies. This time the buyers were not nearly so idealistic. Instead, they believed in a more traditional view of human nature, one in which men ran society and women were expected to obey. This outlook ran counter to the major social upheavals of the era. Rather than try to buck the trend these men, and the women who agreed with them, built their own little world in isolation.

Isla Del Sur is a group of islands, dominated by the largest, South Island. Here the principal city sprung up alongside the only deep-water port. Second in size, North Island was separated by a narrow channel. North Island, with its own government, differs from its southern neighbor in key respects, specifically the relationship between men and women.

Other, smaller islands are scattered around South Island, notably the Facility, an independent entity with the sole purpose of operating an academy for a select group of women who were carefully chosen for a special role in Island society.

It is a modern, 21st century microcosm, with a thriving economy based on exporting technical expertise. Hidden within the umbrella of Saudi Arabia the outside world knows nothing of its existence, save for agents working on behalf of the inhabitants. There is limited immigration, essentially by invitation only. The majority are drawn from Western countries, although the rest of the world is represented.

There are many stories told about Isla Del Sur. These include tragedy and joy, much as is found in the rest of the world. And like societies anywhere, strangers arrange to meet.

Barbara’s Story: Modesty

New Program When Barbara was escorted through the open door of Ray Madsen’s office at the brokerage he was on the phone. He pointed to the chair in front of his desk, indicating she should take a seat. When she sat down Ray leaned forward, checking to make sure her hands were on her knees. He never fails to go through his quick inspection, Barbara reminded herself. Good thing it’s a habit now.

She had on that eyesore of a company uniform, universally hated by all those forced to wear what had to be a dress borne of a fashion designer’s worst nightmare. A uniform meant she was working, and so there had to be an escort standing next to her.

After hanging up the phone Ray typed in a note on his laptop. “Thanks Anand, for bringing her here. I’ll see to her from now on.” Her guard nodded and left. Barbara’s status as Ray’s property did not exempt her from any of the brokerage rules. If anything it put more pressure on her, since she was in effect the role model for the rest of the involuntary guests.

Madsen Brokerage, located on North Island, dealt in one commodity, women. Thanks to the unique legal structure in place all females were classified as property. There were no guarantees of security; a man could sell his woman as easily as a car or home. When that time came, Ray Madsen provided a service to expedite connecting seller to buyer.

He turned to Barbara. “You know I’m always on the lookout for new ideas on what kind of add-on services we can offer. That’s a major part of our competitive edge.” Something new, and I bet I’m going to be the first to try out whatever it is. That must be why he called me in. Ray liked to talk over his ideas with Barbara, to get her opinion on how practical it would be to implement and if the result was worth the effort.

His tone was casual, but she recognized from the narrowing of his eyes she was being subjected to a close scrutiny, an all too familiar look. Barbara had the confidence to pass those examinations without any anxiety. She wasn’t a novice any longer; since she belonged to him Ray had every right to expect the best from her, and in turn she had no doubts she could deliver. She met him eye to eye, challenging him to find the slightest flaw.

“That phone call was to arrange an instructor for a new training class. Over the last year I’ve received several inquiries about preparing women for living in an Islamic household here on North Island. You might guess that’s a broad subject to cover, when all the regional customs are taken into account. I don’t want to get into religious requirements; that’s too controversial and in any case not something a brokerage should be involved with. However, I’ve worked out some proposals for a range of classes. The focus is on being in public, or at social gatherings.”

Isla Del Sur, colloquially known as the Island, the collective name for South Island and the smaller surrounding islands, was nominally Saudi Arabian territory. Barbara knew about the Muslim community on South Island, but wasn’t aware of any equivalent on the smaller North Island. Nor did she have any idea of the culture or traditions, other than what appeared on the TV news.

“It sounds interesting, sir. Do you have anything specific yet, or is it only in the planning stage?” Barbara looked forward to the times she could help out with Ray’s business. Good for the goose, good for the gander, she told herself. After all, she had a vested interest in seeing the brokerage was successful.

“Mostly planning, but that phone call concluded with a deal for a test run on a subject I thought might interest you. We’re going to bring in a woman from South Island to teach a class on traditional clothing for Muslim women, everything from abayas and hijabs to chadors and burqas. Don’t ask me what all those are; she gave me a list to pass on to the wardrobe department. Her name is Fatima Maktoum, a longtime South Island resident and instructor for the government’s ownership program over there.”

“I’ve heard of burqas, in Afghanistan, but those other terms I don’t recognize. Now I’m curious. May I sit in on the class?” Barbara was going to be busy on Google all evening looking up new words.

Ray leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “No, you’re not going to sit in; you’re going to be one of the participants. We’re going to select three women already enrolled in other training programs. You’re the fourth member of the group. I don’t want any outside influences on the test group so all of you will be segregated here at the brokerage. You’ll sleep, eat and learn together, for as long as the trial run lasts.”

Barbara didn’t bother to ask how long the class would last. Chances were very good Ray wouldn’t tell her; she didn’t need to know. Nor was he asking if she wanted to attend. He’d already decided that for her, as he so often did. She didn’t press him for any details either. The “outside influences” told the whole story. He wanted to get her immediate reaction to the class, without any discussion beforehand.

Modest Dress The classroom was small, with only four chairs for the students plus a desk and chair for the instructor. There were racks of odd-looking clothes along two walls, with an empty rack in the back. Barbara took a seat while the rest of her group filed in. All four of them wore the standard brokerage uniform, a stark contrast to the exotic costumes awaiting them. None of her peers knew who she was, or that she belonged to the company owner. Ray had made it clear she would be just one more guest assigned to the brokerage. The guards showed no leniency toward her, but that was normal. Her status didn’t bring much in the way of privileges.

Once they were all seated a woman entered. Unlike them she wore a head scarf and some kind of long, loose fitting, ankle-length dress, which covered her except for face and hands. Barbara noticed the travel permit card dangling on a necklace. That alone marked her as an outside visitor to the company, and therefore subject to a far less strenuous set of rules.

She stood in front of the desk, surveying her class. “Good afternoon. My name is Fatima Maktoum. I am in a lifetime ownership relationship with my husband and owner. He insists I use a last name, in case you’re curious. I’m here today to talk about modest dress, in the Islamic tradition. I am muslima, an observant Muslim woman, but this class isn’t about religion, except in the way it influences women’s fashions in that part of the world.”

The four students sat on chairs, arranged in a semi-circle. “Why don’t we get to know each other?” Fatima suggested. “I was informed all of you are currently staying at the brokerage, and that you were picked especially for this class.” She glanced down at a sheet of paper in her hand. “As I call your name, please stand up.”

Barbara stole a glance at her fellow comrades in adversity. She didn’t recognize any of them, which was just well. They wouldn’t know her either. “Barbara?” She stood up for a moment, before sitting back down at a nod from Fatima. Her hands automatically went to her knees.

Fatima looked a question at Barbara, gesturing to her hands. “I’m required,” She added by way of explanation.

“We’ll take that into consideration. If anyone else has specific instructions that might affect the class, please let me know.”

Looking at the sheet with their names Fatima continued. “Next is, hmm…Gaelic, always a tongue-twister, so correct my pronunciation… Róisín?” It came out sounding like “raisin.”

The woman next to Barbara stood up. “Close, it’s roh-sheen. My mother was Irish.” She sat back down.

“I’ll try to remember. Sandra?”

The woman at the other end stood up. “I’m usually called ‘Sandy’, for short.” There was something detached about Sandy, as if she was only going through the motions. Barbara picked up on it right away. Emotional shock, there must be something traumatic in her recent past.

“And last is Tracy?”

The last of the group jumped up out of her seat. “Hello, my name is Tracy. I’m new here at the brokerage. I just arrived yesterday.” Overeager, Barbara thought, as if she feels the need to prove she’s the equal of the rest of us.

“Okay, we’re all here at the request of Mr. Madsen, the owner of Madsen Brokerage. He expects you to do your best. Let’s get into it.”

She turned from side to side. “I’m sure you noticed my abaya, the dress, and hijab, my top? Those are very common. You’ve seen them on TV. They come in many colors, but black is standard for more conservative countries. Since this is an introduction, we’ll stick to the basics. What I have on is acceptable just about anywhere, from Saudi Arabia to Pakistan to Indonesia. Local tastes do vary considerably. The bright, colorful abayas and sheer scarves from Pakistan or Indonesia are considered to be in bad taste in traditional areas like parts of Iran or the Gulf.”

Since it was a class Barbara took the opportunity to stare at the instructor. Vaguely she remembered reading about some edict concerning only hands and face should be exposed, though she wasn’t sure if it was religious or local custom. She had to admit it was a neat solution to a myriad of problems that came with mini-skirts and short dresses, especially on windy days. There wouldn’t be any worries about missing appointments with the hairdresser either.

“Western attitude towards all this,” she waved a hand at the racks of clothing, “Is based on a lack of understanding. A Muslim women’s clothing is based around modesty, dignity and respect. Modesty to protect you from men’s attention, to preserve your dignity when appearing in public, and to show your respect for religious beliefs and local customs. You might believe a woman in a burqa, the head to toe covering, is oppressed; would it surprise you to learn she thinks the same of you in that short skirt, low cut top and high heels?

“However, we’re not here to argue politics or religion. Think of our class as a cultural exchange. You get to, what’s the expression, walk a mile in the other person’s shoes?” Fatima held up her hands. “I promise, no mile long hikes, though I’m sure you’ll find the shoes far more comfortable than four-inch stilettos.”

Idly Barbara speculated on what Ray would think, seeing her covered up like that? He liked some skin, and didn’t hesitate on insisting she dress to please him. Men liked to look, which meant, given the nature of the Island, she could show off with a clear conscience. This was a totally different approach to stylish fashion.

No Curves Ahead Barbara stared at herself in the mirror. “It’s called a jilbab,” Fatima explained. “You’ll hear other descriptions, like maxi-dress or prayer dress. Always black for Friday prayers, obviously, but there’s nothing wrong with a bit of color depending on where you are. In Iran and parts of central Asia it’s called a chador, a Persian word for essentially the same thing. Since the Revolution, Iranian chadors are supposed to be black when in public, although the rules are loosening. The places where it might be mandatory are Baluchistan, in eastern Iran, and across the border into Afghanistan.”

All that showed were Barbara’s face and hands. Folds went over her head before draping down the sides. The sleeves ended at her wrists. The hemline brushed the floor. She did like the light blue, turquoise color. “Blue is a very common color, mostly because they are cheap imports from Pakistan. What’s important,” Fatima continued, “is that you don’t display your curves. Those are reserved solely for your husband, or owner. If a man lusts after you, too bad for him. You’re not advertising.”

Barbara had to laugh at the observation. She turned from side to side, checking her appearance. “That part is accurate. Master could never accuse me of being a tease if I go out like this. You know, I think he’d approve. He is very selfish and possessive when it comes to me.”

Fatima reached into a box on the floor. “You can still be the center of attention in other ways.” She held up a sheer piece of cloth. “You recall I mentioned veils? This is a very stylish niqab, a proper face veil.” She reached around Barbara’s head and tied the ends in back, underneath the jilbab folds.

“Wow!” That was Barbara’s first reaction. The covering left only her eyes uncovered, yet the transparency of the cloth both concealed and hinted at what it covered. “Now that is the image of an exotic temptress. Modest, but subtle in its allure at the same time.”

Fatima nodded in agreement. “It does push the limits. It shows the greatest respect for religious tradition, especially if you wear gloves, yet at the same time it projects an image of unique charm, making you stand out in the crowd. A mini-skirt and halter top will get attention too, but I ask you, which one is more intriguing?”

Barbara turned to the side, tilted her head slightly and glanced over her shoulder at the mirror. Oh yeah, now that’s Hollywood-level sexy, like something out of a 1940s movie director’s idea of a harem.

“See what I mean?” Fatima asked.

Pop Quiz Barbara stood in front of Ray, seated on the other side of his desk. The guard had a firm grip on her upper arm. Strict rules applied; she would remain silent until he spoke first.

This was an unexpected summons to Ray’s office. The guard had appeared and taken her away in the middle of a session. She had on one of abayas, the loose outer dress, over her brokerage uniform, and a hijab covering her head and shoulders. Covering her face was a veil, leaving only her eyes exposed. Her shoes and gloves, like everything else, were black.

“The man next to you is?” Ray asked.

“My mahram, sir. He is a relative or close and trusted friend of the family. He will protect me while I am out in public. He also serves as a reminder of my obligations to show respect and proper behavior.”

Ray leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “This mahram, as you call him, is he necessary?”

Barbara hesitated, trying to remember the lecture in the classroom. “Yes, sir. He can speak to other men for me. If I were alone, I might be subjected to unwanted advances.”

Ray nodded in approval. “Why are you dressed this way?” he asked, waving his hand up and down to encompass her ensemble.

This one Barbara had memorized. “Tell your wives and daughters, and the believing women, to cover themselves with a loose garment. They will thus be recognized and no harm will come to them.” The surah from the Koran appeared to apply to Westerners too. All too aware of how protective Ray was, after the incident where she was nearly killed, Barbara had an uneasy feeling he might seriously consider imposing a modest fashion on her permanently.

He didn’t respond. This had to be some type of pop quiz, to get a measure of how she was progressing in the test program. If so, she was ready for him.

It was difficult to judge what he was thinking. Ray didn’t react to her answers. Instead, he sat behind his desk, impassive, speaking in a neutral tone. “Explain why your face must be covered.”

That was another easy one. “Sir, I must speak to other men, when not at home or within my family, through a concealing curtain. The niqab, the veil, serves that purpose.”

Ray stood up. “Excellent! All my hopes have been exceeded. You’ve done well, Barbara. I’m proud of you.” Turning to the guard he dismissed her with a terse, “Take this woman back to the class.”

Final Exam Barbara stared at herself in the mirror. The woman staring back at her was unrecognizable. She was covered from head to toe in a loose blue dress, a real-life burqa, with not an inch of skin exposed. She looked out through a rectangular panel, even her eyes concealed behind the loose gauze fabric of blue thread. Her hands were enveloped in gloves up to her forearm, and her feet in high, black shoes, hidden beneath the floor length dress. Underneath all that she could be anyone.

Behind her Fatima adjusted the drape of the burqa over her shoulders. “You certainly went for the extreme look. You’d be right at home in Kabul. What do you think?”

Barbara held out her hands. “You didn’t mention the gloves. Isn’t the blue color too much? I thought it was okay to keep your hands uncovered? And how do you spot your friends if, oh, say you’re out in the market?”

“About the gloves, it’s a regional thing. In Taliban Land it’s very risky to reveal any skin. More liberal countries, like Lebanon or the Emirates, you don’t need gloves. Nearly all the burqas in Afghanistan are blue, because that’s how they are made in Pakistan. Anyway, the impression is you are very devout dressed like this. Friends? You can show a little individuality in carrying a stylish bag, though you have to be careful it isn’t too flashy. Remember, you aren’t supposed to attract a man’s attention.”

Barbara laughed. “This isn’t exactly a club dress. I don’t think I have much to be concerned about in that department. How can I appear like this in public? It conceals my collar. That’s against the law.”

Fatima held up her travel permit. “Normally yes, but if your card is marked for Muslim requirements, you’re okay. The regulations were modified to account for religious requirements. Notice the picture shows me in a chador and niqab, a face veil? If I have to identify myself, I use a thumbprint instead. Before last year I still had to carry a card with my uncovered face on it. What’s against the law is exposing your face in public if you’re in the restricted group. Ironic, isn’t it, compared to everyone else? Mr. Madsen has arranged for updated permits for all of you.” Fatima hung a travel permit card over Barbara’s neck. “As of now what you’re wearing is mandatory, even in the brokerage. No more uniform, so be careful.”

She held up the card to examine it. The picture was a headshot of a blue burqa. Her thumbprint was on the back, along with a “Restricted Clothing” underneath. Ray hadn’t warned her about this, or the final exam for the class.

His final exam was to put what they had learned into practice. After dressing appropriately, they were to go for a walk in a very public place. Two were to wear either a black chador or a colorful hijab, along with a niqab, a veil. The other two, and that included Barbara, were assigned to burqas. The other woman, Sandy, got a black burqa, also with gloves. Barbara didn’t envy her; her blue one was far less drab than the other’s black one even if it performed the same job of concealing everything.

“Sandy got the Ace of Spades.” Barbara turned to see Fatima standing behind her. The small panel for her eyes limited her peripheral vision. “A black burqa, that’s the most severe one.” Fatima pointed to the picture on the permit. “That’s a generic picture, by the way. No one knows who she is. There's a version for face veils,” she nodded to the other women, also checking in the mirror. “If you don’t have to cover your face the permit uses your real picture.”

Leave it to Ray to pick me for the toughest part of the test. The permit bothered her. It wasn’t temporary, which meant she had no choice when it came to deciding what to wear in the morning. How long would he leave her this way? If he liked what he saw he might decide to continue indefinitely. She cringed at the image of her walking into a cocktail party like she had just come from a mosque. Master’s orders, she reminded herself. If that’s what he wants, all she could do was obey.

“Okay, everyone line up. We’re leaving in a few minutes. I’ll make one last check before we go.” Fatima began pinning on small squares of cloth, in purple and yellow, to each woman’s left shoulder. “Keep in mind at all times you are in the custody of Madsen Brokerage. Do not remove the markers.”

Fatima backed up so she could see everyone. “For the purposes of this exercise, you will all consider yourselves to be in purdah. You are behind the curtain, the veil. Your contact with men is strictly supervised. In this case it will be your mahram, the brokerage guards assigned to watch over you. You are covered in order to stay out of the sight of strangers, especially those of the male persuasion.”

Barbara and the others laughed at Fatima’s phrasing. Purdah had been one of the more fascinating lectures in the class. She had no idea it predated Islam, going back to early cultures in India and Persia. It made sense, especially in turbulent, often violent times, to isolate young women until they married. As Fatma described it, practitioners considered purdah as a symbol of honor, dignity and respect. Detractors argued it was a cruel oppression of women.

Barbara gazed out of the veil, watching Fatima. What does she think about it? I’m beginning to see both sides of the question. I wouldn’t want to be locked up all through my teenage years, yet the part about dignity and respect had some weight to the argument in favor.

The door opened and several guards came in. There were five altogether. One stopped behind Barbara, another behind Fatima, who was in the process of pinning that company colors patch to her own shoulder, before finishing by adding a veil across her face. “I’ll be coming too. Remember, rules of purdah. Remain behind the curtain at all times. Let your mahram do the talking to other men. We are allowed to speak with each other, but other women who are strangers are also out of bounds. Do not become separated from your guard. You are required to be escorted at all times. If spotted on your own you will be detained until the police arrive.”

Oh great, someone breathing down my neck every minute. Oh well, final exams are supposed to be difficult to pass.

The Grade Barbara sat on the sofa in Ray’s office; hands dutifully placed on her knees. She was back in the company uniform, freed from the final exam’s purdah and burqa but never from Ray’s orders. He was at his desk, entering something into his laptop.

When he finished, Ray closed the lid, leaned back in his chair, and looked over at Barbara. She caught that momentary squint; the clear sign he was checking her for compliance. She wasn’t concerned; by now it was second nature that everything be in place, down to the precise spacing o

Island IV – Meetings · Part 1 (1/21)
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