THREAD: When I see a Burqa, I never think of a letterbox, or a bank robber. I think of a young woman. Standing on a beach in South Wales. Alone. Far from home. Thinking. Feeling. /1
To explain. Some years ago, I was asked to deliver a week of talks on communication skills to a financial company in the Middle East. /2
I was selected because actors, though deficient in many skills important to finance, are mercifully considered knowledgeable in the art of humans communicating with humans – a facility, unsurprisingly, valued by intelligent companies. /3
So for a week I found myself halfway up a skyscraper in a petrochemically-rich Gulf state, speaking to very smart Muslim staff with impeccable English about Stanislavski, body language and personal disclosure. /4
Now, I was told that one of these days would be for women staff only. The women would mostly be wearing Niqab; a form of black veil that Boris Johnson disparagingly called a ‘letterbox’ – only their eyes visible. /5
It was initially an alarming prospect for someone about to teach communication skills. How does one impart the art of human communication to people who one couldn’t fully see? /6
As it happens, it was by far my favourite day of the whole week, and a lesson for my whole life. These women were just fantastic! Friendly – gossipy – ribald – thoughtful – hilarious at times. /7
Whereas the men had been smart but cagey and quite hard to crack, the women entered into all the exercises with real enthusiasm. Warm and clever. /8
One of the exercises involved personal disclosure – sharing a part of one’s own life experiences with the group to encourage deeper communication. Significant moments, places where one had felt most happy. /9
As I stood by the window, gazing out into the high-tech semi-desert from the skyscraper window, one burqa-clad woman gave a surprising answer: “Swansea beach in Wales,” she said. /10
She told us that she’d been a student at Swansea University in the UK. She’d loved it, and my British voice had brought back touching memories for her of that time. Her favourite place had been by the beach. /11
She’d go there in her free time, and walk, and think, and feel. The brisk Welsh wind would whip her veil as she walked. She was happy there, and the world was newly minted. /12
We all listened, moved. We could see it all, and we could see all of her. /13
And that was the thing. The only thing I *couldn’t* see of her was the small details the burqa covered. Everything else was as clear as it was human. Everything important was communicated. /14
We live in a world full of our own veils. Presentations of the self that each of us makes to others in order to communicate some important aspect of ourselves. Religious. Political. Tattoos on the skin. /15
. Fashions and flags and non-verbal codes that tell others what we think worth knowing on our journey through our life. /16
Sometimes these are social. Sometimes a signal. An aspiration, or a mark of belonging. But underneath that paper-thin carapace lies a commonality of character and feeling. A story worth telling. /17
The veil is not the story. It never was. The story is the young woman. Standing on that beach in South Wales. Alone. Far from home. Thinking. Feeling. Everything important communicated. /end.
