Linda is a religious Muslim, a 39-year-old artist from Jaljulia whose work is now on exhibit at Haifa's Beit Ha'Gefen Arab-Jewish cultural center. Divorced for about a decade now, and a mother of two sons, Linda decided to remove her hijab after 14 years of concealing her hair. Her sons, her pride and joy, I learn are handsome from the pictures on her walls. The oldest is 16, he goes to high-school in Kfar Qassim. The youngest, 12, attends an Orthodox Christian middle school. They have no bedroom in Linda's home, but we don't talk about that.
Linda cites her religious responsibilities no fewer than three times throughout our conversation. "I am a devout Muslim, I observe the commandments on prayer and fasting, I raise my children on the values of respect, love and peace."
She reminds me of myself. Ever since I removed the head covering that was a part of me for 18 years, and which I removed following a divorce, I find myself feeling the need to explain to complete strangers that despite the absence of a head covering on my head, I am just as religious as I was at 17.
Linda mainly paints portraits of women, from beauty icons to regular flesh and blood. She was born, raised and educated in the Israeli Arab town of Jaljulia in the Triangle Region of northern Israel, a town ranked 2 out of 10 on the socio-economic scale, according to the Central Bureau of Statistics.
"Ever since childhood, I had a gift for painting, but what we learned at school was … mainly embroidery. … I didn't go to after-school art activities, there were no such afterschool activities here. Mother was creative, as was my older sister, but I wasn't aware that art was studied in academia."
After high school, Linda worked as a teaching assistant in a class for the hearing-impaired while studying for a bachelor degree in sociology and Arabic at Bar-Ilan University. It was there that she became aware of the possibility of combining her academic studies with her love of painting.
"I'm from the village. It was only at the university that I was exposed to the world and saw pamphlets on art colleges."
She left Bar-Ilan University and was accepted to Beit Berl College, where she earned an art degree and a teaching certificate. Today, Linda is now studying for a master's degree from Oranim Academic College and works as an art teacher at an elementary school in the village.
"On the weekends, I run after-school activities for small groups in my studio in Jaljulia, and there is a demand. People understand that painting does not need to be functional. The school where I teach was the first in the [Arab] sector that brought in art studies. We are a small village. I may have been the first person from the village to go and study art. Today, there are at least five girls younger than me that have gone to study art in academia."
Linda says Arab men are less likely to study art as it doesn't earn them as much money.
"I ran away from the pain"
She shows me the studio, a room in her apartment. On the wall, two paintings hang, paintbrushes are arranged in transparent jars.
"I chose to teach to have an income and also to send a message to children. Art is an educational, cultural tool, a way to self-examination and self-expression. It is important to me that the child in my class brings himself out of himself. At first, she intertwined in her work thin strings of political identity, as an Arab woman in a traditional and conservative society, including an expression of "Palestinian roots and Israeli lifestyle." She then went on to speak in a more universal manner.
"I don't see myself as an emissary of the Arab public but rather an emissary of women who have overcome obstacles, difficulties.
"I was drawn to the image of the beautiful and young woman we see in commercials. The ideal and the youth reflected in social media. I chose images of anonymous women of fantastic beauty and I painted them without any emotional involvement. Gentle women, undamaged, who have no wrinkles or cares. In reality, I have experienced the opposite. I created an ideal, perfect world. In effect, I escaped the everyday pain and the difficult reality in which I and other women around me live through the paintings."
Last month, the exhibit that brings together the works of 22 Jewish and Arab, mostly religious, artists, who met for a year within the framework of the "Female leadership in culture" project" in cooperation with "Studio of Her Own and MATI Jerusalem business development organization. The project was led by Noel Abu Issa and is curated by Hadas Glazer and Yael Massar. It is the 12th exhibit Taha has participated in.
"I had big dreams, to be exposed, to be "in", to leave a mark in the village, so I had to get to the openings, to the exhibitions, but the way of life dictated me differently, at the age of 23 I was with a child. There are no galleries in the Triangle, there are no galleries in the Triangle, more people are interested today, they support me personally, but in order to consume art I have to go north or Tel Aviv, the only gallery I know in the sector is in Umm el Fahm."
I ask about the Arab identity, the hijab, the accent, the house in Jaljulia, and whether from an artist's perspective, they are more of an obstacle or a springboard. She assumes it's a springboard. I am jealous.
"There is something interesting in my statement, my tradition. My work exudes Arabism. I paint a modest woman, with her head partially covered. I assume that gets me attention."
Linda started wearing a hijab at the age of 24, following the birth of her first son and continued to do so for 14 years.
"I chose the hijab. I wanted the air of modesty, the appearance of a religious woman, the appreciation the surroundings have for a modest woman. I wore a hijab every day. I would only take it off at home, and only if there was no one at home. The decision to wear a hijab was mine. No man forced it on me. Not my father, not my husband. So, too, was the decision to remove the hijab my own personal decision."
"With us, it's not dependent on familial status like it is with you," she tells me, explaining that divorced and single women will also wear a hijab. "It is considered elegant. A majority of the women my age cover their heads. In my mother's generation, most women didn't and only at the age of 50 began to. It is a religious law that has been given a fashionable social tone."
Q: Does the hijab impact the way you dress? Because for religious Jews, there is a sort of give and take. If you expose your arms, then the skirt will be longer; if the skirt is shorter, the collar will be closed. In Jerusalem, for example, one can see religious women in tight jeans who compensate by wearing head coverings.
"With us, it's the opposite. The hijab obligates one to wear more modest clothing. It's part of the show, part of the spirit of the covering. I once taught a religious Jewish friend how we tie the head covering. It was an interesting experience to see her try. I still take care to dress modestly. That is the way I was brought up. I am a devout Muslim, who observes the basic laws. I read the Quran, pray, visit graves."
Q: What happened to the cloth that once covered your head?
"As the years passed, I felt I wanted to be myself, Linda, for people to see me as I am. I came to the decision to remove the covering years ago, but it wasn't important for me to act on it. I got along with it fine. After the divorce crisis, I was with the kids, they were 2 and 6 years old, I focused on their education, in an attempt to get myself back on my feet. I couldn't make that kind of change."
When Linda received an offer offered to participate in the "Female Leadership in Culture" project two years ago, she thought it was because of her hijab.
"I was considered a conservative artist and that suited the aspirations of the organizers. During that same period, I reached the decision to remove the head covering. I shared my personal experience with my friends in the project, Jewish, Arab, Bedouin women. I spoke of tradition, religion and the education I got at home. The first time I went out with my hair uncovered was for a project meeting at Beit Ha'Gefen."
I immediately recall the first time I left the house without a head covering. I felt as if the world had come to a halt.
"Going out for the first time without [a head covering] – it's scary. I talked about it with my family and the kids beforehand. I remember the way from the house to the car, my heart beating loudly, feeling as if the entire world was focused on me. Every once in a while, my hand reaching out to my head, to feel what is not there."
"I remember surprising physical sensations. The rain, the wind. I felt something I had not felt for years, a strange, pleasant feeling, I was a little girl who realized the simple things, like a baby walking for the first time.
After I removed the covering, I discovered that I had given myself another task, another thing to maintain. We don't have enough to deal with? Now I have to dye my hair, blow dry it ...
But Linda said, "My hair was always meticulous, even under the hijab, so I didn't feel that way."
Q: How did your surroundings respond?
"There were those that did not recognize me, although they know me well. They were surprised. They didn't make the connection that it was me. There were those that asked me "Why?" There were those who were silent. I don't know what they say about me behind my back. If there was shock, it was not shown in my presence."
Q: What did you with all the head coverings?
"I divided my collection among friends that do cover their heads. The chance of me putting one back in one slim to none, but if I want to go back to wearing a head covering, I will buy new ones. Some I gave to my mother, she was happy. I kept a few at home. If I go to a cemetery, I will put one on, out of respect. Also during prayer."
Linda tells me how other women have recently decided to remove their hijabs, each for their own personal reasons. "But there are also many that have gone back to it and observe the laws."
Q: Do you need courage to remove the hijab? I had the excuse of a change in familial status. I don't know if I would have done it had I stayed married.
"A nose job would be a more difficult decision to make."
Against one of the walls in Linda's studio there leans a painting of a young bride, her face erased, her body wrapped in bandages that comprise a wedding dress. Or perhaps they are shrouds.
Q: Does one need courage to get a divorce?
"I guess so. But it's a personal decision. It is important to maintain mutual respect between the parents."
Q: Do you go out on dates?
"It's not simple. My education and occupation are not trivial. I can't go out on dates, meet a guy. … But I'm not exactly in a position of getting offers to be set up either."
In recent years, Linda's older sister, Lena, fought a battle with liver cancer.
"On my sister, I saw how the boy changes, disintegrates, surrenders, betrays. I saw the damage to femininity, beauty, youth. The damaged spirit, the sunken soul. I couldn't continue to paint refined women, icons, and ignore the despair and suffering. Suddenly, the expressive side came out of me, the expression of emotion. I realized that I had distanced myself from life in my paintings. I began to splatter paint, to let it drip, to draw a real, flesh and blood, fragile woman, to release the anger that was inside me."
Lena died two years ago, at the age of 42. She left behind two children.
"We had a strong connection. She was a genius, understanding and had a scientific mind. I still haven't gotten over her passing. I'm trying to internalize it. I think she has only gone to a distant place and will be back any minute. Father died 10 years ago. It's a different kind of loss. Father was the protector; a sibling is part of you."
In one of the pictures at the exhibit, Linda and Lena's mother is seen sitting alongside her dying daughter's bed, one month before her passing. She is reading verses from the Quran to cleanse her suffering daughter's soul.
"Mother believed it would make the suffering easier on her. That was all that was left to be done. We knew it was terminal. We didn't think there would be miracles, but we believe these prayers calm the sick person, cleanse their soul. Lena was weak and slept most of the time. I took the picture and later I hung a canvas and began to paint. It is difficult to paint these kinds of scenes. It was accompanied by tears."
On the day she photographed her sister, Lena recalled that "in the air, there was electricity, sanctity and pain. An older woman who read verses from the Quran joined us. There was a monotonous low murmur of the words of God that merged into the room for a holy moment. I saw a pained mother saying a prayer not for healing, because there was no cure, but to cleanse her daughter's soul, sitting alongside the fruit of her womb and just saying her goodbyes. We are used to adults passing on and the children accompanying them. Here, there was a reversal of roles. I saw Mother reserved, believing that crying would not help here, only prayer. "Her hair fell out due to the treatments, and she made sure to wear the hijab up until her very last days. When she didn't have the strength, we put the covering on her head for her. When she passed, the entire family was at her bedside. I believe that she went to a place of peace, cleanliness, reconciliation. "I saw her before she was buried," Linda said. "She had an angelic, captivating smile. Before the burial, she was dressed in a festive, white hijab.
