Chronicles of the Tamizhachi Muslimah

“Straighten your hair. Curly hair is not nice and tough to manage.”

“Here, use this. It’s good for you, it’ll make you look brighter.”

“Don’t do that. It won’t look good on your skin tone.”

—

These voices still play in my head every so often. In recent years, I have been trying to erase them and unlearn many other things I was taught. However, getting rid of the voices has been a struggle, and they continue to puzzle me. 

For instance, the term “Tamizhar” (pronounced “Tamilar”; the “l” sound is achieved by  positioning the tongue at the back of the mouth) ostensibly refers to a person who is from the Tamizh-speaking community. However, my observations growing up as a Tamizh-speaking Indian Muslim in Singapore tell me otherwise. It seems like “Tamizhar” is only used to refer to Tamizh-speaking Hindus who make up most of the Indian community in Singapore. Speaking a common language across religious groups should create bonds between us, yet “Tamizhar” often excludes Tamizh-speaking Muslims like me. 

For a while, I tried my best to listen to the voices in my head. I kept my distance from my  culture. I strayed far enough to be accepted by non-Indians, but close enough that I worked hard at excelling in my mother tongue, to appease the voices saying I was not ‘Indian’ enough.  

It irks me that back then, it felt validating to dissociate myself from my Indian identity and internalise these voices. Looking back, I was letting down my ancestors, the Indian community and myself. I’m ashamed to say that I even went to the extent of ridiculing my own race and culture in front of my non-Indian friends. This usually involved statements along the lines of: “Yeah, these ‘typical Indians’ are like that; they are always causing drama or getting drunk and creating trouble.” 

During mother tongue classes, I would only engage in small talk with my classmates. I did not make the effort to get closer to them, preferring to be on my own. It was not that they were bad company. It was just that they were ‘too Indian’. Tamizh classes were just a formality to me—I did the bare minimum, making sure I got good grades and could speak the language well without sounding too ‘anglicised’. 

Sometimes, I would even skip class, as I felt it was such an inconvenience: Tamizh was not offered at my school, so classes were after regular curriculum hours. I preferred to hang out with friends or do anything else rather than attend Tamizh classes. I remember telling myself that I would finally be ‘freed’ after secondary school, as mother tongue would not be a mandatory subject in a tertiary institution. 

There is an interesting outcome to all of this: Until today, for some reason, I just can’t bring myself to curse and swear in Tamizh. Back then, when I was of the age where it was ‘cool’ to use curse words, I could comfortably use such words in other languages such as English, Malay and Mandarin. But when it comes to Tamizh, I still can’t do it. It feels so wrong to utter them. 

Over the years, I have managed to develop the ability to mask my ‘Indianness’ in front of non Indians, and automatically code-switch to be ‘Indian enough’ among fellow Indians.  Unfortunately, this is something I still do today. However, I’m slowly learning to do away with having different personas with different people and just be myself, unapologetically. I never want my future kids to be like me in the past: developing personas to fit in and dissociating from their Indian identity, depending on who they hang out with. I am taking crucial steps to just embrace who I am, so that I can lead by example when I teach my future kids to be themselves. 

Looking back, I should have been thick-skinned enough to not downplay or heighten my ‘Indianness’ in order to be accepted. I have learnt to speak up when I see something racist, instead of just dealing with it. But sometimes, this can be tough too. For instance, there are people in my block who still refuse to take the lift with me. I still don’t know how to respond to this. This is just a single anecdote of what it is like to be different in this country, especially as an Indian Muslim, a double minority. To this day, people still ask me, “Indian got Muslim meh?” “So, are you Malay?” “Do you celebrate Deepavali?” There is a general tendency to associate the Hindu religion with the Indian identity. 

I experienced some cultural practices while growing up that I felt were instances of overlaps between Tamizh culture and Hinduism. When I turned 11, I had to go through a bunch of rituals as part of the ‘coming-of-age’ process. I was told to not go to school for a few days. I had to do a flower bath [1], eat raw eggs, wear a saree and take a photo. Most interestingly, I remember my grandmother grabbing some dried chillies and going all over my body with them. She then opened her hand and asked me to spit three times. This was to ward off any evil spirits. 

Another example: When my parents got married in the early ’90s, my dad adorned my mum with a nuptial necklace and garlands were exchanged. This is similar to what happens in Hindu weddings and done on top of exchanging wedding rings—a common practice in Muslim weddings, as far as I know. 

Currently, however, what I have observed is that the younger generation of Indian Muslims seem to be doing away with these cultural practices. Only wedding rings are exchanged; sometimes, they are considered the mahr that the groom needs to give the wife as part of the solemnisation ceremony. One possible reason could be to reduce wedding costs. From my understanding, the nuptial necklace is expensive to make. It can be quite heavy as well for everyday use. Therefore, maybe, the younger couples prefer to have just the rings since they can wear them every day as a mark of their union. 

Yet while most Indian Muslims today may not carry out the cultural practices of their parents, they take pride in their identity in other ways. For instance, I have noticed that some of the younger generation adorn traditional Indian outfits, instead of the baju kurung, during weddings and Hari Raya. This is truly a beautiful sight to see.  

Growing up, I never really saw much representation of my people. It is still extremely rare to see a Tamizh drama series or film centring on an Indian Muslim person. When it does happen, it is usually very stereotypical. Interestingly, I have seen Muslim representation in Malayalam films.

As a half Malayalee, it feels nice to be represented, especially when the actors themselves are Muslim too. 

I wonder if I even have the right to claim my identity as a Malayalee. I don’t even speak the language, and can only understand bits and pieces of it. I also don’t carry out any of their  cultural practices. Does this make me a Malayalee? As a double minority, am I living different lives? Would it be better to identify myself as a concoction of Tamizh, Malayalee and Muslim? These are questions I still ask myself. Yet despite these questions, I am going to call myself the “Tamizhachi Muslimah”. It feels a little strange. Two distinctly different words. I’m letting that sink in. 

NR is a non-hijabi Muslimah in her late 20s trying to understand herself after having to hide her Indian identity and straying far away from the identity of “Muslimah”. By definition, a Muslimah is defined a Muslim woman; it does not mean that she must be a hijabi. Fun fact: she can speak  all four official languages of Singapore.

[1] My memory of this flower bath is vague: I remember being fully clothed, and my grandmother scooping up water mixed with specific types of flowers and showering me. At the time, I wasn’t sure of the purpose of this ritual.