THIS HIJAB: COMPANY, ACQUAINTANCES, AND FRIENDS

here is a space of openness and listening to understand.
​this writing is largely focussed on my personal experiences and thoughts; my intention is not nor will it ever be to speak on behalf of all Hijabis.
the Muslim experience is not a monolith, and i refuse to add to this perception.

maybe the best place to start is with my earliest memories surrounding Hijab. as a young child my complete and whole knowledge of Hijab was almost non-existent. i saw my mother and women around me wearing headscarves, but did i realise this was their embodiment of Hijab?
absolutely not.
in retrospect, i didn’t think too much about it, it just was.
dad chose to wear a moustache and mum chose to wear a headscarf.

at the age of 4 or 5 i began learning to read in Arabic. myself, my siblings, and a small group of neighbouring children and family friends would spend an hour or so on weekdays with my aunt. we’d help each other pronounce the trickier words, tell funny stories about things we did at school, and sit wide-eyed, open-mouthed in response to Quraanic recitations and chronicles of how and why. in this setting i understood the headscarf was uniform; i knew it was something i wore when learning and praying Quraan. at some point, i’m not sure when, i started to believe the boys wore mosque hats and the girls wore headscarves to lessen the distractions when praying.
if my hair was covered, i was less likely to mindlessly fidget with it.

after a year or two of studying Quraan and learning to read Arabic, i was presented with a headscarf when getting ready for school in the morning. there were times i’d wear it all day, there were times i’d take it off the same way i took off my coat, and there were times i’d remove it in the playground clutch it in my hand and prove i could run faster than any of the boys.

​one morning, like any morning, dad dropped us off at school. i walked to the cloakroom, unzipped my coat, and placed it on the hook. nobody else in my class wore a scarf, and that morning, i wanted to be one of them. i undid the tich-button.
unbeknownst to me, this particular morning dad wanted to spend a little longer saying bye.
“put it under your coat. don’t lose it.” he told me.
i froze.
for the first time, the space between my scarf and i had been interrupted. until now it hadn’t ever occurred to me who was in the room or who was watching us. i took back my coat, settled my scarf on the hook, and then gently tucked my coat around it. i turned to look at dad.
“if you don’t want to wear it, don’t wear it.”,  he said, so casually, i was confused.
“i do want to wear it, but not today.”, i thought.
he did Salaam again and i went to class. i spent the entire morning contemplating how my dad could even think about telling me not to lose my scarf. i wouldn’t(!) he didn’t need to tell me. 

later that year, a new girl joined our class. she was pretty, she had dimples, and she wore a headscarf. we quickly became friends.
this became a recurring theme throughout my time in school and education… the befriending of the new girl. 

the next few years of infant and primary school consisted of multiple teachers mixing up our names and faces. at times we’d laugh about it, at times it would frustrate us, “i don’t even look like you!” we’d both say. by the final few years of primary school it was easier for teachers to differentiate between us. i was loud, and i made myself known. 
i relished in the fact that i had a girl gang on and off of the playground, and that i had managed to not only make teachers remember my name and face, i had made them love me. 

i made the borough’s cross-country and athletics team. after school training, competition days, and tournaments saw me without my scarf, my brown waves pulled back high and my eyes on the prize. i ran at every opportunity- around the park, to friends’ homes, anywhere…
i began to recognise i was just as fast and strong with or without my headscarf.

by the time i was nearing the end of primary school, i was 10 going on 11, and on a usual day my scarf was on my head more than it wasn’t. there had been times in school when someone would tug at it in the queue outside class, or in assembly as they walked by.
i don’t remember the first time it happened, but i remember how i felt.
othered, big and small, and hyper-aware.
i didn’t want to start a fight,
i didn’t want to get in trouble,
but more than anything i didn’t want to lose my scarf.
the handful of times i chose to use my hands were enough.
i was 10 going on 11 and my headscarf was an extension of me.
if you were my friend, you were a friend of my scarf.
if you loved me, you loved my scarf.

at 11, i began a girls’ high school.
a new school, a new town, a new group of friends.
now a headscarf was a requirement as part of the school uniform, and i began to hear the term “Hijab” more frequently. i quickly developed a sense of pride in wearing the Hijab, much of which i observe and admit was due to being part of such a powerful and inspiring sisterhood. this was the first and only time in my life i was surrounded by girls like me.
Brown girls, Muslim girls, Hijab wearing girls.

during my high school years, i was met with several opportunities to “remove” my Hijab… parties, celebrations, photos with friends, but i couldn’t imagine myself without it. i was beginning to appreciate the meaning of Hijab, within Islam, within myself. at this point it felt like a limb, a real part of me, and so i knew
if i was to ever contemplate what it meant to be without Hijab, i had to first know what it meant to truly be with. 
to be in the company of, to be acquainted, to befriend. 
​
being a Muslim of South-Asian decent sometimes means having to navigate through culture and religion. this meant having to learn not every Brown woman covering her hair was necessarily practising hijab in the same way i was trying to. slowly but surely i was able to identify the types and styles of Hijab. sometimes it is an outfit, sometimes it is an evening, sometimes it is a moment.
i have to understand this, i cannot always know the intention, but i can ask and i can listen.

with this new-found information and knowledge came the learning of inner and outer Hijab, as well as Hijab requirements for Muslim men. it was only during my teenage years that i was made directly aware “Hijab” is an Islamic practise for both men and women.

at 16, with a broader perspective and outlook on Hijab, i began sixth-form.
a new space, a mixed-gender space.
i began noticing the subtle (and not so) differences in how i was approached, mainly by males. to non-Muslim boys, i was a Muslim. to Muslim boys- i was a Hijabi. 
an other within an other.
it didn’t bother me as much as it intrigued me. realising other people, Muslim or not, were projecting their personal understanding of Hijab onto my personal practise of Hijab was… bizarre.

interactions with classmates felt brief, but ambiguous.
i repeatedly left conversations feeling 2 dimensional and unfulfilled, as though i was only existing on the surface, being read and scanned and put back down for something easier to digest. my sarcasm grew stronger and i reminded myself to be patient.

“you don’t speak to me because you wear Hijab, init? you’re not meant to.”
“i don’t speak to you because you’re annoying and i don’t want to.”

my friendships were questioned, my taste in entertainment and pop-culture was questioned, my seat in class was questioned.
i was desirable, i was not desirable.
i was reserved, i was stuck-up.
i was mysterious, i was a “bitch”

“all this because i am Me, or because i am Hijabi?” i had no idea anymore.
i kept my head down and got on with things​.
at 19, i moved away from home and began university.
a new town, a new direction, a new group of friends.
picking up everything and starting again was refreshing, it injected me with a passion and confidence i had lost somewhere in the few years prior.

of all the compartments within my identity, my Hijab was one of the few i was most comfortable with. my Hijab and i were friends, good friends. i knew what it meant to me.
from the very beginning, it was clear i was the only Hijabi living on campus. i’d pass other Hijabis in the canteen, down the stairs, in the toilets… “but they don’t stay, i do” 

so what did this mean?
am i representing all Hijabis?
am i the first Hijabi you’ve met?
am i the first Hijabi you’ve made friends with?
am i the first Brown Muslim you’ve met?
am i the first Brown Muslim woman you’ve made friends with?
am i only representing Brown Hijabis?

suddenly, i was big and small again.
i was the new girl, and so was everyone else.

it turned out, for several people i was in fact the first Hijabi they had ever genuinely engaged with. being a visible Muslim woman in a predominantly non-Muslim environment is not only a fact, it’s a feeling.
i felt it.
some days it felt like a responsibility, some days it felt like an honour, and some days i barely felt it at all. some days i would forget i was the only one wearing a Hijab, i was busy, i was doing things, i was enjoying myself… i had more and more of these days as time went on. each campus open day and fresher’s event saw a few more Muslims and consequently a few more Hijabis. i found myself going out of my way to say hi, to do Salaam, to let them know where i was if they ever needed anything. student life can be strange and isolating, i was thankful i hadn’t felt this way, but this meant i was able to be a shoulder to anyone who did.
​
i was 20, i was 21. i was travelling, i was making friends, i was writing, i was performing, i was laughing, i was studying, i was cooking, i was learning, i was loving, i was doing life.

i was in spaces i wasn’t supposed to be. i was talking to people i wasn’t supposed to talk to. i was saying things i wasn’t supposed to say. by who’s standards? i’m not sure.
i was existing.
day to day, in-between, and ordinary.

by my final year of university, i could count on two hands the Muslims living on campus, specifically the Muslim Hijabis. it almost became a game, an inside joke between my friends and i- had i spotted the Hijabi? had i smiled in her direction yet? 

at 23, i am sat by the fire and writing my Hijab story.
“i don’t want it to be political, i don’t want it to be emotional, i just wanna write” i tell my friends. 
​
the more i learn and unlearn, the more i grasp being visible and Muslim is beyond factual, beyond feeling- it is fascinating, provocative, inviting. in this country and in this climate, my Hijab will receive eyes, questions, and every once in a while an insult.
i am mindful of the fact that oftentimes my Hijab is the first thing some will notice about me, that or my brownness. whether i am sitting by a group of strangers on the train, walking on stage, or just being. 

i cannot always control my own thoughts and feelings; i will never expect to control those of others’.
it is not my job to educate, it is not my place to speak on behalf of.
i represent only myself.

if you are to question my Hijab, i ask you to question it fairly and objectively.
question my humility, my sincerity, my listening, my speaking, my manners, my tone… is this too not Hijab? years of fixation on women, and dress, and women’s dress have simplified my Hijab to cloth, fabric, fashion.
cloth, fabric, fashion it may well be to some and that is okay.
we are all living. we are individual.

at this stage in my life my inner Hijab is just as, if not more, significant as my outer Hijab. 

i wish to be soft in the right moments,
strong in the right moments,
loud in the right moments,
listening in the right moments,
compassionate always,
learning always,
kind always,
practicing always.

at 23, i have learnt the only people questioning me are the people who always did, and then i realise… i do not care. i am bored of explaining, and bored of expecting.
my Hijab is of heart and it fluctuates. 

to my women:
there is an unspoken friendship, a warmness, a familiarity between us.
sisters, bound by cloth and vein.
part-time, full-time, baby-hairs, turban, Hijab, niqab.
good days, bad days, heavy days, long days, bright days,
i love you all the same.

happy international women's day!