I remember the first day of fifth grade. It was September 9th, 2002, two days before the one-year anniversary of the attacks on the World Trade Center. I should mention that I am from New York. It was the first time I wore a hijab, a headscarf. I cannot forget that day, perhaps, because it was then that my best friend of the time walked past me without greeting me, after just one glance. We have not spoken since.
There was no particular reason why I began to wear my hijab. That morning, before I left for school, I asked my mother if I could wear a hijab and she handed me one. Perhaps, I wanted to try something new, please my mother, follow the example of fellow Muslims, or be a “good Muslim.” Even under the pressure of classmates (and friends) and the weight of September 11, I kept my hijab on. The only times that I did not have it on were in the comfort of my own home (sometimes at homes of family members or friends), on Eid (Muslim holiday), graduation, and prom. There were people that would ask me whether or not I had hair or if I would shower with my hijab on. Till this day, I do believe that these questions were genuine.
Wearing a hijab had its implications and strings attached. I was no longer allowed to reveal most parts of my body or skin. Through the burning hot summer days and the warm spring nights, I wore long sleeved shirts and pants that would not reveal the shape of my body, which did not bother me. For most Muslims, a more conservative mode of dress is intended to affect behavior and become internalized as a mode of thought. Wearing a hijab implied (or seemed to imply) that religious and cultural principles and rules applied to me more than they did for my friends without hijabs. For a girl with a hijab on, praying only two times a day or having a boyfriend was just not acceptable. I always had to think like a Muslim hijabi because if I did not, I would have to face the torment of the Muslim society.
Keeping my hijab on was also my choice, but it was more than an act of religion. My hijab was a force that kept me away from several of my childhood and teenage desires, and as a result, kept me focused on my education. It earned me respect from fellow Muslims, which encouraged me to keep my hijab on. Wearing a hijab helped filter out the judgmental and uninviting people in my life. For most of my childhood, I tried to strive against judgment and harsh treatments. It became a priority to be and to have supporting, honest, and loyal friends. But, I cannot say that I was always successful.
At a young age, I learned that there was some who judged based on appearance, and as a result, they would treat me differently or unfairly. I remember the day that a bully and his friends cornered me by the stairs in an attempt to take off my hijab. I still do not know the reason behind his attempt, but luckily, a teacher had happened to walk by at that moment. I may not remember his face, but I remember being frightened.
Over a year ago was the last time I wore my hijab. I am currently a junior at Brown. Wearing a hijab limited available actions and dictated decisions, which sometimes took pressure off making certain choices. But, this was not always the best reason. For example, I knew not to involve myself with teenage indiscretions, not because it was against my religious and cultural values, but because it was wrong for a girl with a hijab. Wearing a hijab taught me that appearance does not equate to happiness, but instead of making me feel more confident about my appearance, wearing a hijab made me feel as if I had to hide my appearance. It became my shield from my physical insecurities as well as new experiences. I began to mistake my beauty as flaws and then used my hijab to hide what I deemed to be physical flaws. I carried the image of a girl who can do no wrong because I had the weight of religion behind me. At times, I just wanted to let my hair show.
Because of my hijab, I am at a stage in my life where I can make decisions without relying on my hijab, giving a sense of agency, which is ultimately one of the reasons why I stopped wearing it. I assumed that not wearing my hijab would be easier and more comfortable than wearing it, but I have to admit, I was wrong. Those who used to give me scornful looks now welcome me with smiling faces, while those who used to acknowledge me with respect (including those that do not wear a hijab) now refuse to look at me. This is not the case with everyone because there are some who praise and embrace both. But, even with my hair out for the world to see, I still find myself hiding. Though my mother has her suspicions, and though she did not wear a hijab until she was married, I still cannot bear to tell her of this change because she would disapprove for religious reasons and may deem me to be weak for not fighting the urge to take off my hijab. For the most part, she is afraid of the judgment others will have towards her.
Now that I have chosen to no longer wear my hijab, the rest of my apparel is also more revealing, which welcomes more stares. In the eyes of many other Muslims, having a love for fashion is not a good enough reason for this change. I do not have any less faith in or respect for Islam, but I am labeled as one who does. To many, I am no longer considered a “good Muslim” because of this change.
I went to a hookah bar for the first time recently. The owners were Muslim Afghanis. When I handed my ID to a waiter. I did not want him to see my ID. After looking at my ID, he asked me why I stopped wearing my hijab. I did not respond. He then said, “Fatema, you’re going to hell.” Unfortunately, that was not the first time someone has responded in that manner.
During my first year at Brown, prior to ultimately taking off my hijab, I wore it to class and back home, but not in social surroundings. I wanted to maintain this cycle, but it was considered to be hypocritical and confusing by both Muslims and non-Muslims. Some would not greet me because they would not recognize me while others did not know how to respond. Because it was difficult for others to accept this lifestyle, it was difficult for me to maintain it.
My interactions with others around me shape the way I act and affect my view of both society and myself. Though I may like to think that looks do not play a role in my interactions with others, the truth is that they do. Covering my hair with a hijab earns me disdainful, curious, and respectful looks from others for several reasons: Some people may treat me poorly for having a hijab on because they associate it with the conflicts in the Middle East. Some may look at me with fascination, wondering why I wear a hijab and whether or not it is my choice. And some may choose to greet me saying, “As-salamu alykum,” meaning “may peace be upon you,” because my religion seems evident, proudly proclaimed, which invites a sense of familiarity from strangers. These interactions with others are the reason for my need to both share with and hide from the world.
Initially, without my hijab, I felt uncomfortable with myself, even around those who never judged me. I thought that without the hijab, I would finally be rid of stares, but it was precisely the absence of the hijab that drew stares. This time, however, those who stared at me were friends confused by its absence, people who recognized me as a Muslim, and strangers fascinated by my long hair. I was not accustomed to facing others without my hijab, and thus, without that shield, I felt exposed. These looks affect me internally and shape the way I act and respond.
Though I have had some unpleasant encounters, I have also gained positive feedback from fellow Muslims. This summer was the first time that I returned to the Brown Muslim Student Association since my first year at Brown, in time to celebrate Ramadan. I was afraid to go back as a result of the change. I assumed that many would judge me (as many did in the Muslim community back home) and I felt uncomfortable, but I was wrong. I have never encountered such a group of spiritual and open-minded individuals before. I was appreciative of the diverse group of people that I had met at the BMSA this summer, ranging from undergraduates to doctors and students to working parents from various regions. The most welcoming and supportive was a fellow Muslim who wore a hijab. She told me, “This is great. You need to do what is best for you. Everyone goes through this.” I did not realize until then how much I needed to hear that. I assumed too quickly.
Placing an object that would cover my hair changed my interactions with others, both self-inflicted and socially inflicted. But taking this object off my hair did just the same. I kept my hijab on to show the world that covering my hair was more than an act of religion; it was an act of choice that exemplified my strength. Giving it up is a different kind of strength, one that is still a choice. I also cannot claim whether I am right or wrong nor can I reprimand someone else for his or her belief about the hijab. This was my experience and I do not know which I prefer and what is the better option for me. Because I am now accustomed to not wearing a hijab on a daily basis, I wonder if this change will be permanent or simply a phase.