I put on the hijab at fourteen. Nobody made me. My mother, in fact, cried, because she was scared I would be treated the way she was treated in a French airport in 2011. I did it anyway. It was, and remains, mine.
At my international school in Amman, I get asked, on average, twice a month if I am hot. I am, sometimes. I am also cold, sometimes. I am also, sometimes, having a completely ordinary day that has nothing to do with my head. This is, I have come to understand, a novel concept.
I am not a metaphor. I am a girl. I chose this. Please let it be boring.
I am not a metaphor. I am a girl. I chose this. Please let it be boring.
The conversation about Muslim girls in Western media has two settings. Setting one: we are oppressed and need to be saved. Setting two: we are a fashion trend and someone in New York wants to write about our 'modest style era.' Neither setting has a volume knob for the girl actually inside the fabric.
My hijab is not a debate. It is not a statement. It is not a headline. It is, on a good day, the least interesting thing about me. On a great day, you don't notice it at all. That's the day I'm waiting for.
The girls are talking. Get in the conversation.