Hijab

Hijab. Tar7a. The headscarf that has been chasing me for years. The cover that without it I am not a good muslim, in the eyes of the people of course, not in the eyes of God (or at least this is what I think). The one thing that my parents are mad at me for, and men deducting marks from my total score as a suitable wife for. The one thing that if I put on guys will stop asking for ‘love’ or try with me because I won’t look as ‘approachable’. There are pictures of me in Hijab that I am hiding somewhere. Naïve me in middle school listening to her school supervisor, because she didn’t know or learn yet how to say no.

I spent years looking online for explanations, and listening to known and unknown people on Youtubers talking about it. I listened to non-muslim women talking about converting and wearing the Hijab. I read a small leaflet that my grandfather gave me on his soft trial to change my opinion. I grew up seeing my mom trying new styles of how to wear it, and seen one cousin after the other put it on for the first time. Yet, I still couldn’t get myself to wear it. The last time I tried was during my first year in university. For some reason one day I got up in front of the mirror, put it on. Paired that with a long shirt and an even longer skirt. I took a selfie in front of the mirror to assess my looks. I deleted the selfie. Took off my Hijab, forever.