Letting Them Speak for Themselves

(Photo: Ghufran Salih, Hassina Adams, and Sameeha Saied.)

I took a global community course last semester, in which we explored several thought provoking themes. One of them happened to be French nationalism, and whether openly expressing one’s religion fit into the “French identity”. The headscarf was the center of this controversy. I could not wait to share my ideas as a Muslim woman on the concept and bring a nuanced opinion into the mix.

Hassina Adams (middle) was in my class. She was always soft-spoken, self-assured and composed in her comments. This painfully juxtaposed with my simmering anger when islamophobic comments were tossed around the room. We were the only two Muslims in the room and the fears showed. We were different, in our demeanor and more importantly in our dress. My curls are the first thing people noticed, her hijab centered their focus.

When people envision a Muslim woman, they usually see a woman with a bright headscarf and the word “oppressed” painted on her forehead. The veil seems to be on the tip of people’s tongues when they want to list the struggles Muslim women face in abstract hypotheticals without actually speaking to them. It is ironic how the Muslim woman is the emblem of oppression and yet those outside of the religion oppress Muslim women by assuming that they do not have a voice of their own or their own stories to tell. Narratives are placed upon them and the cloth wrapped around their heads becomes the center of their identity.

My experiences have shaped my opinions on the matter, but I decided to explore other perspectives on campus. I approached other Muslim women, some more visibly Muslim than myself, their beautiful head scarves often drawing attention, be it curious or malicious. I met Ghufran Salih (left) through other friends, she was quite popular and apparently was the face of a viral meme.

She lived up to her reputation. She is bold and funny and I found myself warming up to her immediately. I wanted to add a different voice to the mix, so I approached Sameeha Saied (right). She did not adorn a scarf but was pious in less visible ways. She was also the only one of the three who was born and raised in the United States. I asked Hassina, Ghufran, and Sameeha to voice their opinions on the hijab and how they felt about it and how it shapes them as people and more importantly as Muslims.

I wanted to hear the different experiences of these Muslim women on a large American campus. I can only speak to the experiences of these three women who shared their stories with me, and to my own individual experience. Every Muslim on this campus will have a different story. It is important to remember that Muslims are complex individuals with intersecting identities which shape their individual experiences. Their religion is not the only aspect of their identity.

To begin with, I explored the concept of choice. The story of oppression begins with a lack of choice. The enforced narrative of the oppressed Muslim women, centered in the Middle East, features a brown man taking away the agency of the soft-spoken woman. The discussion on whether it was a requirement in Islam varied but the general consensus was whether or not it was a requirement. It was ultimately the individual’s choice. No one could, or should force them. Focusing upon the two who wear the hijab, I felt that it was natural then to ask them individually if they felt that they were coerced into their decision. It was a difficult question to ask, as it is often seeping with strong controversy. I was careful though, highlighting that whatever the answer was it would not make a difference to me, and that there would be no narrative of brainwashing brimming in this story. Their responses made me smile. The women in their family all covered their hair and dressed modestly, like girls they watched with admiration, waiting to be a part of this older girls’ club. “I wanted to look like my mother,” Ghufran responded.

I myself never had that desire to wear the hijab; it never resonated with me in that way. But their responses reminded me of my own similar desires to be mature, nagging at my mother to buy me my first pair of heels so I could clumsily walk around the house with determination to look just as confident as she did with every step.

They both began wearing the hijab relatively young, and I asked them if they ever felt like they had made the wrong choice. Did social pressures or the political climate ever make them want to take it off? We’ve grown up at a time where an islamophobic rhetoric follows us, from 9/11 to two “Muslim bans.” The stereotypes of violent, savage people who could not possibly assimilate into Western societies. Ghufran highlighted an incident when someone ripped her hijab off, and mentioned that it had happened to her mother and sister as well.

Attacks on Muslims are prevalent. Did it ever become suffocating? They admitted to moments of hesitation and self-doubt but varying reasons were at the root of them. When Ghufran moved away from home to go to college, she felt like she was losing herself and did not feel like she was living up to being a “good Muslim.” She did not feel like she deserved to represent Islam by wearing the hijab. Following a conversation with her sister, they concluded that she was an idiot. Her sister meant it with love, if she wanted to remove the hijab because it no longer resonated with her, there were no problems with that. The hijab did not make her represent all Muslim women, it only highlighted a personal relationship she had with God. It just so happened other people could notice it.

Women who wear the hijab can make mistakes and they can practice in non-traditional ways. They do not have to be the picture-perfect stereotypical Muslim. It is unfair to place that pressure on them, whether it is internally within the Muslim community or from outsiders.

Hassina’s response reflected similar sentiments. In both Uganda and South Africa, the political climate she grew up in made it difficult to be Muslim. The hostility was amplified when she moved to the United States. I can attest to that. Moreover, it made it difficult to be visibly Muslim. She felt like any mistake she made would be magnified. People did not see her as an individual; she was her scarf and her scarf represented Islam.

And Sameeha? She echoed the same idea. She does not feel as if a scarf makes her a “good Muslim.” That was her way of giving the middle finger to people who tried to diminish her identity. Here she was, proudly Muslim, her hair blowing in the wind with no shame. Hassina, Ghufran, and Sameeha all believed that Muslims do not have to be perfect, with or without a hijab.

All three constantly brought up the theme of empowerment. Muslim women don’t need saving, they chanted over and over again. We can save ourselves. “I’m already my own hero,” Hassina repeated throughout her interview. And when things get hard? “My hijab has been there for me,” Ghufran mirrored.

It is not her source of oppression, it is her safety net.

In mainstream feminism, empowerment is usually illustrated through minimal clothing, and the rejection of the sexualization of the female form. The hijab represents the idea of taking the hypersexualized female form, and shielding it from the public eye.

The hijab and empowerment can go hand in hand — they do not have to be opposing concepts. In fact, the women I spoke to all shared a belief that the hijab and empowerment are mutually reinforcing.

The women I interviewed varied in their perspectives on Islam and what it meant to practice. It was interesting to notice that despite where they lay on the spectrum of religiosity, the concept of choice remained. Women have a right to choose what they want to wear. Muslim women also have a right to be heard. They wanted their voices to drown out the rhetoric that followed them.