Yesterday, I was at the mall and people approached me to say “we love your jacket,” “your hijab and jacket combo are so nice,” and “your religious garb is very stylish.” I was flattered by people’s kind words, and surprised. I was wondering why this was happening. I thought: maybe people are being nice as a reaction to Trump? I believe that people said those nice because they meant them. But I had never been approached that way in public. I wear the hijab because it is how I live my connection to my faith and to God. At times though, I have to admit it has not been easy to wear a hijab. I’ve had moments where I just wanted to stop wearing it, for several reasons, including:
- Feeling threatened or fearing for my safety — after 9/11 — that was a major concern shared by many. I didn’t feel safe going about my day to day business. I always feared that I would be attacked while grocery shopping or going to the bank or at the park with my children. Not only that, but imagine boarding an airplane while everybody looks at you as if you are a suspect, with piercing, but mostly benign and curious eyes: it makes me feel uneasy. I always fear that someone will say “I’m not comfortable flying with her on this plane” and I would be asked to leave the airplane. After all, it happened to several women I know and I can just imagine the embarrassment and hurt that will cause me and my family. If we are flying as a family, how would my children have dealt with feeling ostracized in that way?
- Vanity — After a haircut and highlights, I look good! So at times I think “hmm should I just go out without my hijab just for one day?” I am human after all and enjoy the amazing feeling of looking and feeling good.
- Age — My late 30s were another time that I started to think about removing my hijab. I felt overwhelmed by the thought of turning 40, and was wondering: where did the time go? There are several dear friends who took off their hijab. It’s their personal choice, and I respect their decision in doing so, knowing that their motives or faith might be questioned by family and community members. Let’s be clear: faith is personal, and people need to move on.
- Politics — After Trump’s election in 2016, that fear of hate crimes or persecution came back, and I was looking over my shoulder all of the time, walking downtown, in the suburbs, or in the grocery story. Even in my own neighborhood, which includes a few Trump voters, I felt uneasy around neighbors who all of a sudden stopped saying hello as they normally did while dog-walking or exercising. They have seen me both with hijab (and, occasionally, without it) but suddenly there were barriers to a friendly hello. Luckily, we live in Chicago — diversity is in our DNA, but for hijabi women who live in small towns in the Midwest or the South, I can only imagine how hard it must be for them.
When the global refugee crisis hit its peak in 2015 and Syrian refugees started to arrive to the U.S., the refugee support non-profit organization that I founded and direct, the Syrian Community Network, sprung into crisis mode. Suddenly, national media and politicians wanted to interview advocates and Syrian Americans like myself. And suddenly, the scarf on my head became an important symbol in this national conversation, which pitted white supremacy and Trump’s “America First” mindset against people of color, Muslims, Sikhs, refugees, immigrants, and Native Americans. In a world where perception and imagery matters, and where the hijab is seen as a symbol of violence, oppression, or foreign-ness, I knew that I needed the hijab to be a part of the message that we all belong here.
It’s far more deep and nuanced than this, but bear with me: the hijab simply became a symbol in confronting the Trump Administration’s anti-refugee and anti-immigrant crusade. This includes meetings with Senators or with coalition partners. Being the only hijabi in the room at times can be hard, even though I grew up in the U.S., speak perfect English, and have a Master’s degree. People may think that I am not as professional or knowledgeable about a subject based on preconceived notions. But as a woman and an immigrant, serving new refugees, I bring a valuable perspective because of my closeness to people who look like me: despite the relative privilege of being part of an established immigrant community in the suburbs, I understand where they are coming from. The refugee families that I serve, who have gone through the unthinkable in Syria and elsewhere, have an advocate who has skin in the game during this tumultuous time. And that’s the same with all of my team’s staff, board, and volunteers, hijabi or otherwise, male or female, Muslim, Jewish, and so on: we all have skin in the game.
When I voted for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris, the only words that came to mind was بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم “In the Name of God the Most Merciful the Most Benevolent.” I cast my vote because I can: it is my right and privilege as a citizen of this democracy. I have freedoms that most only dream about — I have the freedom to either wear my hijab or not to wear it. I have the right to worship and to pray and dress in anyway I want. I have the freedom to advocate, to speak up, to work, to write, to criticize my government, and to look damn good in my outfits this winter. Why do I have all of these freedoms? Someone brave fought for them on my behalf. Someone thought that freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of assembly are important ideals for society. And elected officials and activists across our history fought to ensure those freedoms were extended to all. These freedoms are precious — why not work hard to preserve them?
