Exploring Hijab and Feminism in Islam

So when you see a hijabi and draw a border around her, you

are cutting the same cloth I hide behind.

Bra.

In Islam, over fourteen hundred years ago, hair was what

feminists have put on a tote bag last Tuesday.

Yeah.

Equality, freedom, choice. In the seventh

century, Islam said a woman can own land.

England didn't agree until 1882, which isn't math,

only. The feminist fight was never about the right to work,

when women are

the backbone of labor. It was about getting paid our worth.

So in Islam, my money is my money, and your money is our money.

Yeah.

I know that only sounds unfair if patriarchy took one rib, but said,

"From her form, turn organ into ownership,"

and forgot we came from one

soul.

Ooh.

But now you look at a woman in a bikini and pray, but think a headscarf

makes her brainwashed. But hijab was meant as the first barrier to soften

their

gaze, to lower their eyes before they become

hands.

I said lower your eyes because modesty wasn't her thinking less of myself, but

thinking of myself less. So while looking for the best of you,

I lose your

love. I want to see every place your heart has

traveled and hold your

scars like prayer beads, but that's the problem.

Too often I reach with my eyes to touch your soul, but I'm met by hands

looking to undress me. I said lower your eyes,

and you eyes tell me

Islam fears powerful women. But if you gather that hijab

business woman, first believe her, the Prophet's mosque before

his wife.

Whoo.

He held the hand of his ex-wife, hoping that you'll think of present me.

But no, I don't need your saving. I am not a poster

child. I am a revert wearing a hijab with red

hair and a shaky faith,

who chose this God not because I was told to kneel, but because

when I press

my forehead to the ground, I feel like my soul also prays,

not just to stay this pretty pressure.

I'm also a woman who can think about and dream, covered and discovered, and

maybe that's what scares you. Not the delicacy of my tongue,

but the possibility that a woman who belongs to God,

one less to

every system built on making her small.

But the problem was never God. It was men trying to cosplay as

him.

So the next time you see a hijab and say, "Not me," ask yourself who's really

trying to be me. Who dyed her hair? Who's scared of the

wrong thing? Who are

you? Still, I'm blessing the fabric.

Mm.

And ignoring you for a moment.

Mm.

And maybe-