I spent my summer with my family, people who care about me, feeling comforted by their presence. My summer was filled with laughs and long nights, staying up so late we would pray Fajr before leaving my cousin’s house. A time of the year that is anything but isolating for me, but rather, with overwhelming comfort. I have everyone I care about surrounding me with love and seemingly all the time in the world.
Returning to Los Angeles and being back in “student mode” is always an adjustment. The shift from being in the embrace of my family to being alone in a silent apartment is a shock. Managing my own household and resuming my academics and extracurriculars is daunting. Getting into the groove of UCLA is still new for me, but I have been adjusting as the “hijabi girl” in school since I was in 4th grade.
Being the hijabi girl on a college campus can be an isolating experience. It can be difficult to create new relationships. At first glance, people find me intimidating, or “eccentric” for my personal choices. On top of dealing with perceptions, going back to in-person discussion sections might just be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. In my personal experience, non-Muslim students make silent jabs at my appearance. They chose to distance themselves from me in class and with peers who seemed to look more like them. It’s as if my hijab veils the world from my persona that lies within, creating their image of who I am, based on simplistic stereotypes of Islamic traditions rooted in racist colonial perspectives. The cherry on top is the other Muslim students at times who choose to keep their space from me because this charged political climate antagonizes our deen. The frustration of being ignored and being invisible in academic spaces taint the experience of beginning a new quarter.
All of the thoughts about how people will perceive me are constantly in the back of my head. Who do I sit with? Should I make friends with them? Do they want to be friends with me? These overwhelming thoughts plague many social interactions, so I ultimately just keep to myself to save myself from unnecessary pain.
To lend further credence, I wish to tell a story of my own. When I first walked into my Presidency 101C discussion, I recognized one guy from the MSA, but I didn’t approach him. I know he sees me and probably even recognizes me, but we don’t exchange a word – almost as if I’m invisible. Coming to an MSA event or a largely Muslim space is entirely different. The same Muslim students who pretend I do not exist are among the first to seek my presence. The Muslim guy from my discussion approaches me, “Did you do the discussion questions? You’re a policy-sci major, right? Maybe I’ll see you around.” He knew who I was, he knew I was there. I responded, “No I don’t think so, I actually switched to sociology.” I walked away as I saw no point in continuing the conversation.
The whole interaction left me feeling uneasy. Although the interaction sounds trivial, I felt invisible with no allyship from the Muslim community on a day-to-day basis as a student. But when put into Muslim spaces, I was both seen and sought out, as if my identity only existed in these spaces.
Though I’m sharing my own experience, the sentiment is not uncommon. Muslim women in this country face this unique struggle. The hyper-visibility of being a veiled woman and the territory that it comes with is a feat known by many. The quick looks and stares wondering if someone will say something hateful, or nothing at all.
The lack of allyship from my community is what hurts me the most. Fine, non-Muslim students don’t want to be around me. I don’t even blame them, because I know they just don’t understand. But my brothers and sisters? I find myself wishing that my community would stand strong with me and other girls who wear the hijab. At the brunt of it, we are the representation of Islam whether we like it or not. Having that pressure itself can be overwhelming. Everything we say and every action is taken as a representation of who and what Muslims are. I wish my community understood this.
As political tensions arise and become forthcoming in the media, people begin to look at you differently. It used to be that if someone were to see my hijab, they would look away, but now that has changed. They look, and they don’t take your eyes off of you. What made me invisible is now the only thing that people can see.
I have never feared for my safety wearing a hijab, but recently that has changed. My identity and how I look are now a political symbol that I can not escape. People look at my hijab with judgment and assumptions. I feel as if my community looks at me with pity, which I have chosen to subject myself to by wearing the hijab.
I do not want to escape my hijab regardless of the attitudes surrounding it that day. I used to put on my hijab and think nothing of it, as it was just part of my daily routine. But now I put my hijab on with more thought and more intention than I did before.
The hijab is my identity, and I wear it proudly. A symbol of my faith and a constant reminder to myself that I am Muslim first, and everything else second. Regardless of how society wants to treat me, or the continuing politicization of the hijab, I continue to wear it for the simple reason that Allah commanded it.
Attitudes are temporary; how people treat you is temporary; changing political tensions are temporary; people are temporary. My faith is not. Living in the West, it’s easy to be sucked in and want to change how you look for people to perceive you differently. But I have to continue to remind myself that the feeling of isolation is not me being alone. But rather, a filter Allah has blessed me with to keep the people who do not provide me with the remembrance of him.