Something Missing

Shabana Diouri

I'm sure you can relate to that feeling; the feeling of something missing, like the watch missing from your wrist, the ring missing from your finger, the chain missing from around your neck. That is how I felt when I didn't wear my hijab (headscarf). Those who now wear the hijab may be in the best position to understand the feeling I am describing.

Now, what is important to note here is that we all have our own personal journeys to decisions. Some of us take a short time; some long and some of us never reach that decision. So I am not describing to you a textbook journey that we will all experience, rather I am describing to you my journey to a choice that affected the way I look and am looked upon.

I spent a long time contemplating the pros and cons, thinking about reactions and perceptions, rejection and acceptance. But in the end, all the rationalisation boiled down to one simple idea; this thin piece of cloth is what stands between me gaining or losing the rewards from my Creator. I guess when you look at it from a very basic level, the decision is quite easy to make. But once I took up the hijab, the journey was not easy or pain free, there was a mixture of negative and positive reactions but in most cases there was no reaction at all!

I thought that this decision would affect my work or my social life, and in some respects it did, but I can't say my progress has been hindered or stunted just because I wear the hijab. However, the effects of wearing the hijab were more on me as a person. It raised my self-awareness, and automatically made me feel like an ambassador for sisters and Islam as a whole for all those around me. So I guess the hijab affected me more than it affected others.

The hijab also acted as a signal to those around me to feel that they could approach me and ask questions about a religion they knew very little about but wanted to learn. It acted as a gesture to other Muslims to feel they could give their salaam to me when passing by in the corridors or ask me where the prayer room is.

I can distinctly remember the first day I wore it, visualising the consequences of my decision. I didn't want to wear it and then take it off and then wear it again. I wanted to do this and then never look back. However, I will make a small confession, part of the decision making process did involve agonising over the colour of the first hijab I would wear in public!

One lady approached me and asked where I had got my hijab from; she said she wanted to wear one too. On the other hand, an old man in the street mumbled a snide comment under his breath. But on the whole, no one took any notice of me and my hijab - and this was the greatest relief.

I had built up this unfounded image in my head, of being rejected by society and accepted by the Muslim community. When in reality - there was no fanfare or scandal - there was no public congratulation or humiliation. It was business as usual - I really liked that.

Initially, when I first wore the hijab, I had mixed emotions. Relief, fear, happiness, anxiousness, contentment, worry. But over time, these feelings went away, and now I just feel like my hijab, if not worn is something missing. Just like my watch missing from my wrist, like my ring missing from my finger, like my chain missing from around my neck.