On Why I Understand The Hijab
4 min read
I was sitting on a bench inside my university’s health and fitness building, the Maggs Center, letting my dreadlocks dry after a swimming class. This is my custom on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. On this particular Wednesday as I sat reading a Fitzgerald short story for the next class, my waterlogged locks dripping on my back, a young lady sat down on the other end of the bench apparently waiting for her class to begin. She was Muslim; she wore long gym pants, a long-sleeve Adidas shirt, eyeglasses, and a black hijab. I see her all the time. She seems like a good-natured and joyful person, and a people watcher – like me. There are very few places as good as the Maggs bench for people watching, I can assure you of that. Apparently she and I both use the Maggs benches as a stopover between classes, a place to do homework or gather thoughts. We’ve not said a word to one another. We probably won’t; after all, this isn’t a meet-cute or anything.
As we sat there in silence, reading our respective material (she appeared to be studying a science book of some sort), a couple of big jocks (if I had to guess, I would say football or rugby, based on their body composition) came thundering out of the weight room. Their feet slapped the floor and their laughter stung the air obnoxiously. Sweaty and loud, their voices boomed right in the direction of my bench. “I dunno what happened last night,” said one to the other, “But I’m pretty sure I was fucked up! All I remember was waking up in the wet grass on the front lawn. Ha, ha, ha!”
The bigger one laughed heartily, “Yah, I know. That party was crazy. That one chick, the blond? She was sooo hot, I can’t believe she–” and you, reader, can imagine where it goes from there. Cue all The Big Lebowski fanatics replying in unison: “He fixes the cable?”
I glanced slyly to my left (you know the move I’m talking about) in order to see if my bench-friend was witnessing this raucous display of machismo and sexual degradation. Indeed, she was. She was looking up occasionally from her notebook, eyes over eyebrows, in their direction. Her face was unreadable; if she was thinking or feeling anything about the situation I couldn’t tell what it was. I looked back to the two big boys just in time to see them stumble together down the hallway laughing like a couple of drunken Santas. Their vociferous hooting turned heads as it echoed down the hallway as in a canyon, a cinder block canyon. I was pretty sure they meant for the entire hallway to hear their story; to know how much fun they had last night; to be awed by just how shitfaced they were.
I chuckled to myself, as I often do. Hell, I chuckle to myself about myself more often than anything else. I glanced again at the young lady down the bench. She was back to her science book. It was a biology book, I noticed that time, because I could make out the drawing of a body’s circulatory system. Those drawings always made me uncomfortable. My eyes went from the book to her hijab. A connection, a religious-social connection, was made in my mind: I get it; I understand the hijab.
Without getting into the deeper religious significance of the headscarf, I will say what most people are already aware of; the hijab is a symbol of humility, modesty and religious devotion. Similar items can be found in most major religions, including Christianity, and they all attempt to convey the same thing. It is a matter of ‘separateness’ from a world that increasingly seems to value egotism, pride and debauchery. Granted, sometimes women in Islamic society are virtually (if not explicitly) forced into this life of modesty by threat of violence. This essay does not condone or praise such practices. I maintain that religion should be of the heart and the observance of that religion is best to come from within, not by threat of death or castigation. Nonetheless, a practicing Muslim woman who chooses to wear a hijab for the purpose of devotion is inwardly choosing truth and humility over egotism. In a Western society preoccupied with rights and assertions of ego, I have to say: I respect the hijab and the women who devoutly wear them.
Once the jocks were long out of sight, I thought to myself: “This young woman has to be thinking one of two things. Either she desires to be rid of the headscarf and all of her conviction so that she, herself, can live a life like theirs; or she just had every single one of her convictions affirmed and strengthened, and she is thanking God for the hijab.” I am a reasonably good judge of physical behavior and by watching her reaction, I am fairly certain it was not the former. That Wednesday morning, she was presented with a clear and poignant juxtaposition of worldviews. So was I. I understand the hijab because I understand Western society. In a culture that glorifies the “self” as god; where self-denial and moderation are fled from like the plague; where to believe in something concrete rather than whatever the hell you want is considered a weakness, the hijab represents something truly radical: conviction.
