They look at my hijab and they say, ‘Oh, this pathetic woman, a slave.’
They look at my scarf and they say, ‘Oh this poor woman, a slave we should save.’
But let me tell you of a day when I was a slave—a day when I woke up in the morning worried what would become of my hair for the day, what makeup I would put upon my face. When my mind ran desperate for physical beauties to portray. When I cared not about who I was but what I wore that day. When I spent my time growing my hair instead of my mind. When I felt ugly and cried.
Yes, pathetic I was, but pathetic I am not. For the day I put on hijab and began to pray, that was the day I was finally no longer wrongfully enslaved, and to force this freedom away from me, well, that, my friend, would be nothing less than slavery.