It was late and I was on my way home.
The metro was unusually empty.
I got on the women-only car with my headphones on,
And a book in hand.
I scanned the women in the car.
No smiles.
No laughter.
It was as if they were saying,
“It’s not really a funny story.”

We arrived at the next stop.
The doors opened.
A girl came in who reminded me of myself back in the day.
Before they forced me to wear the hijab:
A short, flowy skirt.
A wide, decorative belt around her waist.
It made her look like she weighed no more than 55 kg.
A short-sleeved white blouse with small flowers embroidered on it.
The flowers bloomed with the smell of her perfume, which filled up the place.
Smooth black hair.
A kind face wearing simple makeup.

She stood, pretty as a picture,
In the midst of a place that despised beauty.
The eyes of the passengers, once cold and dead, were now filled with anger and jealousy.
Filled with unspoken words I’ve heard before.
Things I’ve heard from the people who forced me to wear the hijab,
In the name of religion, traditions, taboos, decorum, what was right and wrong.

Before I wore the hijab,
Whenever I’d be out and about in the neighborhood,
Umm Mohamed would stop me and say,
“Cover your hair, girl. Don’t be so happy with your beauty.
It’s useless.
You’ll get married one day and you’ll lose everything.
Your beauty will fade away from all the cleaning, washing, taking care of your man and raising the children.
And he still won’t be satisfied.”

Umm Mohamed cut her daughter’s education short and made her get married when she was fifteen years old.
She married a man from the Gulf who was twenty-five years older than her.
Just because he was rich.
All that and her only concern was that I “cover my hair.”

And then there’s Samia, my cousin, who became religious overnight.
She wore the niqab when her husband got promoted as secretary to the most prominent Salafi sheikh,
After being the office secretary of the district’s National Party.
She’d shout at me whenever she’d see me,
“I seek refuge in Allah from the cursed Satan!
I wish I could pluck your hair one by one,
And then decide whether to cut it or burn it all off,
Just so I could put an end to your debauchery.”

And there’s also Mr. Mohamedein, my new manager at work.
The first time he met me, he was trying to be all witty and funny.
“So, are you Christian or Muslim?
If you’re Christian, then may Allah guide you to Islam and wear the hijab so you’re spared hell-fire.
And if you’re Muslim, then you’re surely going to be hung by your hair and thrown in hell.
Save yourself and wear it for your own good.
May Allah guide us all.”
Mr. Mohamedein’s wife divorced him and told everyone at the company that she caught him cheating on her with their neighbor.

Then there’s the company’s security guard whom I heard telling his friend,
“How could her father or brother let her go out like that?
She deserves to get harassed by men.
They look like that and complain about getting harassed.
They deserve it.
She must like getting harassed.
Loose girl!”
This man got fired two weeks later when two girls submitted a harassment complaint against him.

Even my younger sister preaches to me about the hijab when she visits with her husband and children.
“No one will want to marry you if you keep insisting on not wearing it.”
“You can’t win against our shitty society,” she’d say.
“Wear the hijab so people don’t stone you.”

My mother was in tears over my last suitor,
When his mother wouldn’t approve of me because my hair wasn’t covered.
She said it was just as bad as being naked.
My mother relentlessly tried to make me wear the hijab.
She prayed that God would guide me to the right path.
She prayed I would wear it before I got too old to get married.
Four suitors walked out for the same reason.
Because I don’t want to wear the hijab.

My brother and father stopped talking to me.
They stopped treating me like family.
They thought I was loose and an atheist,
Because I don’t want to wear the hijab.

“Enough! Enough!
I’ll do as you wish. I’ll wear it.”
I succumbed to the pressure.
I wore it against my own will.
I’m wearing it for them.
Not for God.

I looked at the girl, and in my head said,
“Lucky you.
You’re able to fearlessly stand against the whole world.
But I was too afraid.
I could never be like you.
Don’t ever give up like I did.”
The girl could feel people’s eyes on her.
She seemed nervous.
I stood closer to her.
I looked at her with comforting eyes.
I was with her.
She looked at me.
She understood.
She relaxed a little bit.

She asked what I was listening to.
I gave her one of my earphones.
I was listening to Mounir’s song, “Oyoun (eyes)”
She smiled as soon as she heard it.
She took out a piece of gum from her pocket and shared it with me.
She took half and I took half.
We chewed the gum and sang along with Mounir.
This was her stop.
She thanked me as she was getting off.
I waved at her.
The door closed.

I looked again at the passengers.
Their eyes were full of fury.
It was as if they wanted to murder me.
I found myself screaming at them,
“Leave her alone!
She’s free to do what she wants!
What’s it to you?
Leave her alone!
She’s free to do what she wants!
She’s free to do what she wants!”