Does My Head Look Big in This?

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  While I’m walking through the food court I pass three women who are all wearing the hijab. They’re huddled around a table, talking and eating ice cream. One of them catches my eye and smiles.

  “Assalamu Alaykom,” she says, greeting me with the universal Islamic greeting, Peace be upon you.

  “Walaykom Wassalam,” I reply, smiling back at her. The other two girls also greet me and I reply and they all smile warmly at me. They go back to their conversation and I walk off with a big grin because it is now that I think I begin to understand that there’s more to this hijab than the whole modesty thing. These girls are strangers to me but I know that we all felt an amazing connection, a sense that this cloth binds us in some kind of universal sisterhood.

  I lie in bed that night and replay the scene over and over in my head. I’m experiencing a new identity, a new expression of who I am on the inside, but I know that I’m not alone. I’m not breaking new ground. I’m sharing something with millions of other women around the world and it feels so exciting. I know some people might find it hard to believe but walking around Chadstone tonight I’d never felt so free and sure of who I am. I felt safe that people weren’t judging me and making assumptions about my character from the length of my skirt or the size of my bra. I felt protected from all the crap about beauty and image. As scared as I was walking around the shops in the hijab, I was also experiencing a feeling of empowerment and freedom. I know I have a long way to go. I still dressed to impress and I took ages to get my make-up, clothes and hijab just right. But I didn’t feel I was compromising myself by wanting to make an impression. I was looking and feeling good on my own terms, and boy did that feel awesome.

  My dad wakes me up for the morning fajr, prayer. I’m not my best at dawn and sometimes I throw the pillow and tell him to go away. But most mornings I get up with them to pray. The walk to the bathroom is always a zombie-steps experience. Some mornings I manage to knock into a wall, but that’s actually quite useful for waking me up. Then I perform the wuduh, the ablution, wetting my hands, face, arms, feet and crown of my head. And then we pray. My dad leads the prayer and his voice as he reads the Koran is soft and melodious. And it’s when I’m standing there this morning, in my PJs and a hijab, next to my mum and my dad, kneeling before God, that I feel a strange sense of calm. I feel like nothing can hurt me, and nothing else matters. And that’s when I know I’m ready.

  4

  I’m fast asleep, dreaming of my first day at school, when my alarm goes berserk. I hit the snooze button and slip into that deepest of sleeps, where you know that nothing in the entire universe could offer the slightest temptation for you to get out of bed. Then four minutes pass and that sadistic shrilling device sounds off again. If that’s not bad enough, my mum walks into my room and jumps on me, kissing my face and head.

  “Come on, ya Amal! First day at school!”

  “Five more minutes,” I groan.

  “Ya Amal! Come on! Yallah!” In an act of severe child abuse my bed quilt is mercilessly pulled off my body.

  “Maa! Leave me alone!”

  “I’m making you a nice breakfast. A good start for your first day! Yallah!”

  I eventually manage to fall out of bed and into the shower, where I have a panic attack about my decision. Then the shampoo gets in my eyes. So my panic attack goes from “What will they say about my hijab?” to “Is this soap going to blind me?” I eventually salvage my eyeballs, towel off, put on my uniform and plait my hair. Then I sit on the edge of my bed and study my list. Yep, no doubt about it, the majority of people at school are right-hand columners.

  I’ve just got to take the plunge; that’s the only way to do it. Wear it and then deal with the consequences as they come along. It’s a new term. It’ll be like a fresh start for me. I feel like I’m ready but that my fears have ganged up on my confidence and grabbed it in a headlock. Every minute or so it manages to escape their clutches and come up for fresh air, but then my fears attack again and I’m stuck struggling to feel one emotion, have one stable thought, take one solid stance as the gang warfare goes on.

  It’s like somebody taking weeks to decide to go skydiving. They finally psych themselves up to do it but then they end up standing in the plane ten thousand feet in the air stressing about whether they want to go ahead with it. It’s one jump and the decision is made. No turning back. That’s how I see it. I don’t want to wear it today and then chicken out and rock up to school tomorrow without it. It’s not a game or a fashion statement or a new fad. It’s more serious than that.

  So I take my veil out of the cupboard and stand in front of the mirror, staring at myself. It’s just hair. Follicles attached to my head, which occasionally frizz out anyway. Hair. A piece of material. Hair covered by a piece of material. Nothing to it. Sweet.

  I’ve chosen a plain white scarf, made of a soft chiffon. I think white will be the most appropriate match to my school uniform colours of maroon and yellow. The uniform consists of a maroon shirt with yellow stitching and collar. We have the choice of a pleated maroon skirt or tailored pants. As the skirt is knee-length I wear pants.

  It’s going to be one of those mornings because now my hijab won’t work. I want a perfect shape, a symmetrical arch to frame my face. That means no creases, no flops, no thread pulls. As I’m struggling in front of the mirror Mum comes in and offers to help, but whether it’s about how to wear a shirt, a pair of jeans or a hijab, my dress sense is out of bounds to motherly advice. After pulling and coaxing the material around my face, I finally have the shape I want, and fasten it with a safety pin at my neck. It’s taken me forty-five minutes. Not even moussing my hair takes this long.

  At breakfast, in between force-feeding me scrambled eggs and giving me pep talks on studying hard and staying away from drugs, my mum and dad stare proudly at me in my uniform and hijab. I smile at them but as I turn away I catch them darting anxious looks at each other.

  “What? What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “One last time, ya Amal,” my dad says. “Are you sure about this?”

  “One hundred per cent.” OK, a white lie but I don’t want anybody to know about the butterfly cheering squad in my stomach. Not even my parents.

  “You’ll have to see the principal immediately. You know that, don’t you?” my mum asks. “If only you could have made an appointment.”

  “Yeah, but how could I? School’s been closed.”

  “Ms Walsh would have been in her office during the holidays, Amal, and you know it.”

  “Yeah, well . . . it’s better this way.”

  “What about you talk to her today and start wearing it tomorrow?” my dad suggests.

  I lose my temper. “First of all, that makes it open to negotiation – and it’s not! Second of all, I want to start school upfront about it from the moment I walk through those gates! And third of all—”

  “– you will lower your voice and speak to us with respect.”

  Parents. Honestly. Sometimes they really do think the world revolves around them.

  McCleans is a massive expanse of ovals and courtyards, basketball courts and swimming pools, tree-lined lunch areas, with park benches, shapely hedges, rosebushes and perfectly symmetrical paved tiles. The front gate is lined with mums and dads dropping their kids off in four-wheel drives and BMWs.

  I can’t help missing my old school. Sure, there was nothing fancy about Hidaya, but strangely enough I miss going to a school where you sat in class and smelt the pollution of the nearby factories penetrating the recesses of every window. Where lunch times were spent fighting over a space in the tiny playground. There was one asphalt court and it was versatile enough to accommodate a cricket match, basketball game and kick of the footy. You spent half your lunch time dodging balls as you ducked your way from one side of the school to the other. I loved it. I loved the intimacy of it, that you knew everybody’s name and history. That you
knew the teachers felt it was more than a job. That you could feel they lived and breathed the idea of making the school as big as their dreams. That it didn’t matter that you didn’t have gyms and courtyards and pools and horse-riding and tennis courts. All that mattered was how hard you studied or bludged and your friendships. And it was no big deal if you didn’t have a clue who you were because nobody was asking for an explanation anyway.

  There’s something about McCleans. I just don’t feel at home. How much your dad earns, how many cars you have, whether your money’s “old”, all that sort of crap counts as your initiation ceremony. But even if you do fit the “financial” résumé, some people still don’t make it. Tia Tamos, with her entourage of Mini-Mes, Claire Foster and Rita Mason, made that very clear to me on my first day of school. I was talking to another girl and she asked me where I lived. I overheard Tia snickering with the Mini-Mes about us probably living off the dole. I wanted to smash her porcelain face. That’s how I met Eileen Tanaka. She told me I got it mild. Her father, an optometrist, and mum, a biochemist, were apparently sweatshop factory hands.

  Whenever I walk through the massive gates I feel like Alice in Wonderland, with one too many forks in the road and no Cheshire cat to direct me around.

  This morning, I walk along a fence of perfectly trimmed hedges on my way to the main office to see the headmistress and talk to her about my decision. As I’m walking I notice a group of boys, probably in junior school, standing together laughing. I pass them and I swear to God I have butterflies. Butterflies. Over a group of kids the size of lemmings. I am so idiotic I want to kick myself in the head. They look at me like I’m a biology specimen, but one of them has a Nintendo Game Boy so I’m not worth staring at for long.

  When I eventually arrive at the office the secretary, Mrs Duckely, just about chokes on her coffee. She recovers long enough to ask me why I’m not in home room.

  “I need to see Ms Walsh.”

  “Can’t it wait until recess? Ms Walsh might not be too happy about you skipping home room.”

  I grin at her and whisper conspiratorially: “She doesn’t know I’m wearing the veil.”

  She looks at me with wide eyes and tells me to take a seat.

  I’m buzzed in soon afterwards and enter a large room filled with beautiful mahogany furnishings and plush armchairs. The burgundy walls are decorated with massive portraits of earlier principals and framed photographs of past Year Twelve classes. Trophies and plaques line the floor-to-ceiling shelves.

  Ms Walsh is seated at her desk, her head down as she continues writing. She motions at me to take a seat on the plain pine chair beside her desk. She does this without looking up. I tiptoe across to the chair, then sit down on the edge.

  Please God. Please God. Please God. Don’t let her schiz it on me.

  After half a minute she stops writing. The countdown in my head begins.

  Three.

  “So, Amal, what is so important that –”

  Two.

  “. . .you had to see me first thing –”

  One.

  She looks at me.

  “. . .today. . .”

  I think songs. I think “Take my breath away” and “It’s in your eyes”.

  And then she coughs. Ahh, the comforting sound of an awkward ahem. When in doubt as to how to react, buy some time and roll that phlegm.

  Twice if you must.

  “Ahem . . . er. . .”

  “Hi, Ms Walsh. Sorry to barge in on you without an appointment but because it was school holidays I couldn’t make one and I thought I should see you first thing this morning, before I go to school, you know what I’m saying? I . . . I’ve . . . I’ve decided to wear the hijab. You know how I’m Muslim and all? Well, it’s part of my religion to wear the hijab and I’m sorry if I’ve kind of shocked you like this but it was almost like an overnight decision . . . kind of thing. . .” I stop rambling and look down at my hands nervously, saying a silent prayer that she won’t have a fit.

  She sounds like she needs a ventilator. She draws in a huge breath of air, leans back in her chair and gazes intently at me: “Well now, Amal Mohamed Nas – Nas – Nasru—” I cut her off. It’s too painful to watch. She never fails to stutter like the Rainman when she takes a shot at my surname.

  “Mohamed Nasrullah Abdel-Hakim,” I complete for her. I smile, trying to send off a million happy vibes with every spasmodic twitch of my facial muscles. I’m under no delusions that she’s going to take this easily. After all, she has a reputation for popping a painkiller from the trauma of seeing a student wearing the wrong socks. No chemist will have sufficient supplies for her now.

  Instead, she half smiles, half winces and runs her fingers through her hair. I momentarily feel sorry for her because I’m not about to pretend that this is the equivalent of mismatched socks or the wrong coloured hairclip. There seems to be something almost X-Men-like about this piece of material on my head. Too many people look at it as though it has bizarre powers sewn into its micro-fibres. Powers which transform Muslim girls into UCOs (Unidentified Covered Objects), which turn Muslim girls from an “us” into a “them”. Ms Walsh probably wants to deal with detentions, board meetings, curriculum changes, teachers’ pay rises. Figuring out how to deal with a Muslim kid wearing the veil at her stuffy old grammar school is probably the last thing she expected to pop up in her job description. But although I understand her viewpoint, I’ve got to stand up for myself. As much as I would like to live a comic-book character’s life, I really would rather not be treated like an UCO.

  “Amal . . . hmm. . . I don’t want to – I mean, I want to tread delicately on this . . . sensitive issue . . . hmm. . . Did you speak to anybody about wearing . . . about abandoning our school uniform?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it abandoning.”

  Her eyes narrow. One thing about teachers and principals. They hate to be contradicted.

  I bite my lip, worried she’ll erupt, and then quickly say something before she has a chance to. “I would have spoken to you earlier except today is my first school day wearing it. I made the decision during the holidays.”

  “Hmm . . . now let me see.” She presses her fingers down on her temples. “So your parents have made you wear the veil permanently now? Starting from today? Your first day of term three. Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow? After they’d spoken to me?”

  I stare at her in shock. “My parents? Who mentioned my parents?”

  “The veil, dear.” Her voice is annoyingly phony. “So you’ve been made to wear it from today?”

  “Nobody has made me wear it, Ms Walsh. It’s my decision.” I shift in the chair, my bum numb from the hard wood.

  “Your decision to cover yourself up?” she asks with the faintest hint of scepticism.

  I look at her with a bewildered expression. “Yes, it was my decision.”

  She gives me another ahem. “Well, Amal. I’m not sure what to do here. I hope you appreciate that this isn’t Hid—Hida – your old Coburg school. This is a reputable educational establishment. We have more than one hundred years of proud history. A history of tradition, Amal. Of conformity with the rules and policies of this institution. We have a strict uniform policy. And you have walked in, on your first day back from holidays, and been so presumptuous as to alter it without authorization.”

  “But Ms Walsh, it’s not like I’ve put in an eyebrow ring or grown a mohawk or dyed my uniform pink. I’m still in school uniform. I know it’s the first time a student has worn it but couldn’t you make an exception? I’m not doing this because I’m trying to rebel against the rules.”

  She looks uncomfortable and leans back in her leather chair. “But you’ve made no effort to seek the school’s permission. This certainly wasn’t raised at your enrolment interview. I recall your parents. They seemed like very decent, straightforward people. I’m rather disappointed
they never mentioned this. I saw your mum wearing the veil but I never suspected you would be wearing it too.”

  “But my enrolment interview was more than six months ago! I didn’t seriously start to contemplate going ahead with this until last week. And even then I was still unsure. I only made my final decision four days ago!”

  “Why didn’t you at least approach me when you were thinking about it? You should have consulted me first.”

  It takes me a solid minute to realize my jaw is hanging down.

  “Er . . . it was personal. . .”

  “Well, obviously not. It’s rather public, don’t you think? Personal is something tucked under your shirt. Personal is rosary beads in your pocket. I would submit, Amal, that your veil is not, of all things, personal. Now don’t get me wrong; I respect your religion. We live in a multicultural society and we should accept and tolerate people no matter what their creed, race or colour. But you must understand that I have an educational institution to run and there are certain guidelines. I’m sure your parents will appreciate that.”

  “I’m not going around preaching or anything. It’s something . . . for myself.”

  She looks at me incredulously.

  “My parents had nothing to do with it. They found out last week. They were even concerned for me—”

  “Concerned?”

  “Yes, they were worried I wasn’t ready. Actually, they were freaking out more about how I’d be able to cope. Being the only one in the school with it on.”

  “Let me get this right.” She sits up straight in her chair. “They were actually opposed to this decision to cover up?”

  “Well, not opposed. Just, I don’t know, cautious. Worried for me. Because of the reaction I might get.” I look at her, but she ignores my tone and is suddenly shuffling papers on her desk and flashing me a large, friendly smile.