I Took Off My Hijab. Then I Had a Crisis of Faith.

When I was six, my dad told me that if I missed a prayer, I would make up for it in hell by praying on a praying mat of red-hot steel. That was the moment I became a praying, practicing Muslim. He instilled in me the very fear of God that would eventually steer me away from hijab.

Growing up as a Muslim girl in Egypt, I knew that I would become a woman once I got my period, and women wore hijab. I put on my headscarf when I was 16 because every hair that a man sees on my head equals a sin for me. That’s what they told me, and I did it myself out of fear. 

All my friends started wearing hijab. My cool, older cousin was wearing hijab. She was trendy. Her mom treated her like an adult. All the mature women wore hijab, and that’s what I wanted to be.

After graduating high school and then going to college, my insecurities overcame my religiosity. I couldn’t find anything to wear that didn’t make me look 10 years older. I would see 40-year-old mothers wearing the same blouse as me, while other girls my age would wear jeans and a simple T-shirt and put their hair up in a bun.

I wore a headscarf and thick glasses with frames that bent the scarf around my face. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror and be pleased. I was envious of other women, and then I became envious of men. 

I felt restrained in hijab. I felt like I was lying to myself, pretending to be someone I was not.

I was taught that hijab protected me from the prying eyes of men. I was taught that to be unseen, unnoticed, and unmemorable makes me more valuable, desired, and marriageable.

“Would you eat an unpacked piece of gum?” My father would compare a non-hijabi woman, who “definitely” won’t get married, to an unpacked piece of gum that won’t be eaten.

But it didn’t make sense. I didn’t understand why I had to wrap my head in a piece of cloth in the scorching heat, just to avert the eyes of men who could sexualize me. It didn’t make sense that I, a five-foot, 21-year-old woman, was a sexual being —a siren of some sort, irresistible to men. Why did men get to feel the air in their hair? Why did they get to wear whatever they wanted? Don’t people know that a man with well-defined biceps is attractive to some women? Why isn’t he covering up? 

I felt restrained in hijab. I felt like I was lying to myself, pretending to be someone I was not. It wasn’t even because I was wearing the hijab; I wasn’t even sure I felt like a woman. I just wanted to be human. I didn’t feel that different from men. I didn’t feel like my body was my only redeeming quality, my only valuable possession. I am a person with feelings, values, ideas, hobbies, memories, aspirations, and goals. 

I slowly grew resentful of the organized religion that wanted to reduce me to a sexy body reserved for a man. But after 15 years of praying and having my religious compass guide my every move, it didn’t happen overnight. I was still fearful.

I started searching within the pages of the Quran, the holy script of Islam, for a reason why I had to be tucked away, and continued to pray nonetheless, with one foot in heaven and another in hell. I read about the hijab in the hopes of finding that it was not a main pillar of Islam. Instead, I learned that, just like every religious script, every verse of the Quran could have multiple interpretations depending on the interpreter.

“Why was a holy text up for interpretation?” I would ask myself. Why wasn’t it clear and straightforward? Why do I trust a person who is interpreting through glasses tinted with their own ideology, beliefs, values, learning, and agenda?

I began to have an identity crisis that had me grappling with conflicting religious, cultural, and personal beliefs about femininity and sexuality. 

Much like Alice in Wonderland, I went down a rabbit hole where human evolution collided with Adam and Eve, and geological evidence crashed Noah’s Ark. 

What started as a simple act of trying to be true to myself completely tore down and clawed at my indoctrinated beliefs. I found that most of what the people around me preached and did was not even just about religion; some wore the hijab to keep appearances, and behind closed doors had sex outside of marriage, a sin in Islam. Most of them would swear on Allah’s name with their fingers crossed behind their backs.

I learned that for the 13 centuries that Egypt has been a Muslim country, cultural norms and Islamic practices have intertwined. I found that lots of people around me were more concerned about being called out for not being good Muslims than disappointing their God and going to hell.

Reading under the blanket in dim light, I became agnostic. 

I took off the hijab against my father’s will. The first time I went out without the hijab felt strange. I couldn’t believe the air was blowing away my hair. I couldn’t believe that I was just like every other man: free, valued for my essence and not the hidden parts of my body.

Some of my friends were glad I was happy, but others looked at me from head to toe. My close relatives looked away upon first seeing me, the way one would after walking in on someone in the bathroom.

While everyone knew I took off my hijab, from the cashier working in the local supermarket to my uncle abroad, only a selected few accepted my newfound disapproval of organized religion. And I learned that I can be true to myself — to a limit. 

It wasn’t like I disagreed with Islamic teachings to be kind, generous, respectful, or honest; I just didn’t need to pray five times a day, sacrifice a lamb in a religious ritual, or save my “virginity” and not express my love for my boyfriend through physical touch.

I started living a double life. I know who I am. I have my own values, morals, and ways, and I share myself with those who respect and love me for who I am. 

Years later, I still would rather be comfortable with who I am than make everyone else comfortable, sacrificing myself in the process. I continue to willingly and contentedly play for both sides. I am a professional liar about my religious beliefs by day and a vigilante who follows her own moral code by night. My family, coworkers, and the world around me don’t know who I am, and they don’t need to. Sometimes I have to lie to protect myself. Sometimes it’s not easy. Sometimes it’s okay.