Why is my decision to wear a hijab so often sexualised, vilified, and politicised?

I started wearing the hijab when I was nineteen years old. It was a decision I made for myself with little thought as to what it would mean to others or how it would change the way I was perceived. Though I was changing my outer appearance, I was the same person.

There wasn’t a particular religious citation that drew my attention to the hijab. I had never spoken to anyone about its significance at home or at the madrassah (Islamic Saturday school). There was literally zero education on the hijab to form a balanced opinion about it. I had worn it to the madrassah as a young girl and I liked that it made me feel spiritually aware. 

Plus, I loved one of my teachers who taught there, and she wore it. I wanted to be just like her and so she inspired me in a way. In the Muslim-friendly environment I was in, I wasn’t treated any differently wearing it, and was my own person. The hijab/burka wasn’t reductive. I had no idea of quite how different that would be outside of the bubble I was in.

In my teens, I would say I was a conscientious Muslim. I recited prayers, fasted and I tried to be a just person. My mother said she’d dabbled in the hijab for a short period of time in her teens before removing it. So, there wasn’t any pressure from home to wear it. In fact, my parents liked me dressing in English or ‘modern’ clothes as they liked to call them.

Much like a bride, my existence as an Asian growing up in England seemed to be to impress others or to conform, rather than to let loose and embrace my culture and identity in the way I wanted, without judgement. Given there were so many things that were not permissible in my culture (tattoos, drinking, fillers), wearing the hijab was one of the few ‘halal’ ways of being a rebel. I didn’t need anyone’s approval, nor did I have to ask for my parent’s permission, I wore it because I wanted to.

The hijab gave me a sense of pride in my appearance and a way of tailoring my look. It added style to my outfits, and I relished going shopping to pick up a new one whenever I could. 

Despite my love for the hijab and the style, I know I approached the decision to wear it naïvely. Given I had only felt acceptance from those around me, it led me to expect this from everyone. I didn’t think something as small as wearing a hijab would change anything. However, the scarf completely transformed the way in which people would interact with me. It sent a message to others that I neither intended, nor could I control.

What the hijab removed, unbeknown to me, was my personal identity. I had no space to develop my own self. The hijab slowly morphed into my identity until I couldn’t differentiate between me and the headscarf. Who I was and what I could be was all sidelined as my unofficial and unpaid day job as the Islamic trivia communicator and translator took precedence. Non-Muslim co-workers and passers-by stopped speaking to me and started speaking at me.