Don't Feel Sorry For Me.

Sherryfah

Writer/ Qualified health coach/ Fitness expert

Don’t Feel Sorry For Me.

August 6, 2019

assumptions, hate, humanity, islamophobia, Life, life lessons, love., religion, style, way of life

” Aww, I feel sorry for you. You still have to wear the thingy in this heat”.

“Oh, I bet you’re boiling under your scarf”

“How do you feel wearing that in this heat?”.

You see, I am a Muslim and I wear hijab. No, I wasn’t forced to wear it. I did not just pick it up after my marriage. In other words, my hijab has always been part of my life.

But with the temperature soaring above the bearable comes the same old look, gesture and utterances I felt quite uncomfortable with.

Every summer, I brave up for the remarks, summing up the courage to face thoughts behind the utterances. Explaining the truth about my choice of dressing makes no difference to many people. So why do I have to bother about all these?

What I feel in Me.

My body reacts to the weather just like yours. Equally, I feel cold during winter and the scorching hotness of the sun during summer. I sweat like a sacrificed money under the piercing rays of sunlight just like you. Consequently, the biting cold of the winter is of no difference to me, I feel what you feel because we breathe the same air.

Generally speaking, what I wear is not “thingy”, it is called hijab. It is a piece of clothing which I have chosen to cover my head and my bosom. My brain still works oh yes, it nerves connect dutifully enough for me to know my right from my left and the “thingy” doesn’t affect it in any way.

I feel the gaze you fix upon me as I walk past, the thoughts racing through your busy mind show on your pretty face. I don’t mind you having opinions about me, after all, we are all entitled to our opinions, but please don’t feel sorry for me.

Your opinions of me

You shake your head in pity for I represent modern-day slavery to you. You think I was robbed of the freedom to dress as I wish, to walk the street half-naked with my fake hair swaying, flaunting my what my mama gave me, turning heads. Do you really think?

The silence that follows our encounter in the cubicle of the elevator shows your fear. I tried to be nice and put you at peace but the image in you have obstructed my selflessness and sweet nature. Your doubts about me are well written on your fake smiles.

I respect your views about the bad press I get. You are fed wrongly and forcefully. What amazes me is your refusal to be liberated.

Listen to my plea.

You look surprised when I laugh and play with the kids around me. My smile meant nothing to you, within you is the image of the terror and the horror you saw on your TV set. Without knowing me, you judge me forgetting we are all casualties.

Why does it bother you that my girls copy my sense of dressing? They love what they saw. The mother in me. The beauty of my personality. The children of a smoker are more likely to be smokers. Why are you so concern about my girls?

Please listen to my plea. I am not an alien nor do I wear my hijab in the bath. You don’t go fully clothed in the bath, do you?

Nothing about you worries me. I am not bald and my hijab is not to cover my ugliness. I have hair as beautiful and healthy as your imagination could take you.

Of course, my idea of fun is different from yours. I have friends and family that love me. I am safe with you. You are safe with me, but please don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t need your pity.

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Sherryfah

Sherryfah