A few years ago, I was featured on another Jubilee Media video, this time highlighting opinions of women from different backgrounds on various social issues. After the video came out, I started receiving messages of support, hate, advice seeking, and more. Then a friend of mine who established and operates a Muslim scarves fashion brand (please note I did not say hijab as this intentional omission is relevant) shared a screenshot of the video, praising and tagging me and another woman on set who identified as a conservative Christian. It was a beautiful shout out and a pleasant coincidence to see the smallness of our world that this Muslim friend was a mutual friend with someone I recently met. I asked my friend how she knew the other woman in the video and to my surprise she said, “Oh, we hire her to model hijabs for us!” Speechless and disappointed, I logged off Instagram without replying, wondering why we feel entitled to outsider respect when we ourselves don’t respect the sanctity and value of the headscarf in Islam?
When the subject of discrimination against Muslims comes up, the default assumption is always external racism and Islamophobia. While there is no denying the existence of these ongoing injustices, the continuous silence about the internal discrimination and prejudices within the Muslim communities is just as harmful, especially to women and women who practice the religious act of wearing the headscarf.
Some could consider it a stretch to deem the use of non-Muslim models for Islam based fashion discrimination, but when we examine this act more closely, and in conjunction with the other internal discriminatory acts of micro and macro aggression Muslim women face for practicing this part of the faith, we recognize the significance of how detrimental these behaviors are. And the issue is we are often reprimanded for speaking out against these internal issues—headscarf related or otherwise. The reason? Fear of the white gaze. Basically, it’s the pressure we as non white (or non mainstream) communities carry to appear flawless for fear of being further targeted. For Muslims, it’s subliminally coercing our members to cover up any and all flaws to avoid having them weaponized against us in the Islamophobic agenda. As a survivor of domestic violence, I understand this fear because by default everything we do or say becomes weaponized, but if we never address these issues and take the risks, how does change happen?
This fear of the white gaze is why Muslims took too long to speak up against the ongoing internal racism, colorism, and classism. It is why Muslim women are silent about experiences of sexual harassment and domestic violence. And it is why only recently have women in headscarves become more vocal about the abuses, harassment, and prejudices they face from their own Muslim communities. And an example of this is that they are overlooked by brands supposedly catering products for them in a market that constantly excludes them.
When I began researching this subject of internal discrimination Muslim women face, my searches came up empty. Every article, journal, or publication focused solely on the external racism women in headscarves face. It reminded me of when I was invited to speak on a panel at UCLA for World Hijab Day and the expectation was that I would echo what all the other Muslim panelists shared about their experiences of wearing the scarf in America: harassment, marginalization, discrimination, etc. by non-Muslims. Instead I shared my honest experience. While I had a handful of racist encounters following September 11th, the majority of the painful experiences related to my scarf come from Muslims (and still do).
The men “courting” me each had some issue with regards to my scarf, asking me often if I would reconsider wearing it. (Two of these men tugged it off because they were bothered by it and felt entitled to see my hair.) I heard about a job opening at a Muslim Arab owned business and inquired about the application but was told they wouldn’t hire someone in a headscarf. Often I am marginalized and alienated from various social spaces and groups because I am the only “visible” Muslim in the group and it is a discomfort to the “discreet” Muslims. The irony is I am constantly welcomed and treated better by non-Muslims for (a) my headscarf and (b) embracing my full cultural and religious identity, things I am rarely praised for by my own people. My “visibility” has never really been an issue for me as an American in America.
I have been wearing the scarf since I was seven so it has become a proud and integral part of my identity that any outsider’s hate never fazes me. Rather, it is my own people’s loathing that subconsciously makes it heavy. We experience this daily and so insidiously that it’s almost an acceptable unspoken hate. It’s even been injected into our own media productions that I’m not sure Muslims themselves even recognize its normalization. The series Ramy is a perfect example of this, among many other Muslim and Arab based films and shows that subliminally layer an antipathetic tone around the headscarf.
The idea of religiosity, and visible religiosity, among Muslims has become associated with negativity. In these media depictions, the headscarf is either worn by old women (depicted as outdated and ultra traditional) or by women of the lower socioeconomic classes. Religion and wealth are portrayed at odds with one another when nothing in Islam demands such a vast separation.
I recently binge watched an Egyptian drama on Netflix and paid attention to the fact that the only woman (of the entire Muslim characters) to wear the scarf was the darker skinned Bedouin midwife who appears twice in the show and is paid under the table to handle a pregnancy scandal. The rest of the women were instead adorned with diamonds, perfectly blow dried hair, and the classic 50s headbands. The show takes place between the years of 1949 to 1952 and is saturated with adoration of Eurocentrism. While the show was primarily in Arabic, the occasional English and French were thrown in as an accent to their high class. This is still a pretty relevant act Arabs do across the Middle East, as if to give a nod to higher status that is white culture and brush off their original culture.
Needless to say, I’ve become infatuated with understanding the history and context of Arab culture and Islam in relation to imperialism, and how this played a role in affecting Islamic interpretation and teaching. In the Quran, the word “hijab” appears multiple times, but never in reference to the headscarf. Rather it means barrier or partition and refers to a tangible wall or curtain that creates a separation between people or places. Therefore, when people state that “hijab” is not mandatory, they’re actually correct, because how can a woman be mandated to “wear a partition/wall”?
However, what does come in the Quran about the headscarf is one simple clear verse in Chapter 24 that shows us the correct word is khimar.
So I can’t help but wonder how and why did this switch happen? And why hasn’t it been avidly addressed? In the age of “language matters” why have Muslims allowed centuries to pass without recognizing the gravity of what calling our headscarf “hijab” does to the culture of women?
I won't only pinpoint Muslims as the religious group that sustains male gatekeepers of religious knowledge, I know it happens in many other religions, but as Muslims whose scripture calls upon us to “Read” and to use our minds and question, how have we let this continue? How have we assumed that the internal sexism and prejudices we face for choosing to practice this part of our faith is unrelated to the culture that language and terminology create?
When you call what a Muslim woman wears a hijab, a wall, a separating partition, you are establishing a solid platform for marginalization and harassment. You are enforcing the standard that a woman is to be distanced and controlled. You are telling her she is no longer part of the majority, the community of believers. She is held to unreasonable and unfair standards to the point where so many Muslim women get exhausted and begin contemplating taking it off. (And many have done so because of this but do not reveal the reasons publicly.)
All of this led me to research further and create a space to start this conversation. This began with an online survey where Muslim women who wear the headscarf anonymously answered questions that sought to understand how they experience these prejudices and abuses and why they feel they were happening. Below are infographics of some of the data collected that left me feeling hurt but also empowered to move forward in continuing this necessary conversation for change.
My goal is to not only keep an open space for Muslim women to safely share their concerns, but also begin initiatives to get our community to start using the correct language in association with this religious practice. I believe this needs to start with all these Muslim fashion brands who continue perpetuating not only the wrong term, but also the mainstream sexualization and objectification of women to sell their products.
Our religious dress code doesn’t need to be unattractive, but it also doesn’t have to be sensationalized to fit the white gaze (nor the male gaze) as a means for acceptability. This is actually one of the reasons why these brands pursue non-Muslim models and it’s another part of the problem. They know that the way they position their models and the way they dress them do not align with the religious guidelines, so instead they hire outsiders to make sexy what should be a sacred expression of faith. Other reasons for hiring non-Muslim models (when I asked around) were:
Seeking professionals — which really didn’t cut it for me as an excuse because again, what are we modeling? A race car? It’s a headscarf that should be comfortable, versatile, and do its job. Also, it takes a good photographer with effective communication skills to get great shots from a comfortable “model”.
Preferring attractive women — yikes! When I learned this one, I was pretty disheartened. Muslim women in the headscarf face constant spoken and unspoken beauty and self esteem struggles, but instead of providing a place to uplift and empower them, these “hijab” brands are furthering the unrealistic beauty standards of the white (and male) gaze.
Like I said before, there is so much to unpack and research here, but that excites me because it means there’s a long and full journey ahead that includes learning more about the experiences and narratives of other Muslim women, the historical context of external influences on culture and religion (primarily imperialism), and how language and (mis)translation continue to impact the proper education of religion.
