It was a chilly night more than 20 years ago when my sister, mother, and I were getting out of our car to head into Walmart. Out of nowhere, we heard someone yell, “Go back to your country. We don’t want you here.” Though it was so long ago, I remember turning around in slow motion, and before I could even see who said it, Ummi replied, “This is our country. We belong here just as much as you do.” More words were exchanged, but by then I was in a daze. Although it wasn’t the first time something like that occurred, you never truly become accustomed to aggressive, unwarranted attacks – that I can say from experience.
Let me offer a little history. I’m a second-generation Black Muslim, originally from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. When I was seven years old, my parents decided to migrate to Houston, Texas -the deep South. At the time, I didn’t wear the hijab, but only a few years later I reached womanhood and it was time for me to put it on. I wasn’t exactly ready, but I really didn’t have a choice. I was homeschooled then, and I’d hear from friends about their experiences wearing hijab to school, including being picked on, having it pulled off, or being called names. It’s no wonder that at the tender age of 11 I wasn’t thrilled about the idea, and being in the South, with its fair share of racism and Islamophobia, didn’t help. I didn’t want to join the victims club because I knew I wasn’t ready.
A Double-Edged Sword
To illustrate the discomfort we often go through, Black Muslim women who wear hijab are outnumbered in two ways – by non-Muslim women who bare all and by some Muslim women who judge us. There’s a perception that Islam belongs to certain regions of the world, which can make us, as Black Muslims, feel like foreigners even in our own spaces. It’s the elephant in the room. Most of the time, we’re the odd ones out, and our modesty and Blackness are equally under attack.
What always adds insult to injury is the dual scrutiny of being questioned by non-Muslims and then facing the same judgment within our faith community. Allah says in the Qur’an, “We created you from different nations and tribes so that you may know one another.” (49:13). But we often act as if we don’t know this ayah. While non-Muslims ask if we’re oppressed, forced to wear hijab, or if we can take it off at home, we go to the masjid only to have fellow Muslims ask if we can read Qur’an in Arabic, if we know how to pray, or when we converted to Islam. What do these comments have in common? They’re all preconceived notions.
The media isn’t much help. It often paints one-sided pictures of Islam, focusing on “liberal” Muslim women who don’t cover, or it spews harmful narratives that fuel misconceptions and fear. This misrepresentation isolates many of us. I know Black Muslims who feel “othered” in community spaces and, in turn, create micro-groups to feel more comfortable. While I understand why, it saddens me. Islam teaches togetherness, and the only judgment allowed is that which enjoins good and forbids evil.
Fostering Growth Through Connections
Growing up with this dynamic made me want to be part of the solution, so I started bringing people together to have conversations about these topics. I soon discovered that this is where the beauty happens, when you realize people are often a product of their environment. They don’t always recognize where their biases come from, but when they sit down and talk, they’re much kinder and more understanding than you might expect.
Even the hijab alone can bring people together by sparking curiosity. When I started working in corporate America in 2007, people would ask genuine questions about Islam and Muslims. Oftentimes, I was the only visible Muslim in the room, so all the focus was on me. That responsibility can be heavy, knowing you’re a walking representation of Islam, but it also taught me resilience. My parents always encouraged their children to be confident in who we are, and corporate America solidified that. When people asked insulting or ignorant questions, I redirected the conversation’s energy and responded with kindness. I learned some people genuinely didn’t know Muslims and were innocently curious.
To my fellow Black muhajabah, particularly those who may be struggling with similar challenges, my advice is simple: First, understand the purpose and function of hijab, then develop love and respect for it. Lastly, be firm and confident in who you are. Identity struggles are tough, especially in a world that judges so harshly.
For non-Muslims, I won’t speak for everyone, but many Muslims, including Black Muslims, love to teach about Islam. If you approach us with kindness, curiosity, and sincerity, nine times out of ten you’ll receive a warm and welcoming response.
Islam is the fastest-growing religion in the world, and while it’s becoming easier to be a visible Black Muslim woman, challenges remain. But our voices need to be heard, so we can’t shy away from spaces where we’re the only ones who look like us.
As a Black Muslim, I’ve faced many bumps along the road, but it’s all been worth it. The intersection of race and religion isn’t easy to navigate, but it is possible, and it’s a path I’m proud to walk every day. I love hijab, and it is a vital part of my identity that’s enabled me to stop caring what others think about me as I wear my faith outwardly. It forces people to focus on more than just my beauty. How could I be oppressed when I have the free will to look and act differently in a world obsessed with conformity? Wearing a hijab makes me feel free, expressive, and fulfilled, and it allows me to represent the religion I love so dearly.
