I remember twelve years ago when I started to take my hijaab quite seriously.

It wasn't perfect. I often let my neck uncovered, my arms were sometimes exposed, and my shirts were not long enough to cover my thighs. Nonetheless, I didn't dare expose my hair to non-mahrams. That was all that mattered to me at that time.  So, I'd wear my veil even at home.

I remember the look at my aunt's face when she saw me wear my veil during lunch. She was puzzled. She looked at me intently as if trying to figure out what was up with me. Why was I wearing a veil at home? Did she just call me "religious"?

At that time, I was the only granddaughter on my father's side of the family who was wearing a veil. For that, I was regarded as the religious one. But I couldn't even read the Qur'an. Astaghfirullah. I experienced being called an "ustadza" because of my hijaab. I also remember being asked if I was already a hadja. It was strange hearing those remarks from my Muslim brothers and sisters. It was as if wearing a hijaab was something extraordinary and not obligatory upon a Muslimah. Wearing a hijaab does not make a woman religious. It makes her a Muslim, a servant of Allah who wishes to please her Lord by following His Command.

It wasn't really a hijab.

I was on my senior year in high school when I was first convinced to wear my hijab. Well, it wasn’t really a hijab. At sixteen, I wasn’t even aware of the concept of “hijab”. At that time, I called it “tundong”.

It was Friday. While my Catholic classmates went to hear their First Friday Mass, the rest of us were gathered at the terrace to hear a lecture on Islam. Our guest speaker was a convert who spoke different languages. He went to the stage, silently browsed the audience and asked, “Who among you here is a Muslim?” We all raised our hands. He said, “I only see two.” He then pointed to the two students who were wearing their hijab.

After the lecture, I asked my parents to buy me a “tundong”. I don’t remember their exact reaction to my abrupt decision of covering my hair, but I do remember my mother buying me two pieces of white veil. I then started wearing my veil in school, though not religiously. 

It wasn’t really a hijab. It was supposed to be a hijab but as I look back, I realized that it wasn’t. It didn’t cover my neck or my chest. It covered my hair but exposed my ears. It was just a mere hair covering, and I only wore it together with my school uniform. I guess the lecture didn’t really rub in. But someone had to start somewhere, right?

To write is to unveil.

It is a form of exposure. The writer’s intimate ideas and desire to make them known are comparable to an unveiled woman’s beauty and her longing to be recognized. A writer is comparable to a Muslim woman in a strict Muslim community who dares to remove her veil, and takes the risk of being looked at or criticized the moment she exposes her aurat (or parts of her body that must be concealed from the opposite sex who’s not a member of her immediate family). However, while a writer has his words as weapons in exposing the truth according to his eyes, a woman has her veil to save herself from any exposure to evil glances.

(**This is an excerpt from an essay I wrote in 2005.)