I had been sitting there for over four hours. My back was aching since I hadn’t changed positions in that uncomfortable little chair, and I was debating whether I could wait much longer before my legs forgot how to function. I had been waiting in the hospital for my mother’s medical procedure to finish, but I myself was a bit delusional as I was quite unwell at the time and was absolutely clueless about how much longer I would be sitting there.

After a long day of perpetual preoccupation; of stair climbing, hard work, and constant vigilance with
no tea breaks. After a regular day of yelling and taunts from our teachers. At a place where we try to
scrub off our feelings; where a heart is analogous to muscle fibre and valves. Where a baby Is a
foetus and a patient is a number. After a day of life and death, I awaited my turn outside the changing
room.

As I travel down my Ramadan memory lanes, I think of myself before and after the last Ramadan, and I realize something happened to me, something changed. Unfortunately, I can’t say I’ve reflected back on all the Ramadans I’ve lived through with consistency; but now that I am, I feel utterly grateful that Allah has not taken me back to Him yet.

I was born in a community where black jilbab along with face covering was a continued tradition dating back to God knows when. If you walked down the street where I grew up, you were not likely to find any Muslim woman even without the face cover, let alone the abaya. To a person in the West, they might think that the community is extreme. But being a part of the community I hardly thought it is so, because jilbab was a part of the culture and tradition. Every girl would grow up seeing her mother wearing it, and as soon as she reached high school, she took it up willingly. It was the same for me. It’s just like how a person might start wearing a tie when he starts going to working. As normal as that.

HEBAH AHMED assessed the weather before she stepped out of her minivan. “It’s windy,” she said with a sigh, tucking a loose bit of hair into her scarf. Her younger sister, Sarah, watched out the window as dust devils danced across the parking lot. “Oh, great,” she said, “I’m going to look like the flying nun.”