yes i know where the mosque is
By the end of my first semester, I could already count a handful of times that a stranger had stopped me on the sidewalk, asking for directions to the campus mosque. I’m hijabi, so asking me makes sense – who else going through Reiss could answer? The people who stop me have certain expectations of what I should know – and in cases like this, I am able to not only meet, but exceed those expectations. I could give you directions to the mosque from almost anywhere on campus. I know there is a one way staircase leading to the VCW patio. I know it houses a Quran with a sticker that says “property of GW MSA, do not remove it”. I know three dried date seeds sat on the back shelf of his storage cupboard for who knows how long.
But this question forces me to wonder what people expect of me purely because of how I present myself – their assumptions about what I know and how I think.
Wearing the hijab is a conscious decision that lets people know my religion at first glance. Hijabis are like the headlights of Muslims: we are easy to see and people gravitate towards us when they have a question related to Islam. Being a recognizable representative of my religion is a responsibility that I know comes with wearing the hijab, but its implications are not necessarily negative. It pushes me to learn more about my faith while exerting positive pressure to strengthen my spirituality. But in the end, the only thing that will really make me more religious is my own desire. Eventually, these pressures outlast their usefulness, and the continually high expectations of hijabis become unreachable and daunting, even unbearable.
And those expectations are everywhere. They can manifest as anything from simple questions about directions to complex grills about the history of Islamic empires. She’s an English tutor, hijabi herself, who expects me to understand the nuances of Arabic (which I don’t speak). But hijabis are not walking textbooks. We don’t know all the details of our religion and we don’t all speak Arabic. When people equate wearing the hijab with knowing everything about Islam, I want to meet their expectations even if it’s impossible. And when I can’t, I feel – at least a little – like a failure. I feel like a bad Muslim and blame myself for not knowing the answer to every possible question.
The root of this problem is the idea that hijabis are somehow inexhaustible sources of information. People seem to think that if someone is committed enough to wear hijab, they must also have the education and experience that generates specialized knowledge. And here we run into a second problem: expecting hijabis to know more goes hand in hand with expecting non-hijabis to know less.
Pitting Muslim women against each other in a spiritual hierarchy is one of my biggest pet peeves. Just because a woman wears the hijab does not automatically mean that she is more religious or a “better Muslim” than one who does not. While unrealistic expectations of hijabis put unreasonable pressure on them, it also invalidates other Muslim women. This reinforces the idea that non-hijabis are somehow less observant, less knowledgeable, less knowledgeable – less Muslim. This mentality is harmful to all Muslim women, depressing their innate drive to foster their spirituality while simultaneously invalidating their identity as Muslims. Hijabis feel discouraged when expectations of them are too high and the resulting feelings of incompetence undermine their confidence in their faith, while non-hijabis feel discouraged and ignored as Muslims when expectations of their respect are too low.
But while many presumptions focus on what hijabis know, others concern what and how we think. These are a little harder to identify because they show up in smaller, almost invisible moments. These are couples normally comfortable with PDAs that let go of each other’s hands when I pass. They are close friends who exclude me from conversations about their love life while we sit at the same lunch table. He’s a well-meaning friend who starts a deer-hunting story with, “I don’t mean to offend you because of your religion, but…” (To this day, I don’t understand how that would be offensive, but I digress).
People assume that hijabis live in a separate universe – our physical expression of faith is interpreted as an indicator that we are fundamentally incompatible with the time period in which we live. It seems that people’s schemas of Muslims and hijabis are built around what they have read in world history textbooks and are not representative of the modern diverse community. They assume that hijabis are immune to typical student struggles. Or that we would be offended by how others choose to live their lives. It’s as if we somehow existed in the 17th century: we have no understanding of pop culture or the realities of college life, and of course we couldn’t memorize a Tik Tok dance. . We are expected to know everything about our religion, but nothing about anything else. This helps label hijabis as “others” and allows our exclusion from our larger community of peers.
These assumptions are infuriating. I’m a 19-year-old student, but my classmates see me as a conservative grandmother who isn’t interested in the shenanigans of young people these days. I automatically feel unwelcome in social spaces, which makes me hesitant to enter them or meet new people.
And that issues: Assumptions about hijabis carry more weight than you might imagine. It is unfair to expect us to know everything and it is unfair to expect us to know nothing. Interacting with us the same way you interact with anyone else allows us to simply exist. It frees us to set our own religious expectations and fights against the invalidation of non-hijab Muslim women.
So if there is a hijabi in your introductory islam class, don’t expect her to get top marks. Don’t make her the spokesperson for two billion Muslims she has never met. If you have a burning question about Islam, think twice before asking an unsuspecting hijabi. Interfaith understanding and education is important – it makes us all feel valued in a diverse community while respecting our differences, but individual members of the Muslim community should not be responsible for providing you with this education. While we appreciate you trying to learn more about our faith, we also appreciate you saving your questions for a more appropriate time, place, and person (such as a qualified religious leader). Or even better, start by trying to find the answer yourself. And if you can’t find a good starting point for your search, that’s one thing you can ask me. I know where the mosque is.