“Hijab Fatigue”, noun: 1: a feeling of tiredness brought on by discussions of Muslim women and particularly their clothing 2: the assumption that everything that can be said about Muslim women has already been said.
When I was asked to contribute to Cut from the Same Cloth, I was excited. In the arena of ideas, Muslim women are almost always spoken for, usually by non-Muslims, non-hijab-wearing Muslims, or people of “Muslim heritage”. Visibly Muslim women are rarely provided a platform that isn’t about someone else’s agenda. Often, it’s feels like Muslim women are only valuable when they’re selling something, or when they’re oppressed/silenced. As silent, invisible beings, Muslim women serve specific political purposes: we make mainstream feminists feel good about being liberated, we make secular liberals feel progressive, we provide anti-Islamic media outlets and YouTubers with plenty of revenue, and an excellent excuse for the government to commit all manner of crimes in the name of saving us.
Perhaps naïvely, I assumed that people would be on board with the collection’s aim to provide a space for women to speak for themselves. Without outing my supposedly “woke” liberal friends and colleagues, I’ve learnt that many people – Muslims and non-Muslims alike – find the premise of a collection written by visibly Muslim women uncomfortable. I want to explore this discomfort, as it suggests something important about our present moment.
Firstly, there seems to be an underlying assumption that Cut from the Same Cloth is a space for women who wear the hijab (hijabis) to write more about the hijab, as if all we discuss in private are head coverings. Indeed, discussions about Muslims usually revolve around the same tired subjects, so I get it. Hijab fatigue is very real. It’s little wonder non-hijab wearers seem to be experiencing hijab fatigue as if they were the ones wearing the hijab. But imagine reading yet another article about the hijab, yet another book which claims to reveal the “hidden lives” of Muslim women when you, yourself, are a Muslim woman. The sheer quantity of poorly researched and polemical content would beat anyone into submission.
However, there’s a difference between people discussing women and women speaking for themselves. This collection aims to move beyond victim narratives, ‘misery memoirs’, or academic anthropology. Cut from the Same Cloth isn’t profiting off of our vulnerability or using us – instead it celebrates our differences, our bravery, and our resilience. It comes from a place of love rather than sympathy, or shady political manoeuvrings. It is the first anthology to unapologetically centre practising Muslim women who live in the middle of the domestic war on terror. It features women from all walks of life, of various racial, ethnic and geographical backgrounds. To me, such a collection enacts the universality of Islam without effacing our individual differences.
The less charitable explanation for everyone’s discomfort is simply that we are openly religious. This causes issues for non-Muslims and secular Muslims. Whilst it is unacceptable to shout racist slurs in the street, discussing Islam’s backwardness is de rigueur. And many accept the popular narrative about religion and Islam – that Islam is regressive, patriarchal and that, because we are believers, whatever we have to say won’t be worth hearing. People want to sympathise, to pity us – but giving us the space to speak? That would ruin the dynamic we have, wouldn’t it? We are more useful as silent victims.
To support this collection means questioning the fundamental “truths” many have about hijabis. We may present difficulties for the liberal imagination – but that’s what makes us valuable. We’re here to provide a reality check, to speak truth to power. To be clear: all the writers have complete freedom to choose what we write about. Essays will be on a range of topics, from personal journeys, to anti-blackness in our communities, to exploring Islam and feminism, to being disabled and Muslim.
I want to hear about what hijabis have to say about their lives and their experiences. And you should too. I want feminists who hate the hijab to read this. I want the men who questioned the necessity of this project to read this. I want the men who have comforted their wives and daughters after yet another day of racial aggression to read this. I want the politicians and writers who have so much to say about Muslim women to read this. Most of all, I want to reach Muslim women of all ages and from all backgrounds, for them to read this collection, and feel the love, compassion and empathy from the contributors who made this collection happen.
We want to have conversations about anti-blackness, about feminism, about being made to feel like a guest in my own country, about colonial legacies, about social media, about motherhood, about Bake Off’s Nadiya Hussain, pop culture analysis, and about the power of the written word. We want to hear personal stories of survival. And personally, I want to discuss with my fellow hijab-wearers our experiences of violence, as well as relationships, love, and how we cope – I want to showcase our amazing talents, but also explore our vulnerabilities in a safe context.
Despite being a targeted community, we still survive and thrive in the face of adversity, and those stories are worth hearing. To me, wearing such a politicised article of faith in these times is an act of beautiful defiance. Cut from the Same Cloth is here to celebrate us, to heal, and to talk to each other, as much as it is to talk to everyone else.