“Can you believe he asked me to stop wearing niqaab?” Veronica’s angry voice carried to the living room as Inaya stepped inside the apartment Monday afternoon.
“I know,” Veronica said, her voice slightly muffled as Inaya quietly closed the front door and locked it. “That’s what I was worried about when I married an Arab. They’re so weak in their religion. Astaghfirullah.”
Upon realizing she was alone, Inaya yanked the damp khimaar from her head and shrugged off the wrinkled jilbaab that she hadn’t bothered to button. After a day of walking bareheaded through the halls (and enjoying it), Inaya had hand-washed the head cover in a restroom sink before going home.
“What about Inaya?” Veronica said, the question halting Inaya’s steps toward her mother’s room to give salaams. “If I take off my face veil, how do I explain that to her?”
Veronica groaned. “Next thing you know, he’s going to ask me to start wearing colored hijabs.”
Silence followed for several seconds before Inaya heard her mother moan in exhaustion. “I know, ukhti,” Veronica said. “I’m not saying it’s haraam. I’m just scared he might ask me to take off hijab eventually.”
Inaya dragged herself to the kitchen, sadness weighing on her as she thought of her father. She wondered when her mother would take her to see him.
“I’m not overreacting,” Veronica said defensively. “Why should I uncover my face? Even if niqaab’s not obligatory, what’s the point of taking it off? I fear Allah, not the people.”
Inaya glanced at the clock. It was almost four o’clock, and she hadn’t even prayed Dhuhr, the early afternoon prayer, and it was almost time for Asr.
“Because that stupid Arab culture made Sa’ad ashamed of his wife.” Veronica’s tone was indignant. “And now I’m supposed to feel ashamed for practicing the Sunnah?” She huffed. “They can keep their on-off hijab crap to themselves.”
Inaya hurried to the bathroom in the hall and closed the door, shutting out her mother’s conversation.
“Bismillaah,” Inaya whispered, marking the start of her pre-prayer ablution. Inaya reached over the sink bowl and turned both knobs, releasing a thin stream of water into an upturned palm.
But even after mentioning Allah’s name, anxiety still knotted in her chest, and she felt the beginning of a migraine.
Had she really spent the entire day without hijab?
Inaya rubbed the water on both hands then filled a hand with water before bringing it to her nose and mouth. The pounding in her head made it difficult to keep track of the steps of wudhoo’, but she squinted her eyes in concentration.
Wash your right arm three times. Wudhoo! Wudhoo! Wash your left arm three times. Wudhoo! Wudhoo! The rhythmic chant that Veronica had sung and clapped with her nine-year-old daughter came back to Inaya right then. At the time, Islam was still new and confounding to Inaya, but she recalled enjoying “playing in the sink” before prayer each day. It was like being baptized over and over again.
As a child, Inaya had prayed to “Allah” by following her mother’s strange bowing and by muttering gibberish in an effort to imitate the foreign words her mother stumbled over. But Inaya never felt she got it right.
Veronica had told her daughter that God wasn’t Prophet Jesus, and Inaya thought, Okay, that makes sense. But how could Inaya pray to a God she couldn’t see? What was she supposed to think about if she couldn’t imagine “Allah” in real form?
The Unseen Creator that Veronica spoke of was the same God that Inaya had imagined when she said “The Father.” Why then was it so difficult for Inaya to erase from her mind the image of a white-haired man with long hair and a flowing beard?
After seven years of being Muslim, things were not as befuddled in Inaya’s mind, but there was still that lingering feeling that something was missing. It was as if her mother took off in a sprint and had grabbed Inaya’s hand and dragged Inaya along before Inaya knew where they were going. Inaya had felt that her legs were too weak and her breath too short as her energy steadily waned.
Then one day her mother snatched Daddy away too.
Inaya turned the faucet knobs, and the stream of water disappeared as the bathroom grew suddenly quiet. In the mirror above the sink, a sad girl stared back at Inaya.
Still, at sixteen years old, Inaya found that no motions of the Muslim prayer and no talks of an Unseen God—or even her mother’s promise of everlasting bliss “one day”— helped Inaya make sense of Daddy being snatched from their lives.
“Pretty brown eyes,” Chris used to sing to Inaya, “you know how much I love you.”
Inaya averted her gaze from her reflection. Why couldn’t Inaya have done something to make her father stay?
No, Daddy, don’t go. Don’t go!
Such simple words, a simple protest.
But Inaya had sat mute, a frozen smile on her face. She said nothing as her father kneeled in front of her and brushed her forehead with a kiss.
“It’s okay, Pretty Brown Eyes,” he’d said as he wiped her eyes. But Inaya hadn’t even known she was crying. “You’re Daddy’s gift.” He pinched her cheek playfully, but Inaya remembered how sad his eyes had looked that day.
“Is that you, Inaya?” Veronica called out as Inaya opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hall. A second later, Veronica stood opposite Inaya, Abdullah resting his head on his mother’s shoulder as she patted him rhythmically on the back.
You know how much I love you. The song Inaya’s father had sang to her was in his eyes when he’d said goodbye, and even now it made Inaya’s throat close in sadness.
Inaya forced a smile as she met her mother’s gaze and closed the bathroom door. “As-salaamu’alaikum,” Inaya said, offering the Muslim greeting of peace.
“Wa’alaiku-mus-salaam,” Veronica replied, a tired smile on her face.
In the awkward silence that followed, Inaya saw the question in her mother’s eyes. She was wondering if Inaya had overheard any of the conversation.
“I didn’t know you were home,” Veronica said.
“I just got here,” Inaya lied. “But I had to rush to the bathroom.”
“Alhamdulillaah.” Veronica looked relieved as she praised God, and Inaya sensed that her mother was grateful that Inaya hadn’t come home while she was talking to her friend.
Veronica drew Inaya into a half hug, and Inaya inhaled the scent of breast milk and baby powder.
“Did you pray Dhuhr?” Veronica asked after she released Inaya.
“I’m about to now.”
“Good,” Veronica said as she hurried back down the hall toward her room. “I’ll pray with you,” she said over her shoulder. “I lost track of time.”
***
The first thing that Inaya saw when she walked into her room after prayer was a large Macy’s bag. Curious, Inaya walked to her bed and lifted it from the comforter before peering inside. There was an unwrapped gift box inside.
Inaya sat on the edge of her bed and carefully pulled out the box then set it on her lap. She held the sides of the top and shook it to release it from the bottom. Inside was a card with a picture of falling leaves on top of translucent white paper.
Inaya lifted the card and opened it. She recognized her stepfather’s script immediately.
Congratulations, Inaya. Your mother told me you’re a Qur’an teacher now. Don’t worry. First days are always tough.
You’re a bright girl, maashaAllah. Just be yourself and the children will love you, bi’idhnillah.
Here’s something I hope will make you feel better.
Love, Dad
The word Dad made Inaya feel distant momentarily. She already had a father. Why did Sa’ad and Veronica imagine he could be replaced?
The sound of paper crumpling interrupted Inaya’s thoughts as she removed the white paper and tossed it on her bed. There was the faint scent of new clothes as folded fuchsia cloth came into view.
Inaya set the box to the side and stood as she held the reddish-purple material in front of her.
A smile creased a corner of Inaya’s mouth, and tears welled in her eyes. Maybe Sa’ad would never be “Dad” to her, but that didn’t keep him from wedging a place for himself in her heart.
Inaya rushed to the mirror to try on the new khimaar. She would wear the hijab to Qur’an school every Saturday, she decided as she wrapped the cloth around her head. She tucked a corner under her chin and ran a palm over its softness. She liked how the color brought out her smooth complexion and brown eyes. She couldn’t keep from smiling at her reflection.
Inaya thought of school the next morning, and her heart dropped. Did she have the strength to put her hijab back on?
Did she even want to?