They think they know me well to analyze or offer advice,
Maybe
to improve what they see,
Maybe
in anger against what I say,
Or
they just want a better me.
I listen to them, politely smile back, and walk away,
But I keep wondering: what is there to change?
Are they annoyed by the way I dress?
Jeans
and tops
Boots
or trainers
And
a head-scarf,
Not
a stereotype.
(I think, maybe I need to smile less).
Day and night, I roam London streets,
I smile and smile back
when a head-scarfed woman comes ahead:
“Assalam
alykum” is expected by both,
Coded
greeting to know our own:
We
are one community who believe in peace,
“assalam
alykum” “wa alyakum alsalam”.
No
shia or sunni needs to interfere.
It
is a secret language,
Of
stereotypes.
They ask me to remove the scarf:
Angry
maybe
Or
they say it with love.
I
don’t give it religious sanctity,
But
I don’t throw my hair in the wind
Nor
let free a suppressed beauty.
They don’t understand what it means,
To
throw colors on
Black hair:
Pink and blue,
Sometimes cream.
They don’t get how it makes me feel:
At home, while living nomad in a strange world
It is my mother’s Abaya and my sisters’ familiar eyes
It is the country I have left
Confused,
In
fear.
N. F. Mohammed
