My Scarf

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