Zara - A Story About a Girl and her Hijab

Despite always having worn the Hijab, 25-year-old Zara* felt safe and welcome when she first arrived to Australia from Pakistan. 7 years later she finds herself the victim of glass throwing as she walks down the streets of Sydney, has people stare at her on the train, avoiding sitting next to her and even overhears mothers tell their young children to steer clear of her. Zara has become the epitome of racial slur and typecasting not because of who she is, but what she wears.

“Before I arrived to Australia my father warned me to be careful about what I say and do as I symbolise Islam because I wear the Hijab,” she explains.

“If I wasn’t wearing the Hijab and was doing something wrong nobody would say it’s a Muslim doing it, but because I wear it [the Hijab] he told me to be careful of what I say and do because people will focus on the fact that I am a Muslim, and that would incriminate me." 

But it has not always been this way for Zara. Over the past 3 years her Muslim identity has been magnified, especially in social settings, including on public transport, on the streets and in shopping centres.

Several times Zara has experienced people avoiding sitting next to her on the train, even though the entire cabin has been free. And its not just her, she explains how her friends from various backgrounds experience the same discrimination.

“…To be judged by what is on your head or body is a load of crap,” she exclaims.

“If I was wearing a bikini nobody would notice me in a negative light, so why should they point at me if I have cloth on my head?”

On the day that I conducted my interview, Zara explained to me how she withstood racial typecasting at her local shopping centre just a few hours before.

“I was in the shoe aisle and I noticed a lady circling where I was shopping, just watching me,” she tells me.

"But the moment I walked away I noticed her entering the aisle.”

While walking home recently a car full of young men spotted Zara and her friend and made a U-turn, specifically to yell racial slurs and throw beer cans at them.

“I was petrified,” she admits.

"I was being attacked and I didn’t know how to protect myself. I no longer walk on the streets after 8pm.”

She even experienced a group of males throwing glass bottles at her, which shattered all over her body.

“This made me so sad because I understand that I am a guest here, but is this anyway to treat me?”

Zara is not ignorant to the social stigma attached to Islam and wearing the Hijab. She is aware of the representation Muslims receive in the media all over the world. But what she argues is that her Hijab is not her defining point, and she does not personally relate with what the media portrays.

“Nobody wants to get to know me or why I wear the Hijab, they just want to judge me based on what they see on the TV,” she says.

“I started wearing it [the Hijab] when I was 10 years old and my parents flipped out,” she laughs.

“My mum doesn’t wear it, and they convinced me not to either as I was too young to understand what it represented.”

But today Zara wears it with a purpose.

Having been a victim of sexual abuse when she was just 13 years old, she found a sense of security in wearing the Hijab.

“When I am wearing he the Hijab and stand up against a man other men around me will come and protect me. But if I am not  I am considered 'loose property' and 'fair game' to any man,” she explains.

“No way, that’s not cool.”

Zara does not let the Hijab define her and does not have any issues with going to co-gendered amenities such as the gym or the swimming pool. She does not let the Hijab restrict her or hold her back from doing what she wants.

“To me the Hijab is just a sense of security,” she tells me.

"I don’t think all Muslim girls should wear it. It is simply a freedom of choice.”

Out of the 30 females in her extended family, only Zara and one of her female cousins, who is an American Olympic Weightlifting Champion wear the Hijab.

“It has not stopped her from competing, even though the American Olympic board initially disallowed it,” she says.

“She fought for her right to wear it. The Hijab did not stop her, in fact it empowered her to become who she wanted to be.”

Zara admits that her Hijab may "scare people," but she definitely doesn't feel sorry for herself.

“In fact, I feel sorry for those people who don’t understand Islam because their minds aren’t broad enough to accept people for who they are," she exclaims. 

"The funniest thing is its not just “Australians” who don’t accept me and my Hijab, but its other cultures also, which is ironic because all Australians (unless you are Indigenous) have come here from other countries so technically everybody is an outsider.”

 “I understand what the news says about Islam and I know that’s why I have been put in this position, but I am proud of my religion and my choices and I will continue to stand up for what I believe in. This is who I am.”

*Name has been changed for identity protection

Lessons of 2015

As another year draws to an end, I lie in bed and reflect on what I have learnt.

Today I came back home from living on my own in Melbourne for 5 months. What an experience! Meeting new people, a new job, just really putting myself out there and learning that I have the ability to do anything, I just have to believe in myself.

To sum up the year, it has been full of good times, great times, failed relationships, ended friendships, tears, laughter, pain, death and even insipid moments.

But when I really think about it, I have learnt a lot. Whether or not I apply these lessons in future years is another thing, but reminiscing on everything that has been, there is definitely something valuable to take out of the year that was:

• Don’t take anything personally. The way people act (and react) is a reflection on them more than it is on you.
• Strength comes from the mind. Your mind controls everything. If your mind is right everything will be right.
• Be patient. Don’t rush. What is due to occur in its own time.
• Don’t run away. Your problems/demons will only hunt you down and try to hurt you more.
• Don’t be so naïve. Giving people “the benefit of the doubt” will often result in heartache.
• Listen to your intuition. This is a big one. Usually what your gut is “screaming” at you is right. Don't fight it, you will only kick yourself harder in the end.
• Don’t assume everything will be okay. Make it okay. Things don’t just “fall into place,” you need to make the good stuff happen.
• Listen to your body. Don’t follow any so-called “rules.” If you’re hungry, eat, if you’re tired rest, if you’re happy smile and if you are sad cry.
• Always be honest. Whether it is with yourself, or with others. don’t try to sugar-coat things or beat around the bush. You will respect yourself and others will respect you more for it.
• Don’t be so whole-hearted when it comes to others. Everyone has their own agenda, and just because you feel a certain way about someone, it doesn’t mean they feel the same about you.
• Listen more than you speak. You will learn more.

So there you have it. That is what I have learnt. Lets see how well I can apply these in the years to come.

My favourite recipes

Panic! At the disco

Depression - such a bad word. Ugly. Almost… dirty. So many people suffer in silence because of the “shame” of it.

I was silent because I didn’t want pity. I was too proud.

“It is just a phase.”

“I am just moody.”

“Once this day ends it will get better.”

“It is normal to feel like this at this age.”

“When I loose weight I will feel better.”

“When I buy that jacket I will feel better.”

My silence was deafening to my ears only. But after years of white noise my screams started to be heard by others, even when I was trying my hardest to stay hush.

It feels like chasing your own tail everyday. You feel exhausted, sick and out of breathe. Your thoughts are racing constantly but mind is numb. Your thoughts are a whirlwind.

Cloudy, grey, the world is out to get you.

On some level you know that you are acting “silly” or “obnoxious”, but your doubts, fears and anxiety get the better of you. It’s a force you can’t reckon with. There is no beating it. It always wins. It has you right where it wants you. And you try to come out on top – you go out, stay in, smoke, drink, eat, don’t eat, whatever – but it always wins. Always.

And then came my highs. Feeling so happy that you could fly. My highs were another force you couldn’t stop. They took control of me. Complete control. I didn’t need to sleep, I didn’t need to eat, I didn’t need anybody – my energy was enough.

Moving fast, talking fast, stuttering, knocking things over, making rash decisions…. People just couldn’t understand me and I could not connect with them. I was on my own level, way beyond everyone else. One night I went clubbing with friends and I was the designated driver, so of course I did not drink any alcohol. I was partying until 6am! The bouncers thought I was on drugs! Talking fast, slurring, moving swiftly…too swiftly. My heart was pounding in my ears all night. That was my “natural high.”

I slept 2 hours and went out all day the next day. On Monday I came crashing down. Way down. I couldn’t  move. Taking steps was a chore and talking was a task. My entire existence was in slow-mo. I was telling myself I was really tired and my body was recovering, but it felt deeper.

And then came my massive panic attack. I was driving and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I was trying to inhale, but my breath was being blocked. The car was caving in on me and my head was spinning. I could feel my heart pounding against my chest, I could hear it in my ears.

“This is it. This is how I am going to die.”

I thought I was having a heart attack. I turned into a street without looking and almost hit another driver. That’s when I pulled over.

“Go to the doctors you have just had a panic attack.” I rang my friend Deb, but when I tried to talk to her all I could do was wale loudly. My body was jerking, tears were streaming down my face and there was nothing I could do to stop. I managed to dispel a few words. She understood.

I sat in the car and stared out the window. I don’t even think I blinked. Suddenly, I snapped out of it and looked at the time. 2 hours had past.

“Depression and bipolar.” That was my diagnosis. I was petrified. I wanted to vomit upon hearing it. I did not want to be classified as insane. Mentally ill. Did I have to tick special boxes when filling out forms and applications?

Bipolar? Me?

I never even considered that. I just thought I was an “extreme” person. I guess I was more extreme than I bargained for.

That night I cried and cried and cried. I crept into my mum’s bedroom while she was asleep and cried in her arms. I couldn’t stop, and all I was saying was “What am I going to do I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

For an entire week after my panic attack my body ached and my eyes were swollen from crying. Everyday I felt exhausted, like I had a run a marathon. My head pounded, I was thirsty all the time and tears would flow down my cheeks at any given time.

I was prescribed anti-depression tablets, which is also used to treat bipolar disorder. I was petrified of medication. I couldn’t even bring myself to have a Panadol when I had a headache. “Let the body heal itself” was what I always said to myself, but this was no cold or headache. I needed to do something because my entire life was spiraling out of control.

A week after taking the medication I started feeling a lot better. You see, I had been suffering anxiety for a few years now and chose to see a therapist rather than take medication. I wanted to get to the “root” of the problem rather than conceal it. But these “demonic diseases” get you. They make you see things not as they truly are and you blunder drastically deeper into the disease. So everyday I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and a heavy feeling in my chest. Inhaling at times was difficult.

“This is what normal people must feel like,” I remember telling mum on the phone. I felt free and unchained. I felt clear headed and light. I just felt…grounded.

The tablets have been a Godsend to me. Three months later I have increased my dose and I feel wonderful. No more attacks or “dark days.” No more mood swings, I am balanced.

From the outside I have always looked like a lead a charmed life. People would look at me and thought I had it all! I had travelled the globe, had a great job, two university degrees, a big family, friends, a social life and so much more.

But inside I was screaming. And my screams were getting louder. My panic attack was my boiling point, just like a pot that screeches until it overflows.

It was a blessing in disguise. My attack truly was the best thing that happened to me. Without it I wouldn’t have been prescribed medication, which has allowed me to feel better. I am able to make better decisions and see situations much clearer and don’t hate being me anymore. It feels wonderful!

The timing was perfect too. My work transferred me interstate to Melbourne about a month after my attack. I was excited about this move – new surrounds, new people and fresh perspective. The greatest part about it all was that I can do it all with a clear mind, and not be succumbed to the agony of my depression.

I moved 7 weeks ago and it has been the best time of my life. I am working, living with a flat-mate, making new friends and spending a lot of time alone, and it is my clearer thoughts that have allowed me the freedom to do all that.

Lentil Soup

As though the phone reception at my mums house wasn’t bad enough, I tried to hear what she was saying on top of the interrupting sounds of her banging, chopping, opening, frying… and so I asked her what she was cooking.

“Vospov shorba”, which from Armenian, directly translates to “lentil soup.”

Oh yum. It sounded perfect on this cold winter, Melbourne afternoon. That was the thing about living out of home. Your mother is not around to make you all those traditional home cooked delicacies that you grew up with.

I asked for the recipe, grabbing the nearest pen and paper I could find.

“Give it to me properly, not in drips and drabs.”

“Okay okay.” She took in a deep breath as she got ready to share her wisdom…properly.

I made the soup. It was...well perfect!

I changed around the recipe a little, adding a little more chicken stock.

I called mum to tell her how well it went.

“How is it?”

“To be honest, better than yours.”

“Oh its like that now is it?”

“Yeah sorry to bust your bubble.”

“That’s okay, just be careful, its addictive, you will probably end up going for a lot of re-fills.”

I was filling up my third plate as she was warning me. I put down the ladle, grabbed my bowl, sat on the dinner table, smirked and continued on sipping (loudly).

The best birthday card I have ever received

A recipe I do not know

I want to write down my favourite recipe, I really really do, but I don’t (exactly) know it.

I mean, I KNOW it, but not in the orthodox “measuring cup” sort of way, that I can write it down and you can pass it on from generation to generation.

This inability to remember (and somewhat follow) recipes comes from my poor at-home “training”, given to me by my mother.

Always having been a foodie my interest in cooking has been rife. I somehow just knew which flavours are best infused together, such as lemon and garlic, coriander and thyme, rosemary with meat, so on.

When I started asking my mother for the recipes of my favourite foods that she would make she simply could not tell me. No, I retract that. She could, kind of tell  me, but in a very rough kind of way. “just a pinch of salt, a little bit of lemon juice, some pepper, a dash of oil.” I never really learnt any of her recipes. It would infuriate me because I wanted to learn, she just did not know how to teach me!

…and now at 26 I am the exact same. I don’t have children but I love cooking and when people ask me for my recipes I just blurt out a list of ingredients with some rough measurements, as though I am throwing it at them.

“What did you put in that vegetable casserole you brought over tonight?”

Spice

Spice

Condiment

Himalayan sea salt

Black pepper

Spice

Chili

Spice

But here I go. I am going to try to tell you my favourite vegan pasta recipe. It is so fresh and crisp, made with zucchini noodles and a heap of vegetables. Totally raw, nutritious and delicious!

It is worth noting that I have only ever made this for myself so all measurements are for one person.

You will need

·     2 x zucchini

·     1 x tomato

·     ¼ green or red capsicum

·     ¼ Spanish onion

·     Generous amount of basil (i mean a lot - you want the flavour and aroma to come through)

·     Handful of parsley

·     Himalayan rock salt

·     Black pepper

·     ½ cup apple cider vinegar

·     ¼ cup cold pressed extra virgin olive oil

(FYI these are all approximate measurements – I usually just chop and add until things start looking right).

What to do

1. Spiralise the zucchinis to make zu-dles (zucchini noodles). You can buy a vegetable spiraliser from any kitchen or homewares store. I think some fruit markets now also sell them.
2. Chop the tomatoes and Spanish onion into diced bruschetta-like cubes.
3. Desiccate the basil and parsley
4. Mix in all ingredients with the noodles, including the apple cider vinegar, olive oil, salt and pepper and mix together.

If you don’t necessarily want this to be a vegan dish you can add some smoked salmon.

Crisp, healthy and fresh…the perfect post weekend detox meal or summer time light lunch!

Again, I am sorry for the approximate measurements – you will get the hang of it, I promise!