"You Are Oppressed"

"You are oppressed."

Sudden. Abrupt. With no head or tails where that came from. I sit, confused, as the guy sitting across from me continues. “Oppressed and restricted, with no freedom of choice.”

Ooo~k...? Definitely has a screw loose in his head. But how do I respond? I don't want to say the wrong thing, and offer a smile, but then realize...

He can't see it.

"Your men are still living in the stone-age. So controlling, expecting you to only cook and bear children for them, while they go out and work. Are you going to continue tolerating this? When will you finally learn to stand up for yourselves?"

Ah. Another self-righteous ignorant.

I am rendered speechless by his fierce roar. His anger, hot and burning, as if the one subjected to years of injustice isn't me, but him. Which is impossible, of course.

Because he is the same as the others.

All assuming without knowing anything. All believing their assumption to be true without making the effort to find the truth.

But I know the truth.

He's the true oppressor.

So I sit in my corner, watching my friends going over themselves to keep the hockey-hotty—as they like to call him—focused on them.

But from my position, I can see he’s focused on anything but them.

His eyes are glued to their cleavage. His hand sliding up Sarah’s thigh, while he nods along to whatever Jayla is saying.

The music is deafening. I can feel my ears ringing even with the earplugs on. One of the guys Jayla invited tries to give me a drink. I shake my head no, showing him the juice I brought with me.

I always bring my own drinks. I don’t trust the workers or the people who frequent these places. If it were up to me, I would never be here.

But after moving to the west, I made little to no friends.

My cousin, once my best friend, became distant. I sometimes feel like she's embarrassed to be seen with me. Sarah and Jayla are the only ones who accept me despite what they call my weird mannerisms. When they invited me to our senior graduation party for the umpteenth time, I couldn't refuse.

So, sucking up my discomfort, I grabbed my purse and tailed along with them.

See where that got me?

"This is a free country. You don't need to wrap up like a thief." A sneer. Though said in a joking manner, my friend doesn't sound like he's ready to let this topic drop. There's a discernible scorn and ridicule in his voice as he eyes me. His gaze hot, intense, sharp—searing through the layers of fabric meant to serve as protection against gazes like his.

"Yes, sister. Unlike where you came from, women have rights in this country. You have the freedom to dress the way you want."

"No one can force you to do something against your wish. Not even your parents."

His friends echo him, chortling into uproarious laughter. I don't see what's funny, though. I don't see what's so amusing. They're making fun of me, of the way I'm dressed, and yet...

Am I supposed to laugh along with them now? Brush off the sting of their words, or lower my head in embarrassment? Because I am embarrassed. I know I shouldn't be. But I am. Because I always wanted to fit in with the crowd. With their conversations. Their little jokes and banters.

But when situations like this arise, how does one fit in a society where there's already a stereotype? Where clothes define a person instead of the other way around?

Where judgment is passed without investigation or hearing?

How does one show their discomfort in these kinds of gatherings without seeming like a freak?

Sighing, I take a sip of my orange juice, and check the time again.

Just an hour more. As per our agreement, I can leave this place, with or without Jayla and Sarah, after another hour.

Taking another sip of my juice, I see the hockey-hotty stand, and lead the two girls towards a corner. I move without thinking, blocking his way.

“Where are you taking them?” I ask, looking at my friends.

“Why do you care?” He slurs, his eyes darkening with confusion as he takes in my gate-up. “A place like this doesn’t suit you, sister. Go home and read the Qur-ran or something.”

I ignore him and try to free my friends from his embrace.

“Go home, Zaraina! We don’t need you to be a spoil-sport!” Jayla shouts, pushing me away.

“That’s right! Unlike you, we don’t have a curfew. We’ll leave when we want to!”

“Sarah, Jayla, you’re not in your senses right now. Please come with me. We’ll talk once we get home.” I try again, reaching for their arms.

“Oh, for fucks sake, Raina! Leave us alone! We’ll leave when we’re ready!” Another shove bumps me on the counter. My back burns, the pain immobilizing me for a second as I fight back a rush of tears.

I concentrate on my heartbeat, willing it to slow down and ease back into the natural, familiar rhythm. Too fast or too slow sends a distress signal to the brain, causing it to go into a shock. That’s a dangerous scenario for a heart patient.

A few more seconds of measured breathing, and the pain finally recedes.

But when I look up, my friends are gone.

Fools.

I tried to warn them. But no one ever listened to me. No one ever heard, even when I spoke.

I don’t know why I even bother.

It isn’t like this is the first time.

To everyone around me, my dressing style and manner of interaction are backward. A quality better left behind in the first century.

They don’t listen to any advice I give them as long as I have the hijab and the niqab on.

They assume I’m being oppressed just because I listen to my parents. That my family is forcing their values on me because I dress differently from society’s expected standard.

But wearing a head cover and a veil is my personal choice. And my choice isn’t subjected to the whims of humans—men or women alike.

It is the command of my creator to cover myself. And obeying my creator gives me a sense of peace the likes of which no man’s compliment can ever provide me.

I thought this was a free country. I was wrong.

A free country wouldn't have expected standards. A free country wouldn't make you feel like an outcast for dressing a little differently.

They claim I'm oppressed.

But I feel beautiful in my abaya. In my hijab.

In my niqab.

Men don’t look at me the way they look at my cousin or my friends.

When men see me, they either lower their gaze or look the other way. And on the few occasions that they do talk to me, it’s nothing more than a respectful greeting.

My friends don’t see this. Or maybe, they do.

They just don’t want to understand.

They call me mental, a psychopath living in the wrong era.

Oh, if they only knew who the mental one is.

They say we're following trends, keeping up with the changing times. But I ask, who sets this trends?

I don’t feel the need to dress up.

I don’t feel the need to eat certain foods to control my weight. Nor do I feel the need to put on make-up and try to catch the eye of a random guy.

Because I know my worth. I know my value.

They say I'm oppressed.

But their women go through so much stress comparing themselves with other women in an effort to figure out why this guy left them for that woman, and what that woman possessed that they didn’t have that made said guy leave them for her.

I feel burnt out just watching them.

I don't need to live up to anybody's expectation because the only expectation I need to meet is the command of my Creator.

I sigh, grabbing my bag. The music is giving me a headache. Waving through the crowd of screaming teenagers, I walk out of the nightclub into the cool summer night...

They tell me, "you are oppressed."

But I ask them, "what is oppression?"

I'm not forced to wear what's on my body. It is my choice of clothing.

They tell me, "you are oppressed."

But they never stopped to ask me, "are you being oppressed?"

Indeed, they would rather believe the lies fed to them than hear my side of the story.