“Why do you take that Veil?”
A question you ask me every day,
It holds a significance to me I express.
You still look at me like I’m a damsel in distress.
My freedom taken away,
my thoughts repressed.
“You know you’ll look pretty with your hair out”
Isn’t that how you always come about?
I shrug my shoulders saying “I guess”
Wondering if hair really is the only good characteristic one can possess.
Then you look at me with that sympathetic expression
Like I’m a victim of oppression
But are you going to be disappointed if I tell you
All your assumptions are askew,
No, I’m not oppressed,
No I’m not controlled.
It’s about time the reality unfolds,
This piece of cloth you look at so scornfully
Is a mark of piety to me.
So what if I don’t show my hair,
Does my hair define my identity?