I can’t breathe. 

The salty drops of sweat trickled down my forehead as I pulled my sleeve over my fingers to wipe it away for the hundredth time. The sun was at its highest peak, the rays burning down hell upon anybody below it. I felt the rage of regret fill my body as I looked down at the poorly decided shoe choice of the day. My dark colored hijab only added to my growing frustration. The crooked, burning, crimson-tiled road left my feet stinging, and my black flats made the situation more uncomfortable with every step. 

“Can we slow down?” I asked desperately, looking forward to my parents, only to notice they’d disappeared within the crowd. 

The narrow road bustled with energy, the noises of Palestinian people echoing between the thin brick walls. Merchants offering every kind of summer foods, fruits, and ingredients were spread throughout the street, each offering a different part of cherished Palestinian culture. My eyes caught on to a younger Palestinian man, shaping falafel and frying them simultaneously. 

Mmmm that looks good.. 

“Figs! Figs! Clean and fresh!” shouted one merchant in Arabic. A frail older Muslim lady sat on a stool, her boxes filled with smaller plastic containers of fresh figs plucked from the trees. My attention quickly drew towards her as I felt my tongue turn dry, reminiscing the sweetness of the fresh purpled fig that would reach my lips, its juice that would sink into the depths of my throat and satisfy my thirst. I really really want some of that.

Noticing my stares of desire, the frail Muslim lady urged me over, “Come, come, my dear! Try them!” Without a second of hesitation I walked over to her, bending down to my knees to take a closer look at what she had to offer. 

“Assalamu Alaikum, what’s your name?” she asked me in Arabic, her voice soft and dear. Her hijab covered over her head, pinned to the top left, hanging over her back. Her black abaya draped over her body, the sleeves cuffed enough to show a bit of her forearm. Her veins looked so fragile that a paper cut alone would be enough to slice right through. The creases and lines that flowed over her arm and face each had a story to tell of their own. 

“Wa Alaikum as Salam, my name is Yasmeen,” I answered slowly, smiling at her. “How much for these, Auntie?” 

“Beautiful name, Yasmeen. Where are you from?” she asked me. She could immediately tell I didn’t live in Palestine from my poor Arabic dialect.

“I live in America, but my parents are from here.” I watched as she picked through the different containers, as if she was looking for something. 

She’s the nicest old lady ever, I thought to myself. 

Her voice reminded me of a gentle stream that traveled through heaven. Her kindness shone through her voice, and even though she was a stranger, I felt I could entrust her with my life. 

“Here.” She held out three perfectly colored ripe figs. “For you, my dear.”

“Oh thank you, Auntie! How much??” 

“Nothing, just take it, from me to you.” She reached out for the palm of my hand, placing them on top.

“Are you sure? I can pay!” I tried to convince her to let me pay instead, but she shook her head. 

“For you, share with your parents,” she assured me, smiling. 

I thanked her for her generosity, saying goodbye and going off to find where my parents had wandered. 

I never want to leave. 

A euphoric burst of pride made its way from the tips of my fingers to my toes. Alhamdulilah. 

I smiled, knowing this memory would stay with me forever. The strong sense of belonging and safety struck its way through my soul. 

This was where I was meant to be, and this is where I wanted to stay. All the women had hijabs wrapped on so elegantly. Mine wasn’t as elegant but I still felt like I belonged. I scolded myself for ever second-guessing my decision to finally wear the hijab in the most beautiful country in the world. 

---

The car came to a complete stop as my dad parked. I felt the tremble of my legs, its bouncing pace quickening as I realized what I had put myself into. It was a now-or-never moment; I couldn’t take it back even if I wanted to. 

“You ready?” My dad turned his head and looked at me, then turned his gaze to the bouncing of my leg. “You’re going to be fine, Yasmeen. We’re doing it together.”

“Y-Yeah, I can do it.”

No I can’t. 

I gripped the material of my pants, taking a deep breath as I tried to calm my nerves. As we got closer to the entrance of the door, fear had already woven its way through every part of my body. My blood felt ice cold and my head felt light, yet my legs took one step to another. 

Stop. Slow down. 

My body didn’t seem to cooperate well with my mind; it did things my mind told it not to. I looked at my phone one last time, checking to make sure my hijab was left the same exact way I had last seen it in the mirror before I left. Of course, it decided to slip and look lopsided. I tugged the rosy-flushed soft fabric to the right, putting it back in its balanced place. The fear of it looking ugly took all my attention, distracting me to the point where my dad’s voice faded into the back of my mind. 

“Yasmeen…Yasmeen??” my dad said, giving me a gentle nudge. I snapped back into reality. 

“Grab a cart for me.” My dad pointed at the line of carts as he entered without me. 

Please don’t leave me here. 

I panicked and quickly ran to the line of carts, grabbing one that had red crusts all over its body and burned from the July heat. I quickly entered behind him, my eyes stuck to his back, not daring to look around me to meet the judging eyes of others. 

They’re all looking at you. Look up.

I froze for a split second, and a shiver ran down my spine as the overwhelming feeling of being watched creeped all over my body. My breath stopped and my heart froze. 

They’re judging you. They’re watching with disgust. Why are you here?

My anxiety and negative thoughts took form in an intense dark cloud that hollowed over me, filled with loud gossip of how others perceived me. An eye opened in the middle of the gray cloud, and I could feel its strong gaze, my body automatically shrinking in fear. 

What is that thing on your head? Who forced you to put that on? Why can’t you be normal like everybody else? Take it off. It doesn’t suit you. 

“Yasmeen?” My dad looked back at me, waiting for me a couple meters ahead. “Yallah, let’s go.” 

“Coming.” Quickening my pace, I began to speed towards my dad, hoping to outrun the voices. 

Please stop. Please leave me alone. 

I stayed close to him, following him through the aisles, avoiding making eye contact with anybody. Nobody looked like me. It was America, after all. People from all over the world lived here. My grip tightened and my eyebrows furrowed. Why was this so hard? It didn’t feel like this back home. Why were things so much easier then? Why did I feel like an alien in the state I was raised in? 

“Do you think the kids want raisin bread?” My dad looked at the bread shelf.

“Yeah they like that one,” I said, not really paying attention, just more focused on staring at the ground. As we passed aisle by aisle, I waited for us to finally come closer to the register. I wanted out. I wanted to go home. My eyes hadn’t been able to meet anyone else’s, afraid of what I would see. Faces of disgust? Concerned eyes? The dark gray eye cloud hovered farther away now, but its gaze was still tight. 

“Thanks,” My dad took his receipt and helped me pull the cart towards the exit.

Finally, thank God. 

As I walked out the exit, I could feel the intensity release from my body. The fear slowly dripped away, and the thoughts became quiet. I looked back for a split second, expecting the cloud to still be behind me, only to see it had been left behind, staring at me from the exit doors. A big breath of relief left me, and I felt the frustrating tears build up in the corners of my eyes. 

It’ll get easier. You’ll get used to it. 

I tried to bring myself back to normalcy. The battle had ended, but the war had just begun.