Ibra(him)

Soft fabric, fluttering in the wind - a gentle lilac covered with delicate, white flowers - crossed my vision. I froze, awed by the dancing, intricately embroidered pattern that I had felt drawn to the moment my sister was gifted it for her sixteenth birthday.

"Astaghfirullah. Pin your hijab better, habibti." With an exasperated sigh, mother stepped closer to Amina, reaching out to help her refasten her hijab, tucking away strands of stray dark hair underneath the head covering.

Pulling her head back enough to show irritation, but still staying put to let mother fix her appearance, Amina let out her own heavy exhale. "Sorry, ummi. Someone was rushing me out of the house." 

Mother swatted at Amina's shoulder, but there was no malice behind it as her eyes sparkled down at her daughter. Her gaze then shifted back to me. I forced myself to move forward, but still she barked out, "Come, habibi."

My stomach pinched at the word as I silently filed into the car behind my sister, but as the soothing motion of the driving started, a glimmer of relief filled me. It was the last day of school, and I couldn't wait for it to be over. Not only have I been burnt out entirely, but summer was always a time of peace, where I didn't have to see anyone just for them to bully me relentlessly.I felt a sharp pang in my heart, though, as I was reminded that this was the very last day of high school for my sister. In only a few months, she would be at a college hundreds of miles away.

"You okay, Ibra?"

A sound of displeasure catches in mother's throat; she hated it when Amina called me that. "It makes him sound girly," was her reasoning. But still, Amina persisted, and I have never known how to fully express how light it makes me feel.

"Yeah. Just glad the year's finally over." I gave her a tight smile. She knew how much I suffered at school, but I don't think she knew that seeing her in the hallways was the only thing that made it bearable. She tried to stand up for me at the beginning of the year, but I told her not to, because she wasn't in much of a position to do so anyway. She stuck out like a sore thumb herself, being the only student with her hair covered, and she had her own bullies to fend off.

Amina smiled back, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder, and I couldn't help but be reminded of how beautiful she was, and how kind. She was everything I wanted to be. I already missed her dearly, and she wasn't even gone yet.

When we pulled up at school, Amina gave me a one-armed hug before we parted ways inside. I watched her until she, and the floral pattern wrapped around her head, turned a corner. 

In my classes, which had lost any semblance of structure about a week ago, I sat alone in a corner and doodled in my sketchbook. It was filled with beautiful women, with soft curves and gentle features. Many times I would draw the woman's outline, the hijab framing her face, and I would want to fill it in my own eyes, my own nose, my own mouth. But then I would chastise myself for dreaming, knowing they would ruin the illusion, and I would replace them with Amina'a features, or that of a stranger.

When I wasn't drawing, I was daydreaming, as I often did to get away from the reality of my life and who I was. I pictured a life where I went to a school with people who actually liked me, and not just me, but the me I wished I was. The me that had soft curves and gentle features, framed by a gorgeous hijab. But as always, this fantasy would be broken by my own mind, telling me that I was an abomination for such thoughts, echoing the words and prayers to Allah for a proper son spoken by my father when he caught me playing dress up with Amina's clothes as a child. Amina had comforted me after, telling me that she would share her clothes with me whenever I wanted, but I never asked. That version of me could never exist, and the world told me that loud and clear.

As I approached my locker at the end of the school day, I expected the words spelled out in block letters on individual sticky notes, wondering which insult or slur was being advertised to me today. "Terrorist", perhaps, or "sissy boy". I sometimes wondered what the janitor thought, seeing a paper rainbow of sticky notes at the top of the trash nearest my locker every day.

But to my surprise, there wasn't a collection of notes, bottoms sticking out to taunt me. There was just one. And that terrified me.

I carefully peeled it off the metal and looked over the words, lowercase letters all written together: a gift for you

Stunned, unsure of what exactly this note was referring to, I glanced around at my peers passing by, hoping one of them would give something away. But as usual, everyone walked right past me, ignoring me and the public display that I would typically be tearing down as quickly as possible.

Trying to shake away my unnerved feelings, I slipped the note into my pocket and opened my locker. It was then that I understood the message - sitting atop my books was a small package, wrapped in brown paper tied together with a neat bow made of string.

My heart began to race. I didn't know what was in the package, but I was expecting the worst. Maybe a bomb, or a gross imitation of one to try to prevent me from coming back to school next year. Maybe dog shit, or some other disgusting excrement of an animal. Maybe a whole collection of letters, gathered from every student in the school and compiled into one package, telling me I would be better off dead.

I carefully picked the supposed gift up by a corner, tentatively poking one of the flat sides. Whatever was inside didn't feel very solid, which confused me. Before I could think too deeply, though, my phone began to vibrate in my pocket. I quickly shoved the package inside my backpack - it would be dumb to open it at school anyway - and answered the call, not needing to look at who it was.

"Aasif, ummi. I'll be right out."

I shoved the rest of my belongings in my backpack and slammed my locker shut, slipping my lock into my pocket. I sped outside, head down, to where my mother and sister were waiting for me.

As I crawled into the backseat of the car, I debated asking Amina if she had seen anyone breaking into my locker. I quickly realized, however, that that would have to wait, because I didn't want to interrupt the tense conversation that seemed to be occurring.

"It was torn, ummi," Amina was in the middle of saying, frustration seeping through her voice.

"That is no excuse to be so wasteful, habibti!" 

"What's going-?" My quiet voice died on my lips as I realized I would simply be ignored as mother began rapidly listing off ways Amina could have repurposed the fabric.

I looked over Amina and saw the cause of the argument: she was now donning a simple, white hijab. I wondered when she had changed it, and why. Her previous words caught up to my brain and I finally pieced it together - the hijab she had on this morning had ripped somehow.

In that moment, I felt a loss I knew I couldn't express. Though it was Amina's, it had been my favorite hijab of hers. It was beautiful, and it had complimented her brown skin - the same shade as mine - so well.

"Look, I'm sorry, ummi. But it's just not mine anymore, okay?" From Amina's raised tone, we all knew the conversation was over.

"Astaghfirullah," mother muttered under her breath. 

Silence filled the car as we drove home. I peered out the window and, with the excitement of the argument over, thought back to the package in my bag. The anticipation of finding out what it was was killing me. I had limited self-restraint, a trait found in all of my family, and I knew I'd rip it open as soon as we got home. Running to my bedroom and carefully shutting the door, I emptied my backpack out onto my bed, my hand groping over my bed sheets to grip the brown paper and pull it onto my lap. I carefully slid my finger under the string and undid the bow, slowly lifting the paper up to reveal...

I let out a small gasp. It was Amina's hijab. The lilac one, covered with delicate, white flowers. The one that, upon close inspection, was not ripped at all. But...why would she give it to me, of all people? 

A slip of paper fell out between the folds of the fabric and I picked it up, seeing the same neat handwriting on the post-it note. The message was simple, but it tugged at my heartstrings:

ukhti, no amount of distance between us will break our bond

Memories of our childhood flashed through my mind - the way she would always try to include me in activites mother deemed too girly, her words of encouragement when I decided to let my hair grow long, her kind smiles when she caught me staring at her hijabs, her gentle taps on our shared wall at night when I would cry, feeling out of place and like I didn't belong the way I was.

With a trembling hand, I touched the wall between our rooms and softly rapped my knuckles against it. I waited, wondering if she was even in her room, when I heard her quick footsteps reach my door. She knocked before bursting in, a wide grin on her face.

"Amina." I didn't know what else to say, my throat closing up with emotion. 

She pulled me into a hug and I trembled in her arms, tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. She saw me, she always had, and I never allowed myself to understand that.

"I wanted to wait and give it to you right before I left, but you know me: I just couldn't wait!" she explained excitedly. "I want you to have it, okay? I know how much you like it."

"But I can't wear it," I tried to say, even as my fingers itched to put it on.

Amina pulled away, though she kept a hold of my shoulders. "Ibra," she scolded gently. "I've known you're my sister for years now. Unless I got it wrong?" Doubt suddenly clouded her vision, but I shook my head to chase it away, tears now falling freely. I tried to speak, but I couldn't. Despite finally being seen, I still wasn't at a place where I could vocalize what she had known, what I had known, for so long.

Amina reached up and brushed the wetness away from my cheeks. "Don't cry, ukhti. I wanted to gift this to you because I know it'll be hard when I leave - for me, too. So whenever you miss me, you can put this on and know that I'm thinking about you, too. And then, when you finally get away from this hellhole, you can wear it out proudly and finally be yourself." 

I pulled her into another tight hug, still not able to form coherent sentences, feeling light in her embrace. The version of me that I truly wanted to be did exist, and with this simple gesture, this simple gift, Amina told me that loud and clear.