The Burqa

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On the bus today, I see a lady in a full burqa for the first time in my life. I'm fascinated. All I can see are her eyes. She digs around in her purse, and the cloth that covers her face hangs down, getting in the way.

I wonder if she is sometimes annoyed that she has to wear the burqa. Then I think, maybe that’s all she knows, and maybe she feels it’s the right thing to do, so she doesn’t mind it. After all, this is the UK. It’s a free country, and lots of the Muslim women around here don’t wear the burqa. She has chosen to wear it, for whatever reason.

I try not to let her notice me staring. She wears a tiny gold wedding band—another thing she has chosen to wear to symbolize her attachment to something. Maybe she doesn’t feel any more repressed than people who wear wedding rings do. And, just like marriage, the feeling of being “trapped” can vary from woman to woman.

I wonder what she looks like under there. I wonder if she feels relaxed being hidden from the world. I wonder if she feels beautiful when the wind blows and her long dress rustles around her body and her face cloth caresses her lips. I imagine the intimacy of women in her culture when they go to each others’ houses and take off the hijab and face cloth. It’s an intimacy similar to lovers who see each other naked, only this kind of intimacy isn’t sexual in nature. It’s more like a sisterhood. I imagine the sighs of relaxation, giggles, touching each others’ faces, the “it’s nice to see you”, the kisses on the cheek, the girl talk that inevitably follows. "How ya been? Tell me EVERYTHING." Almost nosiness into each other’s business, acting like, “We have a right to know. We’re women. We’re family.”

That kind of relationship is probably something I’ll never experience, and for a brief moment, I feel envious of that woman in black. Not that I want to wear a burqa or anything, but if that woman were to show me her smiling face, I would have felt so special.

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