HALF HER DEEN

1. 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑰 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒃𝒐𝒓?

It felt like I was caught in a never-ending game of tug of war, yanked between two strong, clashing emotions.

On one side, there was this undeniable feeling of pride for standing my ground. But on the other side, a wave of regret creeps in, knowing I'd let my emotions get the better of me, once again.

I couldn't shake the feeling that I could've handled it differently, maybe even taken the high road and acted more maturely for once. But I didn't. I acted how I did, and now I'm left to face the fallout—an uncomfortable reality I can't escape.

If only this situation could have been quietly swept under the rug, just this once.

Following everything that went down, my mother called a family meeting. To be fair, it was far from a complete gathering, as not everyone was present but that's neither here nor there. This brings us to the current moment, on a cool Saturday night, the last day of June.

The heavy silence in our modest living room was so palpable you could hear a pin drop. I found myself seated on the carpeted floor, cross-legged, scrutinizing my faded henna-adorned hands. The detailed design, now barely visible, looked more like a skin condition. Among the many stages of the henna process, anyone who has ever had it done would agree that the worst is when it has faded but still lingers on your skin.

I should probably get it redone, I've ignored it for far too long now.

My mother's sharp voice, calling my name, broke the tense silence, pulling me from my thoughts.

And so it begins, once more.

My dear mother possesses many many qualities, but there's one particular trait of hers that stands out – her ability to stare you down when she's upset. I often joke that someone should enroll her in a staring contest because she would win. She stares at you for what feels like hours, and if you tried to outstare her, you'll quickly realise it's a futile attempt. I speak from experience, having attempted this many times.

Once she's happy with the time you've spent under her intense scrutiny, the scolding quickly follows. To avoid this stare-off is why I shifted my focus to my henna-stained hands, which I had done roughly two months ago by a local neighbourhood auntie.

"Yes?" I replied with a smirk, glancing through the small opening in my niqab. In case you're not familiar, a niqab is just a piece of cloth with strings on the sides that you tie to keep it in place.

In essence, it's a garment worn by Muslim women, particularly hijabis, that conceals most of the face, revealing only a small portion which showcases my kohl-outlined hazel eyes. Yes, I wear both the hijab and Niqab by choice, and no, it's not a result of oppression.

"What kind of faces are you hiding under there? Lift the veil; I want to see your face as I address you, Halimah," my mother said impatiently , while my father struggled to stifle his laughter from his seat beside her. She knows me so well. Whether that's a positive or negative trait, I'm currently leaning towards the latter. Come to think of it, it is a disadvantage, as I'm known for being unable to hide my facial expressions—at least that's what my cousin told me.

"Alright, ma," I sighed softly, lifting my black Niqab to rest it on my head, offering her my best attempt at an innocent expression.

"What's this I hear from our neighbor?"

"I don't know which neighbor you're referring to, to be fair, and what you heard, so how am I..." I rambled on, only to cut myself short when I felt her glare intensify. Her laser-like eyes could vanquish anyone in their path, and I knew I was in for a talk, whether I liked it or not.