Holding Hands

Chapter 27

"We're all freshmen here," Samira began. "Maybe since there are four of us, we can find an empty classroom and pray together." She stood up quickly and adjusted her short skirt.

I noticed the look on Salim's face as he gazed at Samira. Something between respect and awe.

"What?" Samira asked. "Should I be offended by that look?" She sighed in disgust. "Just because I don't cover doesn't mean I don't pray." She snatched her bags up more forcefully than she probably meant to.

Salim held his hands up in an offering of peace. "That isn't the thought that crossed my mind. I just figured you might be waiting to get home to pray. It's none of my business anyway." Salim admitted. He was definitely wondering how Samira would be able to make salat without proper clothing.

"You're right. It is none of your business." Samira rolled her eyes and Salim looked away, a bit taken aback by Samira's open hostility. He opened his mouth to respond and then snapped it shut. Perhaps he thought it would be better to keep his comments to himself. I felt offended by his words too. As a man, he wasn't required to cover the way we did. He had no idea what we faced as hijabis living in a non-Muslim majority. Ok, Samira didn't cover. So what? Was Salim saying that if you didn't wear a hijab publicly, you didn't pray either. What did one have to do with the other? I wanted to shake him. Instead, I stood up and silently hoisted my bookbag over my shoulder.

The air was a little tense as we marched off to find an empty classroom for our devotions. The humanities building had several empty classrooms on the second floor. We chose one and got ready for prayer. Salim grabbed paper towels from a nearby bathroom and began laying them on the ground as a clean object to place our faces on during the salat. Bring a prayer rug. I made a mental note to carry a travel prayer rug to school with me.

Only Samira was fully prepared. She pulled out a long black cloth from her book bag. It was light weight and had just a hole for her face to fit through. She pulled the long chador over her body transforming herself into the epitome of modest dress. If only she had a white collar, she'd resemble a nun in habit. Two small holes in the bodice allowed her to poke her hands through. She looked like a floating head and hands. I'd only seen those on the Somali "aunties" at one of the nearby masjids. It was perfect! Get me one of those ghost prayer outfits too! I added to my mental list.

The boys stood in front and led us in the prayer. It felt good. Almost like being at home surrounded by my own family as we prayed together. Samira and I stood shoulder to shoulder and shook hands when we finished and then made a short dhikr. There was a low hum in the air as each of us sent up our own silent pleas to God. It masked  the sound of another hum. The sound of something flying through the air caught my attention and I turned to look just in time to see a soda can smash into Samira's back. She screamed in shock and pain.