I used to be one of them. Yes, I used to think I was free. I walked into the marbled bathroom and observed those niqabis with pity. I thought to myself, "What& #39;s the point if you can& #39;t flaunt your beauty?" Yes, I thought all that as a Muslim too.
But all that had changed...

... on the eve of 27th Ramadan, as I playfully pulled my headscarf (that I temporarily wore on the way to the masjid) up my chin till my nose. I covered my face. I looked out the window. I felt chills. Literal goosebumps. I stuck my tongue out at walking men.

Yes, I never thought I would ever want to or understand covering up. I thought they were oppressed. But you know what? You can never truly picture or empathize with someone unless you, as Atticus said, wear their shoes and walk around in it. I felt what they felt. It made sense.

Ironically, not once in my decade long journey of hijab and niqab have I even asked or told one person to & #39;cover& #39; up. However, I& #39;ve been bludgeoned with insensitive questions, looked at with piteous gazes, & even shunned from the paternal side of my family over it.

I think the moral of the story here is, I& #39;m not oppressed because I& #39;m wearing a piece of cloth, I feel oppressed because society dictates me to appear in a certain way. Let a woman wear what she wants without making her feel terrible only because you don& #39;t like it.