Hello! I know it's been a REALLY long while since I've last posted, and it was because I was really busy with school, extracurriculars and also my podcast :)) This is a narrative piece I was working on in English class, and it's entered around the social cause of Arab feminism and everyday racism! As a East-Asian girl, I may not have been able to fully empathise with the struggles that Muslim girls face, but I did try my best to educate myself through research, so that I was able to produce an impactful and well-educated piece of work. I hope you enjoy!
My Crown
A queen does not bow down.
Just like mountains do not bow down to the wind, how a cliff does not yield to the sea.
A queen is sturdy.
Reflected in her unchanging values, her steadfast gaze, her cold composure.
A queen is unfazed.
Not by her sneering classmates, not by her anxious teacher, and especially not by the ticking clock, reminding her that time is ebbing away.
And so I tell myself this, as I walk to the front of the classroom.
The sunlight streams in through the windows, sweeping over the plasticky school chairs, the scratched and scuffed tables, the sticky vinyl flooring. Dusty smudges of white trail down the blackboard, the remnants of our second-period maths lesson.
My eyes skim over the room, as I take my place in front of the class. The map that engulfs the back wall of the classroom piques my interest. The crisscrossing lines undulate over the meandering expanse of land- the little thumbtack, indicating the city I am in now. Manchester, the city known for football, engineering and science, a beautiful place where neo-gothic townhouses are juxtaposed against sleek skyscrapers. But not my home.
I take a deep breath, just like Father taught me to do. Four counts in, hold for seven, out for seven more counts. I am familiar with this routine, repeating it numerous times when the harrowing homesickness felt too suffocating, a wound too fresh. When my tongue gets confused, rolling my R’s and stretching out my A’s until smooth Arabic slowly overpowers my rusty English. When I feel lost in the sea of unfamiliar faces, a boat untethered in the violent ocean, tossed around carelessly almost as if it were a child’s playtoy.
But I am here now. And I am going to make it count.
Father’s pep talk from this morning comes back to me. His warm gaze, calm composure and soft voice which put me at ease when I was reciting my speech for the fifty-first time that day.
‘Amirah,’ he said, ‘Don’t hide who you are. Be proud of where you come from. Show them who you are.’
To unleash myself.
Like I am a snarling, snapping monster, threatening to rip apart the smirking faces of my classmates in the front row. A lioness claiming her crown.
‘Amirah, are you ready sweetie? Take your time.’ Miss Harris says, giving me an encouraging nod.
‘Hello everyone, I am Amirah and I will be running for class president.’
I try my best to keep my voice steady and make sure to stand tall.
The words come flowing out, in the way I had so painstakingly rehearsed in the mirror at home. One by one, they dance, a careful choreography of self-praise mixed with promises and affirmations for a better future.
‘I want our classroom to be a positive learning space.’
A snicker escapes from the back of the class.
‘Where everyone learns from each other, where everyone gets a voice.’
The giggles grow in volume. But I continue.
‘I want equality to be at the forefront of our minds so that everyone can feel heard and included.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sandra Waters giggle, nudging her deskmate, Ethan.
‘Bit rich coming from her, I heard that girls from her country don’t even get to leave the house. And yet she’s running for class president here.’
‘-she should already be content that she can go to school in Manchester. And isn’t being some meek housewife somewhere.’
I swallow. My icy façade is starting to melt away.
‘As I was saying earlier, if I am chosen to be your class president, I will establish policies to-’
‘-Bet you fifty pence she’s establishing a dress code.’
‘Sandra dear, be respectful to your classmate Amirah when she is speaking.’ Miss Harris chides, her voice soft and lilting.
I open my mouth again to speak… and then close it.
What comes next? I can’t remember.
I feel my regal mask slipping away.
It doesn’t matter how much power a queen has. How much she is respected and revered by her local subjects.
When she is on foreign soil, she is powerless.
She is alone.
I can feel the tears growing, and fight them down. I do not want to cry. I will not cry.
The room is silent. Not a single sound to muffle Ethan’s hiss, cutting across the room like a knife through water.
‘Next thing you know, she’s going to force us to wear her silly headscarves.’’
There it was.
The insult that has been simmering under the surface, a ticking time bomb that I will never be able to outrun.
An invisible barrier, isolating me from my other classmates, a never-ending round of “One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other”.
A single tear drips down my face.
I wipe it away.
It is like a spark has been lit in the cold, empty hearth inside me. A flicker of heat, a flash of light. It isn’t warm, welcoming, or pleasant. It isn’t a raging inferno, a passionate fight of flames. But it is something.
I stand tall.
‘I take the position of the class president very seriously, and I’d hate to have to interrupt myself, but before I continue with my speech, I need to make one thing clear.’
‘I wear this-’ I point at the silky fabric hugging my head, ‘to remind me of where I come from, what I stand for. To bolster my confidence, to give me hope,’
The room is silent.
‘To tell me that no matter where I am, I am loved, and protected. So that I can celebrate who I am, and become an even better version of me.’
All eyes are on me. I hold my head high.
‘So before you make snide remarks about my hijab, my skin colour, my religion, I want you to know that this is who I am. I’m not saying you have to like me, you have to vote for me. I’m not saying that you have to agree with me, empathise with me. I’m saying that whenever you make a silly joke or a rude comment about my hijab, about my religion, it is a direct blow to ME, and to all the other women like me. And that just isn’t acceptable.’
I make sure to look Ethan dead in the eye as I say that.
A queen on a quest, a queen with a goal, a queen who stands up for herself, rendering Prince Charming redundant. I know that the Class President position has my name written all over it.
‘Because my hijab isn’t my prison.’
I take a deep breath.
‘It is my crown.’
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