Journey of a hijab adrift

Transcript of a recent internal monologue aboard a motorboat in Italy

Aboard a motorboat on the South coast of Sardegna,

Gliding across a sleeping sea,

Surprised by my spouse whose soul’s shore has crashed next to mine

for four whole years- how sublime.

It feels as if we are the only ones sailing

in the vast expanse of turquoise water

Bobbing white boats in the distance too small to mind

Sunburnt skin is the only dress

adjourning heedless souls sunbathing amidst an assembly of red, greasy flesh

on beaches in the distance

Here we are safe from confused stares-

how dare we cover and protect ourselves from their unwelcome gaze?

The skipper swerves and speeds through the Mediterranean

Who is suddenly awake and angry

as our safe haven surfs against her sudden waves

Bashing up and down we propel West along the coast,

Trying to find refuge in a quiet cove to anchor.

As my hands brush against my windswept curls

instead of the smooth silk of my scarf,

I realise, with a heartdrop, that my hijab has flown off my head!

I let myself feel the wind in my hair for a moment too long-

my husband and the vast ocean of blue my only witnesses

We navigate near a beach recommended by the Italian mariner,

Dropping the anchor into the seabed buried in the depths of the Meditteranean

who has returned into her sheet of calm once more

As I guide my beloved captain using Google Maps for navigation,

I remember that the opposite coast in the distance is Africa.

If the tank had enough petrol

and the cool box enough supplies to last a few days,

We could reach the shores of Tunisia

If we went further East from there, we would reach Palestine.

I lay on my back at the cushioned front of the boat,

My hair spread out like disheveled octopus tentacles around my head

Warmed by sunlight’s kiss in a place other than our garden

I look back in the frothy wake at the stern of the boat,

in a failed attempt to spot my scarf gifted by my mother-in-law

By the time I registered the sensation of wind in my hair,

My knotted scarf was long engulfed by the enraged arms of foamy waves.

I imagine it floating all the way to Gaza,

whose shore is caressed by the same sea that I am resting on,

Unreachable by any boat on the horizon

The Madleen had set sail from Malta just across the water from us

and got intercepted only a few days prior.

What a warped, dystopian reality

What immense privilege to be able to step on a boat,

for safe sail through the same sea that is being weaponised

Only a few nautical miles away from where we are moored.

My silk scarf reaches a white-sanded beach in Gaza

Bisan picks it up, squeezes the salty water out

her dry, dusty hands stung by the salt

She folds it in half to form a creased triangle,

criss-crosses the two tails into a double knot

at the back of her neck.

The fabric that nestled my chemo curls a few hours prior

now embrace her coarse curls which escape

in the front and sides.

I wish I could hold her hands,

Pull her into a tight embrace,

Apologise for my helplessness,

For their suffering.

I wish she could also swim

in the turquoise expanse of God’s Mercy

instead of suffer in the wrath of greedy, ungodly demons

Descending into the cool bed of water,

I wonder: what is the wisdom in my existence

in this particular coordinate of the same ocean

instead of the very bleak reailty of hers,

down the same stream of water?