Now, I’m a Proud Full-Time Hijabi 

“The believers are like a single body; if one part suffers, the whole body suffers.” 

Imam Maulana Akonjee was quoting the Prophet Muhammed (peace be upon him) to me and four other kids in the humid living room of my grandpa’s house, as a creaky fan rotated above us. 

For two years, starting when I was 7, he came over every Saturday at 11:00 a.m. sharp and preached about the greatness of Islam for over an hour. 

There was a routine to our classes: He made us recite the Quran till our throats dried out. He advised us about what to work on to become better Muslims while sipping a cup of hot chai. Afterward, he began his lecture on why Muslims as a whole have to remain strong, connected and faithful.

At the time, the 2016 presidential election was upcoming. He said he feared the outcomes for Muslims if Trump won. 

Once he was out the door, the strings of sighs emanated from us kids, who would rather have spent our Saturdays having fun.

“I can’t believe I missed my friend’s birthday party because of this!!” my 6-year old brother groaned as he adjusted his position on the sofa.

I was also bored by these sessions, but unlike my little brother, I was obedient. I also feared missing out on the sessions, knowing how much they cost. We received a discounted price as family friends, yet these Islamic sessions still cost more than what we could afford. I had overheard my father saying that he juggled two jobs and would often grumble about the added expense. 

Coming to America

My family of eight emigrated from Bangladesh in 2009 to chase the American dream. Rather than catapulting to wealth as we’d hoped, we faced exhaustion and financial struggles.

We settled in Ozone Park, a working class, predominantly Bengali neighborhood in Queens. My parents, siblings, and I have lived next door to my grandpa’s house for over 15 years. Because of our proximity, my grandpa imposed a strict attendance policy for our Islamic classes. If you’re only on time, you’re late, and if you miss a session you better have a damn good excuse.

What stood out the most in the lessons was Imam Maulana Akonjee’s resilient journey to America.

He was only 6 when he started attending Islamic classes in Bangladesh. The classes were far from his home. 

“I would walk this thin narrow path surrounded by water, even a rickshaw can’t squeeze through,” the imam said. Then he came to America via Brazil when he was just 17, making the 4,000 mile journey on bus and on foot.

After he traveled to America, Imam Akonjee slowly built a community of his own in Ozone Park. Here, he found his passion of teaching Islamic studies to young Muslims kids such as myself. Eventually he also became an American citizen. Our community looked up to him. 

My mother, eager to hear about our day, always asked us how our classes went. 

“We got yelled at for laughing too much,” we would complain, “but it was so funny, everyone’s voice started cracking from reading so much.”

The Phone Call

One evening, as we sat in the living room, my three siblings and I were in the middle of one of our usual post-Islamic class debriefing sessions with my mother. 

Suddenly, the landline rang, cutting through our chatter. 

My mother held her broom in one hand and the home phone in the other. I watched as her face dropped and tears began welling up in her eyes.

“Your Islamic teacher is not well,” she said. 

He seemed fine in the morning. It must be a cold, I thought to myself.

“Does that mean there are no more Islamic classes?” I asked.  

Would we finally get a free weekend? 

“He was shot.”

Questions raced through my head: Who did this to him? Did he provoke them? Where did it happen? Why did this happen? Is it because he is Muslim?

Hate Crime?

On August 15, 2016, Oscar Morel, a 35-year old Hispanic man, shot Imam Maulana Akonjee and his friend Thara Uddin. The incident happened two streets from my house, after the two left our neighborhood mosque in the early afternoon.

We sat in the tense living room of my grandpa’s house waiting to hear an update from the hospital. The same creaky fan rotated while the five kids sat in one corner and my grandpa paced back and forth.

The phone rang. My grandpa listened, then announced to us. “The imam has passed.”

“Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un” (Verily we belong to God, and verily to Him do we return), we chanted in unison. This is a prayer all Muslims say upon a news of death, and I was gutted knowing I was reciting it for someone I knew.  

I was 9 when my imam was killed. I kept searching for a reason behind the act, scouring through TBN24 news (a local Bengali news channel), reading articles from local journalists, and diving through Facebook posts.

The imam still had over $1,000 in his pockets, which means it wasn’t an armed robbery, and the gunman had not been caught yet, so he couldn’t be questioned.

There were many speculations in my neighborhood. The only reasoning that came to many people’s minds was that it was because of who our imam was: a brown Muslim man during the rise of Islamophobia around the 2016 presidential election. It was an act of hatred, we concluded.

Imam Mauluna Aknojee wore a long, flowy thobe (a long robe that reached his ankles), a beard that hung to his shoulders, and a hat embedded with Islamic architectural designs. He embodied the stereotypical image of a Muslim man. 

While researching with my older siblings, we stumbled upon a news channel that included security camera footage of the attack. My mother hovered over the computer, trying to grasp the situation with us. As the video played, I was terrified; my eyes squinted in fear as I saw the imam and his aide being approached from behind. The short footage cut off, but the glimpse was enough to shock me. 

“Shave Off Your Beard!”

My mother responded to the attack by becoming fearful of appearing Muslim. 

“Shave off your beard,” my mother said sternly, facing my brother, who was 17.

My brother pleaded to keep it, as he was starting to get the look of a true Muslim man.

“Why are you so worried? There’s police camping all over our neighborhood,” my brother said.

“We have been hated for over 15 years. Just the image of us causes fear in others. Nothing has changed; no cop can help us.” 

My brother soon shaved his beard. 

I knew that Islamophobia was real. I was 6 when I first noticed my classmates’ eyes gazing toward me whenever someone mentioned 9/11 or terrorism, even though I was born five years after 9/11. It started in elementary school and continued through middle and high school, a silent reminder of how I was perceived differently.

But I had never imagined that the backlash Muslims received could reach my neighborhood, let alone kill someone I knew personally. It was a surreal moment when I realized that, in the eyes of many, I and people like me were either feared or hated.

The thought of being feared by others only grew my own fear. I began to tiptoe everywhere, afraid that one “wrong” move could make people associate me with hate. 
I had been wearing a hijab for two years. Now it felt like I was wearing a bullseye on my head.

The Hijab

After my imam was killed, I began second guessing if I was ready for the consequences of wearing the hijab. 

My mom didn’t ask me to remove it because all the women in my family wear the hijab, and removing it may have led to people talking about us. But I found myself itching to remove my hijab, and to be seen in a new light. So I began taking it off at school out of fear. 

After my mom dropped me off, I would climb three flights of stairs and later remove the hijab and tuck it into my backpack. 

Removing my hijab made me feel like I could take a break from the constant torment of believing that I was hated. But it also made me feel like I was betraying the women in my family. 

The Talk

I continued removing my hijab for months and kept it a secret from my family. Then, five months after the incident, my grandpa called us back to his house at the usual time of our Islamic sessions.

As we gathered in the familiar room, my 22-year-old uncle, an aspiring imam, sat in the very seat our Islamic teacher used to occupy.

“We are going to a protest,” my uncle announced. I saw him as a stern tall man with a fluffy beard and a mouth filled with wisdom. He was always taking the kids somewhere, whether it was our local park or elsewhere. But we had never gone to a protest together. 

He wanted us to regain our connection to Islam. He believed our voices could help create a world where everyone is free to practice their religion and live their lives free of discrimination or hatred. His passion and words stirred something deep within me.

The protest was against the Trump administration’s proposed “Muslim ban.” When the day arrived, I felt a mix of nerves and excitement. I lifted my poster high in my bustling neighborhood in the crisp fall weather. In bold, defiant letters, my poster read, “My last name is Islam, and I am not a terrorist.”

As we marched, our collective chants reverberated through the streets. “No ban, no wall, justice for all!” we shouted, each phrase feeling like a declaration of our identity. 

The streets were full with women in various attire, from abayas (a full-length outer garment worn by some women) to hijabs, and people of all races and ages. Among them, I saw familiar faces from my neighborhood, friends, and family, all standing together.

Finding Community

As I looked around, I felt like I finally belonged. This protest wasn’t just about standing up against Islamophobia; it was also about finding and building a community. At that moment, surrounded by my neighbors and family, I felt seen and understood knowing there are others who share my identity and don’t cower in fear because of it.

The protest ended, but its impact stayed. As we walked back, my cousins and I chatted and laughed like it was another one of our Islamic sessions. My uncle’s words resonated with us, and we realized that in our community we could support each other in ways we had not imagined. 

After the protest, I found myself reaching for my hijab again, with a purpose. The experience opened my eyes to the strength within the Muslim community. I now wear my hijab full-time as a declaration of my faith. 

Being a hijabi means finding meaning behind it for myself.  I have come to accept that it’s a sign of my submission to God and that it does not accommodate others’ fear of me. 

There are days I feel like I would be perceived differently without my hijab, but I continue to understand that this identity holds a larger value to me. 

I’m also finding other ways to connect with my community. Six months after the passing of my imam, I went to my local mosque with my grandma. This peaceful sanctuary began to hold a more profound role in my life.

Now, every Sunday, I walk into my neighborhood mosque to receive the reassurance that I am not alone in this fight. I take the lead in our youth group discussions, hoping to inspire as we explore the importance of embracing our identity.

I am proud of who I am and the journey I am on, knowing that I’m part of something much bigger—a community bound by faith, resilience, and the belief that we are stronger together.