Rarah Hijab Access

The scent of cardamom and rain clung to the narrow alley. Rarah, twelve years old and fiercely curious, pressed her back against the cool stone wall of her grandmother’s house in the old city of Fez. In her hand, she clutched a small, rectangular mirror.

“Welcome,” her mother whispered into her hair. “Welcome to the garden.” rarah hijab

Today was the day.

The second try was worse. The scarf slipped, revealing a chunk of her unruly black curls. She looked like a poorly wrapped gift. The scent of cardamom and rain clung to the narrow alley

Later, Rarah and Amal sat on the fountain’s edge, their blue scarves (Amal’s a deep indigo, Rarah’s the one with fish) catching the afternoon light. They didn’t talk about boys, or school, or the math test they had both failed. “Welcome,” her mother whispered into her hair

Rarah walked into them. The fabric of her new hijab brushed against her mother’s cheek.