Deen Queens

seven [asiya]

ASIYA

It had been a week since Asiya had fled her now ex-husbands home for the city with her one-year-old daughter but she was still looking over her shoulder. Despite the many miles between them, there was a storm brewing in her gut, reminding her that he could find her at any time.

She had gone to great lengths to rid him from her identity, however, having legally changed her surname back to Mendoza as well as attempting to alter her appearance. She had swapped the slinky dresses he had liked to professional work-clothes with a few baggy boyfriend jeans thrown in the mix. Her hair had been dyed from its natural golden brown until it was much darker and she had cut half off it off; an act of liberation.

Thankfully, after a lot of Googling and praying, she had found a small flat on the outskirts of London owned by an elderly Muslim woman who had been ecstatic to learn of her conversion to Islam. "Alhamdulillah," Mrs Habiba had cooed through weathered skin and joyous eyes. "Alhamdulillah yaa Rabb. How lucky you are!"

Asiya had never particularly thought of herself as being lucky, especially over these last two years of being married but she had to admit it always could have been worse. After all, she now rented a small flat that was entirely her own and she had the world's most beautiful daughter. Perhaps she was just as blessed as her landlady thought!

Although she hadn't been there very long, Asiya had spent her days filling up the flat with as many beautiful things she could find for free or very cheap. She had scoured charity shops – ending up swapping some of her old clothes for second-hand décor – and market stalls with determination filling her insides. And thank God for Mrs Habiba because the elderly woman had gifted her a sewing machine when she spoke of her passion.

Her own sewing machine in Abram's house had been beautiful, a sleek white one that worked effortlessly but this one had quickly become far more valuable. It was sentimental. It was a dusty grey colour and had a dent on one side, a loud whirring vibrating through the air when it was switched on but Asiya adored it and had made a batch of Mexican treats for her landlady in appreciation.

As she hadn't had to spend a penny on the sewing machine, she was able to treat Sofia to some new toys and herself to some new fabric. It had been draped across the rickety dining table within her cramped living room, the colours bringing some light to the dull room. And from the rolls of fabric, she had cut and hemmed herself some hijabs.

Asiya could count the number of times she had worn a hijab on her fingers, and even then it was only for praying at home. But today was a new day, this was a new life and she was ready.

Very carefully, she draped the maroon chiffon hijab over her head, covering every strand of her hair and tucking it into the back of her shirt. There had been flyers going around as invitation to a women-only charity event to raise money for Palestine in her local mosque and Asiya was determined to attend. It was ten pounds per head and thankfully, children went for free. The promise of clothes and jewellery stalls, tables adorned with halal food, activities for children amongst the lectures sounded like bliss. She had never really had an opportunity to mingle with other Muslim women before, other than the few she knew through Abram. But this was her new start.

"C'mon mi vida," she whispered, bending down to carry Sofia, her daughter's portable oxygen tank in her leather bag along with some snacks. "Let's go make some friends, eh?"

It was sunny outside – a rare occurrence in England – and as she walked, Asiya smiled brightly, her heart swelling with peace. Not one person turned to stare at her hijab nor her daughter and that was the thing that she loved the most about the busy city; everything had their own lives and couldn't care less about others. The scarf felt a little strange from where it was draped around her head, slipping slightly with the heat but she paid it no heed – wearing it like it was her mark of pride.