So I know you guys have been wondering for so long, let’s just address the elephant in the room, shall we?

After fourteen years of wearing the hijab, I made the decision to take it off. I know, some of you are thinking, "Is she losing her mind?" To put it more plainly, it’s okay if you think, “IS SHE CRAZY?” lol I AM–at least if you see it from the backwards way of thinking in which mental illnesses are mostly stigmatized. Hehe.

This choice was deeply personal, shaped by my unique experiences and reflections on faith, identity, and societal expectations. Here's my story.

My Background

I come from a moderate Muslim family. I remember mom started wearing the hijab when I was in kindergarten, around 1998-1999. She wore it moderately, mostly during work or formal occasions only. I really adore her every time she wears one. 

I think this was also quite affected by how society viewed hijab around Soeharto’s Era, which made it not as popular as now. I remember back then it was quite rare to see women wearing hijab fully in their day-to-day activities–you know, thanks to The Hijab Prohibition Policy during The New Order. You know how something rare often feels more special? Like when you finally find a WiFi connection that actually works in a government office? I believe that's why back in the day, hijabis used to seem so much prettier. We didn't see them often, so it was like spotting a unicorn. People must have been like, "Wow, she's so mysterious and elegant!" or, "What magical powers does she have under there?".

At least, that’s how I used to see people with hijab as far as I can remember, especially my mom. Obviously as the first daughter, I looked up to her as my primary role model. I remember I used to look at myself, smiling at my reflection in the mirror, putting on my mom's adult hijab and feeling so pretty. One day I did it and got caught by dad lol it was so embarrassing. Relatable enough, girls? Hehe. 

Anyway, finishing kindergarten, I went to a regular public school. Then one random day, I saw a group of students my age in hijabs walking home from school. I was like, “Wow, they look like they have superpowers!” So I asked my mom to transfer me there. “I want to go to school wearing a hijab like them,” I told her. And just like that, I was a mini hijabi. 

Long story short, my grandfather passed away. We then had to move in with my grandmother, and I went back to public school close to their house, after finishing two years in the Islamic Public School. Back then, obviously there’s no force from my family to keep wearing hijab at school. Plus, I was just that small 9-year-old girl. But sometimes, when I met my teachers from that Islamic School, they’d always be like “Hi Retmi~ where’s the hijab?”. And I'd be giving my awkward smile there, thinking, "Oh great, here comes the Hijab Police," like they had a hijab radar or something. 

Don’t get me wrong, I still love all my teachers, after all.   

In junior high school, I was the only one among my best friends who didn’t wear the hijab. Peer pressure? Not really, but sometimes, yes, I got it lol. That time I just knew I didn’t want to wear a hijab. That was the era–at least for the students in our humble small subdistrict–where students wearing hijab were ‘the trend’. It was like the hijab was our version of the latest iPhone. Everyone wanted one, and if you didn’t have it, you felt like you were missing out lol. Perhaps I just had an instinct not to follow the trend? Hehe. I’d already experienced the times when I used to wear one at school, anyway. Like, once you've waved your wand and said "Expelliarmus," do you really need to try "Wingardium Leviosa"?

Then came senior high at a semi-military disciplined Islamic boarding school with strict uniform regulations. Girls could choose not to wear the hijab, but they had to cut their hair very short. I didn’t think I would look good with the 'bondol hairstyle' since I’ve always felt my face is just a female version of my brother’s and father’s faces. That's why I opted for the hijab. Interestingly, this school emphasized maintaining consistent hijab-wearing, or 'istiqamah'. Since then, I started wearing the hijab all the time, even at home. Besides my family, only a few relatives and some of my brother’s friends who visited our house when I was off guard without a hijab were lucky enough to see my hair. Over time, it started to feel strange to be seen without a hijab.

How I See Hijab vs. Society: A Personal Battle

I was quite fortunate to sort of have a choice, although the alternative (cutting my hair short) was not truly a free choice. It was like choosing between eating durian and sitting in a room full of open durians – when you hate durians. For me, the hijab has never been a symbol of oppression. Rather, it’s been liberating, a personal expression of faith and identity, so it should be a personal choice that makes us feel comfortable and empowered, not something imposed. Just like durian – some people love it, some people don’t, but nobody should be forced to eat it.

From what I've experienced, I believe the way the hijab is being enforced in Indonesian schools needs to be challenged. Unfortunately, many of the strict hijab rules are still in place today. In many Indonesian schools, including public ones, the hijab is mandatory for Muslim girls. You can check @kabarsejuk to learn more about this.

Also, we can't deny that being part of the Muslim majority in Indonesia sometimes leads to a sense of entitlement. Everything is framed between Muslims and non-Muslims. Remember the cebong-kampret political duality? It still resonates, as seen in the recent protests in Solo about a non-halal food festival, which is sad–and honestly quite sickening. I believe our friends from other religions agree with me on this. This entitlement isn't even limited to interactions with other religions; it exists within the Muslim community itself. If you're not Sunni, you're often seen as not devout enough. Similarly, if you're a Muslim woman who doesn’t wear a hijab, people might question your piety. Oh, and it doesn’t end there, if you’re a Muslim woman wearing a hijab but not as syar’i as the majority perceive, you’re still not seen as a good enough Muslim. It's as if there's an unwritten checklist of piety, and no one can ever fully measure up. 

In the end, I personally believe (you might have a different view, obviously) each person's relationship with their faith and how they choose to express it should be respected. The hijab should be about personal choice, not societal pressure. Just the never-ending debate about ‘bubur ayam diaduk vs gak diaduk’ – let's just agree they’re both delicious, it’s still called bubur ayam anyway, and everyone should get to enjoy what they love without judgment.

Fitting in with the Fabric

I’ve been away from home since my teens, from place to place, across the island, across the continent–I’ve never settled. Even in one city, I typically stay at one place only for an average of 1 year. I later found out it caused sort of an identity crisis in me. 

Eventually, I moved away from home, becoming a minority in a new environment. The hijab became an identity marker, signaling my faith without needing to explain it, which was awesome. It simplified dietary queries about halal food – “Yes, I don’t eat pork, but no, I don’t necessarily feel oppressed (at least by my family).” For the record, I have been living away from my parents since before I turned 17. I was also the first kid in my extended family to be trusted to move to another island, and even continent, to study, which shows how much they trust me as a daughter.

However, at the same time, wearing this fabric in such a new environment also made me stand out. It felt like a walking sign that said, “Ask me about my religion!” I mean, you know you're noticeable when you feel like the only piece of tempe in a sea of rendang. Over time, this attention required extra energy to handle, especially during the years when I was dealing with depression and anxiety. 

I Am Still The Same Person, After All

The decision to remove my hijab was deeply personal and not made lightly. I spent a long time contemplating it before finally deciding to take it off. I found that I felt more comfortable without it—at least for now. 

However, and this I can assure you 110%, my faith remains the same. I am not writing this to encourage any of you to take off your hijab as well—big NO. That’s why I’m not providing any justification about whether or not Muslim women are obligated to wear a hijab from a religious perspective. Stop here and go ask your ustadz or ustadzah if you like. That topic isn’t mine to cover, as I am just trying to share my hijab journey. 

While my appearance has changed, I am still the same person. Whether you're switching from nasi padang to nasi goreng as your go-to comfort food, it’s still rice, anyway, mates!

Taking off the hijab isn’t a loss of faith but rather an evolution of my personal journey with it. It has been a profound experience, teaching me about authenticity, and courage. I share this story to try to reflect the complexity of individual choices and the need to respect each person’s unique spiritual path. So, the next time you see someone make a significant change in their life, remember – we’re all just trying to find our own version of peace. And sometimes, that peace involves a lot less fabric.

And just like that, I’ve laid it all out there. So, whether you're wearing a hijab, a baseball cap, or nothing at all on your head, remember, everyone has been on their own journey, just like you. If anyone gives you trouble, just tell them, "Hey, I'm still me, just with a different topping – like your favorite martabak with extra cheese or chocolate sprinkles. Some people might not like it, but It’s still delicious, right?"