Vfairroz

"Vfairroz," said Daniela, obviously having a difficult time pronouncing my name. "Are you sure you’re a Muslim?”

I almost dropped my cup of coffee.

"Oh, I’m sorry," she gasped. "Did I offend you?”

We were at BO’s Coffee Club at SM waiting for Rose who was my roommate and Daniela’s cousin. I placed my cup on the table, thinking that I couldn’t afford to spend another 50 bucks for a second round in case I dropped it.

Since I went to study college in Davao City, I got used to people asking me about my religious background. Not a single day would pass by without people asking me questions, as if my being a Muslim was as strange as how my name was spelled.

“It’s okay,” I said. In fact, I’ve already heard dozens of different versions to Daniela’s question. (“I didn’t think you were a Muslim… Really? But I thought you weren’t… As in?”) But each time I heard them, they just never failed to catch me off guard.

“So, why aren’t you wearing that thing?” she said, making hand gestures over her head. “I’m not sure what you call it… you know that thing that Muslim women use to cover their hair?”

“Hijaab.”

“Yes,” she snapped. “Ijab. Why aren’t you wearing one?”

I found it strange why people in Davao City always expected Muslim women to wear their hijaab. Back in Cotabato where Muslims were as many as Christians, it wasn’t that big a deal whether Muslim women wore hijaab or not. To veil or to unveil was a matter of choice not obligation, or so I thought.

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