My Hijab Began with the Sayyed: It Is My Form of Resistance
Two years have passed since the martyrdom of His Eminence Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah, yet I still feel the void left by his absence—a void that defies the very nature of absence.
Like certain figures who leave behind a presence far weightier than the one they held while among us, he remains ever-present.
Whenever the Sayyed Hassan is mentioned, a multitude of emotions stirs within me: loyalty, gratitude, longing, and a sense of responsibility.
Amidst these feelings, I choose to highlight a detail that—while seemingly small—holds profound significance for me: the journey of my hijab began with Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah (ra).
I was nine years old when I began the journey of observing the religious hijab. When I speak of the Sayyed, I cannot separate his image from that young girl who was just beginning to learn what it meant to be a Muslim—to take pride in her identity with confidence, and to understand that faith is not merely spoken words, but a responsibility lived out in practice.
I state this with immense pride: my hijab began with the Sayyed.
For me, the hijab was never just a piece of cloth placed upon my head—an act that marked the end of the story. Rather, it was the beginning of a story. It was my first lesson and my initial training in declaring: This is who I am—a daughter of the Sayyed.
I am a woman who refuses to reduce her presence and value to her body, refuses to let her femininity become a stereotype, refuses to be held hostage by the gaze of others, and refuses to be dehumanized by being declothed like an animal is. I am a woman who seeks to influence the world through her intellect, heart, knowledge, dignity, and humanity—not by how her body is measured or by how well she conforms to the image imposed upon her by Western civilization. It is here that her path is defined—in the space between the hijab and the mind.
Resistance is not always a weapon held by a man on the front lines; sometimes, it is a mother who refuses to raise her children to conform to a monolithic identity imposed by cultural capitalism. She might be a young woman holding fast to her values, her faith, and her memory. She might be a woman telling the world: You may acknowledge the boundaries of my presence, but know that recognizing my faith, intellect, character, and humanity is the true way to acknowledge me.
The hijab may well be the first active step a Muslim woman takes to define her own terms—resisting the imposition of how she must look in order to be accepted.
The history of colonialism has shown, across various times and places, that control over peoples does not always begin with the land; it begins with consciousness, language, memory, and a person’s self-image.
In various colonial contexts, women’s attire was never merely an aesthetic issue; more recently, it has become a central theme in the struggle over who holds the authority to define women and their image.
Thus, to many observers, the soft war on the hijab appears to be merely a debate about a piece of cloth. In reality, it is part of a broader battle over a fundamental question: Who has the right to define a woman?
Can she say, “I choose”? Can she be religious, educated, strong, and present in the public sphere? Can she be a woman of full presence without sacrificing her modesty? Can she keep pace with the times without becoming a mere replica of the model that has become the center of cultural power?
I believe the answer is yes. I believe that when the hijab is chosen consciously, it serves as a statement that is both understated and resounding: I will not allow anyone to turn me into an image of their own making.
This always brings to mind the life story of the daughter of the Prophet Muhammad and wife of Ali—Sayyeda Fatima al-Zahra (peace be upon them).
Sayyeda Fatima was not a political figure relegated to the margins of history; she was a woman who entered history through her stance, her words, and her steadfastness. She possessed dignity and embodied a stance demonstrating that femininity does not equate to eternal silence in the face of injustice.
This quality passed to her daughter, Sayyeda Zaynab (peace be upon them both), who proved that the hijab does not mean absence, that chastity does not mean weakness, and that a woman who maintains her boundaries can bear the heaviest burdens in the darkest moments. She was a woman at the heart of the struggle, yet she did not allow pain to silence her resounding revolutionary voice.
Herein lies one of the deepest meanings of women’s resistance in our collective memory: for a woman to be present without relinquishing her modesty, strong without abandoning her humanity, and principled without compromising her values.
And from this perspective, I understand my hijab. I do not understand it as a wall between myself and the world, but as a boundary I have chosen; a boundary that declares my body is not for the gaze of others, that my faith is not something to be ashamed of, that my humanity should not be diminished by removing that which separates us from animals (clothing), and that my identity is not something I need to apologize for.
And because I come from Jabal Amel, these meanings are not merely ideas I read in books. This land taught its children that identity can become memory, that memory can become resilience, and that a person can carry their homeland in their heart even when the world feels too small.
And on this land, too, the name of Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah became part of the memory of an entire generation: “The Generation of the Sayyed.”
A generation that saw in him a father, a mentor, and a leader, and learned from him the vocabulary of patience, steadfastness, and defiance.
As for me, in addition to all that, I remember that the man who guided me at the beginning of my journey with the hijab made identity a responsibility, faith a consciousness, and dignity a priceless value.
Therefore, when I wear my hijab today, I don’t just remember being nine years old. I remember the path and the goal. I remember mothers who raised their sons on jihad, resistance, and supporting the oppressed.
I remember Sayyed Hassan and I say: O Sayyed, my hijab began in the shadow of your school, but today it carries within me a meaning greater than mere memory. It carries the meaning of a woman who chose to be true to her convictions. It carries the meaning of an identity that is not ashamed of its revolutionary identity. It means that resistance is not only about rejecting the occupation of our land, but also about rejecting the occupation of our consciousness, the confiscation of our will, and the distortion of our identity.
Sayyed Hassan, if they want us to hate our identity, we will come to know it and love it even more. If they want to standardize our hijab through commodification of it, we will cling to it with greater awareness of its deeper reality. If they want to reduce women to mere bodies without souls, we will say that women have minds, hearts, dignity, and the capacity to create a resilient human being who rejects injustice and oppression. If they try to convince our children that their revolutionary heritage is an obstacle to their future, we will teach them that humanity cannot truly engage with the world except by resisting injustice and defending the dignity, safety, and respect of all people, regardless of their religion, sect, or opinion.
Therefore, Sayyed, I, a humble and inadequate person, say to you: Rest in peace. Your memory will not be a nostalgic occasion for lamenting the past, but rather a constant question: What have we done with what you taught us?
It will be a responsibility, a pledge to remain faithful to the values ​​we cherish, to the identity we have chosen, and to the humanity whose dignity we believe in.
As for my hijab… it will remain more than just a hijab for me; it will remain the memory of a child who began her journey at the age of nine. It will stand as a testament to a woman who chose to be as she believes. My hijab began with the Prophet, learned from Sayyeda Fatima, and drew inspiration from Sayyeda Zaynab for the meaning of resistance.
