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.

“I can’t stand the heat,” I lied.

The truth was that I wasn’t used to covering my hair. My parents never imposed on me to wear a hijaab although I always felt they wanted me to.
“My Vfairroz would truly make her ama happy if she starts wearing a hijaab,” my father would say. I would only smile at him.

“This will surely look good on you, bai,” Ina would say whenever she brought me at the Sariling Atin or at the barter to buy her new set of tundong. I would only smile at her, too.

If I told Daniela this, I was sure she’d ask follow up questions like: “Why? Aren’t all Muslim women obliged? I had a Muslim classmate in high school and I never saw a single strand of her hair. Her father would be furious if she unveiled… How come your case is different? Is it really okay to expose your hair in public?”

“I guess you’re right,” she said, sipping her coffee.

That was it? No more comments or questions?

“Do you mind if I asked another question?” she said after a while.

And I thought I heard the last of it.

“Shoot,” I said. What is taking Rose so long? I glanced at Watson’s and saw her still checking out a lipstick. Please hurry up and save me from your cousin’s inquiry.

“Is it true that when a Muslim gets mad or pissed off at someone, he calls his whole clan then they attack whoever offended their family member?”

“It depends,” I said, trying to sound as patient as I could. “It’s more probable when the oppressed has a strong kinship bond with his family.”

“How about you? Would you do it?”

“Why not?” I thought it wouldn’t hurt if I made fun of her a little. I was bored and my feet were getting numb. Thanks to Rose who was probably taking the whole Watson’s with her.

“Is that the reason why you’re scared of Muslims?” I asked her.

“What made you think that?” she asked, surprised. She sipped the last of her coffee.

“You know what the problem with you people?” I said, raising my tone and trying to sound as serious as possible. “You misjudge all Muslims simply by basing on the actions of a few. Can’t you understand that we’re not perfect?”

She was struck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way…” she said; her lips started to quiver.

Oops. I bit my lips.

“Don’t be,” I said. “I’m the one who should apologize. That was supposed to be -”

“Oh, no. I was the one who started it,” she said, her eyes teary.

A joke, I finished my sentence in my head.

“Please forgive me. I’m really, really sorry.”

“Please stop apologizing,” I said. I was too guilty to look her in the eyes.

“What did I miss?” said a voice beside us. It was Rose. So much for an hour of shopping, I thought as I looked at the small plastic bag she carried.

“You’re not going to report this to your family, are you?” Daniela said.

So, that was why she was so apologetic.

“What is she talking about, Fai?” Rose asked, signaling to the waiter. “A cup of fropoccino please,” she said.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Please?” Daniela pleaded.

“All right,” I said. To assure her that everything was fine was the least I could do.

“Thank you, thank you,” she said, shaking my hands vigorously.

Weirdo.