My Mother’s Burka

My first memories are of an ivory fabric

That enveloped my mother, the person who loved me the most

Who I loved the most

Whose feet beneath paradise lies

The place where I found comfort

A dignified garment that signaled safety

Two pieces

One, over her hair with a piece she could use to cover her nose and mouth, if she wished

The second, a sweeping robe-like piece that touched her feet

As a child, this was my normal,

My comfort

The external world tried to take that away from me

And tell me it was oppressive

And barbaric

But it wasn’t the garment or the person who wore it that were backwards

It was the people who viewed it through a western standard they considered a universal truth

Short sided and judgmental

Speaking of all kinds of freedoms but expecting assimilation

Exposing their own ignorance and hypocrisy

I grew to be embarrassed of it

Afraid of what my classmates might say about me, my mother

If this is what made her comfortable, why did others care so much?

I never adopted it as my own dress

But the thought of it still brings me comfort

When I see someone wearing a burka, I feel comfort

In the streets of San Francisco, on the way to a place

Sometimes on her own, sometimes with children, a stroller

I see a woman in a burka

And I see my mother

And I know that I am loved

And I know that I am safe

And I know that I am home