"Ninja!"

A spitball landed on my head along with a half-eaten orange, to be followed seconds later by peals of laughter from the direction of a public bus that had just drawn to a stop near where I was walking. A bunch of young men hung out of the bus door, mocking me because I was wearing a headscarf - a rarity on the University of Indonesia campus - and pelting me with whatever stuff they had on hand.

I ducked and ran for cover at a nearby bus stop, trying to stop with a finger the tears coursing down my cheeks. But the incident -which took place only days after I took up the hijab (covering my body according to Islamic teachings) in the early 1980s - prepared me for the many challenges that lay ahead in asserting my identity as a Muslim in a political environment that was still hostile toward anything Islamic.

The spitball and taunts were nothing compared to the hostility, discrimination and suspicion I later had to face in many stages of life, from going for a job interview to meeting the family of a potential spouse. It's no exaggeration - when I entered an office, people looked down on me and spoke more slowly and loudly than they would have done in other circumstances. It's as if they thought I was less intelligent because I wore the hijab.

Pretty soon, my hijab and that of my best friend in the university became an issue of political contention; one of the deputy deans came to my father's office to warn him against allowing his daughter to be led astray by "extremists" because that would affect my place on campus. I was incensed, telling my parents that the headscarf had not affected my brain whatsoever, so what reason did they have for wanting to expel me?

My decision to wear the headscarf was never political. I had not joined any Koranic circles but had felt the need to enrich my soul and had started reading the Koran in earnest. I wanted to be a good Muslim woman and I wanted to follow Allah's way, because that's what I kept promising during every prayer: that my prayers, my striving, my life and death are for Allah alone.

I came across verses 24:31-32 and 33:59 instructing women to cover themselves. The latter reads: O Prophet! Tell your wives and daughters and the believing women that they should draw over themselves their jilbab (outer garments) (when in public); this will be more conducive to their being recognized (as decent women) and not harassed. But God is indeed oft-forgiving, most merciful. )

After reading the verses, I did not sleep a wink that night, pacing the small living room of my parents' house, thinking and praying very hard. I came to the conclusion that this was what I must do because it was part of my commitment to follow Allah's way. The next morning I put on my corduroy trousers, one of my dad's long-sleeved shirts and a white turban that he brought from the haj pilgrimage, and covered my beautiful hair. Bismillah (In Allah's name), I whispered and set off for school.

Despite the taunts and discrimination, I felt at peace. I felt protected. I did not set out to adopt a "holier-than-thou" position over other Muslim women who do not wear the headscarf. I did it because I believed it was the right thing for me to. It had to do with my faith, not other people's faith, though I did hope it would make me a better person in relation to other people.

I had dealt with my share of dirty old men and dirty young men trying to grope me on public transportation; but they stopped doing that when I began wearing the headscarf. When they started again, I had accumulated enough confidence to land a kick in the groin or hit them with my book bag.

The feeling of serenity has stayed with me over the long years that followed, through the various difficulties facing Muslim women in hijab in many non-Muslim places. It sustains me today, when a headscarf has turned from something that Muslim women put on because they wish to follow Allah's way, into a politically contentious issue and a source of heated debates.
+ Santi Soekanto