Chapter 2: She Doesn't Belong
798 Words
The second week of school felt even harder than the first.
By now, everyone already knew me as “the new girl” or “the hijabi girl.” I didn’t have a seat partner anymore. The girl I sat beside on the first day had quietly moved to another seat the next morning, without saying a word.
I didn’t ask her why. I just shifted and stayed there alone.
Some days, I came to school with a small ache in my chest. Not a sickness — but the kind of heaviness you feel when you know no one sees you, even when you’re right there.
---
Whispers, Always Whispers
“Does she ever talk?”
“I heard she doesn’t speak English well.”
“Maybe she came from one bush village.”
“I don’t like how she always looks serious. Like she’s better than us.”
They didn’t say these things to my face. But they said them loud enough for me to hear. And that’s what hurt more.
They judged me without knowing me.
They made up stories in their minds because I wore hijab… because I was quiet… because I didn’t laugh loudly or move with a group.
I didn’t know how to explain that silence was my comfort. That dressing this way was part of my faith. That I wasn’t sad, rude, or proud — I was just… me.
But I kept quiet. I didn’t defend myself.
Instead, I kept showing up, sitting alone, listening in class, and doing my work.
---
The Wrong Kind of Attention
One afternoon, our class was asked to clean the school field. It was general sanitation, and everyone was supposed to join. Some students brought cutlasses. Others came with rakes.
I came with a broom and wore my long gown over my uniform.
As we walked outside, one boy near me started laughing.
“Why are you dressed like mama alasalatu?” he said.
The others around him laughed too.
One girl hissed and whispered, “She doesn’t belong here.”
Something inside me cracked.
I looked at them. I wanted to speak. I wanted to say, “I belong here just like you.” But no words came out.
So I bent my head and swept in silence.
---
My Safe Space
Home became my only safe place.
My mother would always ask, “How was school today?”
And I would always answer, “It was fine.”
But it wasn’t.
I wanted to tell her how the girls ignored me. How the boys laughed. How I sometimes sat through the whole break without anyone speaking to me.
But I didn’t want her to worry.
Instead, I poured everything into my books. At night, when the house was quiet, I would sit near the window with a lantern, reading and writing. I studied not to prove anything to them—but to remind myself of who I was.
Because sometimes, even I started to forget.
---
The First Test
Two weeks later, we had our first class test in English.
The teacher gave us a comprehension passage and asked questions based on it. Most students sighed. Some started whispering. One girl even dropped her pen and gave up halfway.
But I kept writing. My heart was calm.
When the papers were marked, the teacher came to class and said, “Only one person got everything correct. I’m impressed.”
I looked down at my desk, uninterested.
Then he called my name.
“Rukoyyah.”
Heads turned.
“Stand up,” he said. “Well done. That was perfect.”
I stood up quietly, nodded, and sat back down.
Some people clapped softly. Some just stared.
---
The Look in Their Eyes
After that, things didn’t suddenly become better.
But something shifted.
Now, when I walked into class, some eyes stayed longer. They didn’t look with mockery anymore—but with curiosity. As if they were starting to wonder… who is she really?
But others? They were not happy.
“She’s just a bookworm.”
“She probably crammed everything.”
“I still don’t like her.”
But that was okay. I wasn’t looking for love or praise.
All I wanted was to be seen for who I truly was.
---
A Note to Myself
That night, I wrote in my small notebook — the one I never let anyone see.
> Today, they said I don’t belong.
But Allah placed me here for a reason.
So I do belong.
Even if they can’t see it yet.
I closed the book, turned off the lantern, and whispered my night dua.
No tears. No anger.
Just quiet strength — the kind that comes from knowing Allah is with you, even when the world is not.
- Writer
