Not long ago, in Paris, I met a young Muslim woman named Djamila Benrehab, who, at the age of twenty, had donned not only a black head scarf but a billowy black abaya and, under it all, a tight black bandanna to her eyebrows that left only the circle of her face exposed.
Djamila is a big, apple-cheeked, endearing person. She speaks a beautiful lilting French, and is intelligent and quite charming.
But she kept on reading. When she came to one of the passages about veils—which many Muslim feminists maintain do not so much prescribe veils as record that the wives of the Prophet went veiled and in this way were able to recognize one another and to be honored by other women for their distinction—she prayed and fasted and decided to wear one, too.
Her mother, who comes from Algeria and had never been veiled, was horrified by her new clothes. But Djamila persisted. She went for job interviews and was always turned down. But her robes got longer and more concealing. Strangers accused her of carrying bombs in her book bag.
I am not a terrorist. By last year, she was going to mosque several times a week, and her life, by her own admission, was narrowing.
