I tugged at the jeans ummi had bought me from Target in an attempt to make me feel more like an American. Two weeks, three days, and four hours. That’s how long I’d been in this country. That’s how long it had been since I’d laughed with my friends, kicked around a soccer ball in the dusty streets.

I’ve spent all my time staring out the front window of our apartment. This is really the only safe way for an outsider to observe life – unseen.

“Ya Ameena, you’re going to have to go out sooner or later,” Ummi always chides. But I’m determined to stay in. I’m not going to become one of them, one of these Americans with no modesty. And I know ummi is not as happy as she pretends to be – she cries at night too.

I smooth out the creases in my hijab. The cloth covers my dark hair, and inside it I feel secure.

But this is what is keeping me from going out that door. This cloth, it marks me. How can I be an American with Islam wrapped around my face?

The truth is, I’m just scared. Allah, give me strength.