Hijab. What’s the first thought that comes into your head? Prop of the patriarchy? Expression of emancipation? A non-issue?

In the west, discussions about hijabis – Muslim women who wear the headscarf – often concentrate on passivity or piety. Those tired traits are blown away by the female playwrights behind Hijabi Monologues. Taking inspiration from the hugely successful Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler, it was co-created in the US by Sahar Ullah, Zeenat Rahman and Dan Morrison. Referred to as a project rather than a play, the piece has a set of core monologues but incorporates new writing from each place to which it tours. After performances in the US, Holland, Ireland and Indonesia, it arrived last week at the Bush theatre in west London.

Performed by a talented cast of six, the nine monologues at the Bush differed in subject matter and tone but were united by a sense of reclaiming representation – hijabis talking for themselves rather than be talked about. A common experience was one of exhaustion, a shared fatigue at being cast by white society as a representative of more than one billion people. In Ullah’s I’m Tired, our hijabi protagonist emphatically tells the audience, “I’m not a bad example, I’m not a good example”; it’s a passionate plea to be judged by the same standards as everyone else. The serious message is offset by a playful tone as she lifts her abaya to reveal the pyjama bottoms she still has on underneath.

Nadi Kemp-Sayfi in Hijabi Monologues. Photograph: Helen Murray

The paradox of the hijab making the wearer simultaneously hyper-visible and invisible was present in many of the monologues. In a piece by Nimmo Ismail, a hijabi’s fascination with people-watching makes her declare, “There’s no such thing as a bad face”. Although her hobby alleviates her travel sickness, she is forced to stop because people begin to notice her and her hijab. She is seen but not seen.

Another hijabi performs a breakdown of the different kinds of Muslim men she could date: there’s the “brother” who’s in the friends zone (without a compass), the pro-everything activist and the former player who’s now into polygamy. This archetype is brilliantly observed – drawing attention to the men who use religion to legitimise and continue with their bad behaviour. Same player, different game.

The insidious way in which marginalised communities internalise critical narratives was captured poignantly in My Son’s Wedding Feast. A mother returns home to a police car parked outside. Although it is later revealed that her son has died, her first question upon seeing the police, is not, “Is my son OK?” but, “Did my son hurt someone?”

Not only does oppression become internalised, it is incorporated into daily routine. In one monologue, a young hijabi describes going on a date and making small talk about “the weather and Islamophobia”. This elicited a loud knowing laugh from the audience and also rang true to me. In a recent drama workshop at a Luton secondary school (with a majority of students of Pakistani Muslim heritage), we asked the class to make an advert for their town. On the list of bad things about Luton, one child wrote: traffic, roadworks, the EDL.

In a Q&A after Hijabi Monologues, Sahar Ullah described how in a previous production a designer had wanted to fill the stage with scarves. When Ullah asked for clarification the designer explained: “You know, like a harem”. The Orientalist lens remains uncracked. Thankfully in this production the only scarves in sight were those upon the actors’ heads. Designer Khadija Raza established a sleek, stylish set and director Milli Bhatia infused the monologues with energy and tenderness. Both Raza and Bhatia are female artists of colour. It was important that not only those on stage but also those off it were diverse. As Bhatia pointed out in the Q&A: “It’s not just about our faces, it’s about our voices too”.

Although billed as Hijabi Monologues, I was troubled by the conflation of hijabis and Muslim women. On its website, the theatre made a call out for writers to submit stories to be staged in “a safe space for Muslim women to creatively communicate their diverse experiences”. What about the many Muslim women who choose not to wear the hijab? A member of the audience picked up on this and suggested the inclusion of a monologue told from the point of view of a non-hijabi Muslim woman. While the show was lauded for championing diversity, it ironically did a disservice to the diversity within the Muslim female community itself.

Simon Coombs and Farzana Dua Elahe in What Fatima Did at Hampstead Theatre. Photograph: Alex Rumford

In my first play, What Fatima Did, I used the hijab as a prism through which to explore the identity of young BAME Londoners. Through my discussions with hijab-wearers, it soon became clear that women wore the hijab for different reasons: personal, political and mostly a combination of both. After 9/11, there was an increase in women adopting the hijab as a political gesture – a statement of defiance in the face of anti-Muslim bigotry. I would have liked to have seen more of this political context woven into the show.

In a broader context, the hijab cannot be decoupled from countries such as Iran and Saudi Arabia where women are forced by law to wear it and face harsh punishment if they don’t. The veil is a feminist issue. Within feminist circles, it is often depicted as an ideological battle between white feminists trying to “save” the brown woman from the hijab and brown and black women asserting their right to wear it. This again negates the existence of secular feminists of colour who walk the tightrope: fighting racism while critiquing the hijab for placing the responsibility of modesty on to women.

British theatre has never been accused of being too diverse. From the recent uproar surrounding Hampstead theatre’s all-male season to the Print Room’s all-white casting of Chinese characters, the industry doesn’t seem to understand that putting women, people of colour and women of colour (that much-neglected middle section of the Venn diagram) on stage is not a favour done to appease the Arts Council but a duty to reflect what British society looks like now. Although I would have liked to have seen more of a critical edge to the monologues, and a fuller political and social context, it was radical and invigorating to see a stage full of women of colour telling fresh and funny stories.