In your new book, “Headscarves and Hymens: Why the Middle East Needs a Sexual Revolution,” you write about your decision to start wearing the hijab as a teenager. What prompted it? My family moved to Saudi Arabia from the U.K. when I was 15. I was groped twice while on pilgrimage to Mecca. It made me feel like I just wanted to hide my body. I struck a deal with God. I said: “They say a good Muslim woman should wear a head scarf. I’ll do it if you save my mind.”

But you stopped wearing it at around 25. What happened? I was on the metro in Cairo, wearing my hijab, and a woman who was wearing the niqab — a full-face veil — sat opposite me. We got into a conversation, and I realized that she wanted me to dress the way that she did. She said, “Would you rather eat a piece of candy that was in a wrapper or unwrapped?” I said to her, “I’m a woman, not a piece of candy.”

Why is it important to you to remain a Muslim, rather than rejecting your faith outright, as Ayaan Hirsi Ali has? I often talk about Khadijah, Muhammad’s first wife. She owned a business, and she employed Muhammad. She was 15 years older than him, she was a divorcée and she proposed to him. If she was the first person to become a Muslim, something in that faith is worth holding on to.

Some women in the Arab world have criticized your work, saying you portray Arab women as helpless. I’m not saying, “Come rescue us.” I don’t believe anyone can or should rescue us. I’m pointing out what the enemy is. And the enemy is misogyny and patriarchy.