ARE you sure there is no bomb in there?

A question from a casually dressed young guy was ringing in my ears after I stepped out of the George St Apple Retail Store in a full-length black dress and headwear. And this is what Muslim women have to deal with every day in Sydney. Adrenaline was pumping and I wanted to rip off my Muslim garb and be me again. But I didn’t. I bit my tongue because I knew I had already come so far.

media_camera A man confronts Tanya standing in Martin Place / Picture Craig Greenhill

I never knew what it was like not being able to smile.

Much worse than the racist and abusive taunts cast my way from a steady stream of Sydneysiders was the inability to show them how I felt. Yes, the shroud covered my skin, my hair, my eyes, my identity but what hurt most was having my emotions hidden from the world.

media_camera A family walks past Tanya in Martin Place / Picture Craig Greenhill

It was not all hate. A number of people smiled at me, maybe smiles of sympathy or the only way they could hide their fears from me. I won’t ever know.

I desperately wanted the world to see my hidden smile. I wanted to interact with people.

My journey posing as a Muslim started at Central Station, but the first steps towards this experience came much earlier.

It was after no small amount of deliberation that I took on the assignment asked of me by my editor — to spend two days in the traditional niqab dress in two different parts of Sydney to see how people would react.

media_camera A woman stares at Tanya crossing George Street / Picture Craig Greenhill

I have no prejudices against any religion over another but in the end I thought it would give an insight into a garment which has proven so divisive.

Moments after walking into the station, I knew my presence was making people uncomfortable. Two children sniggered at me as they walked past, while another two men stopped to stare at me.

But it was not as bad as I thought. Before taking on the challenge; I had fears of being spat on, or even pushed in front of a train.

Some would only take a split second glance before looking away, but others would stare for longer in disbelief.

I felt hated and completely alienated from the rest of the world, so hidden and alone. When I was waiting for a train, I was getting used to my new identity, but my confidence was quickly battered when a man yelled “dirty religion”. Everyone really began to stare. I felt bullied, it felt so unfair.

media_camera A woman stares at Tanya in Martin Place / Picture: Craig Greenhill

I started to tremble and felt my legs would give way when I started to walk down stairs to exit the station. But I carried on.

When I went to purchase a punnet of strawberries at a fruit stand at Martin Place, the shopkeeper raised an eyebrow, but after I asked when raspberries would be back in season, my voice seemed to relax and the man seemed happy to talk to me.

At the next block, I went to buy a packet of chewing gum, but the shop worker ignored me and made another transaction with a man who had walked in after me.

I could not help but open my mouth, and said “I’m sorry but I think I was first”

A woman walked up to me and asked if I was “OK sweetheart”. It was reassuring — just a normal inquiry from one concerned Australian to another. It gave me hope.

Unsurprisingly, the experience of wearing the traditional garb in the CBD almost seemed a world away from doing so in Lakemba.

IN LAKEMBA

WEARING a niqab in Lakemba was like wearing a bikini at Bondi Beach.

No big deal — but getting hold of the traditional dress was a bit of a different story.

But when I first arrived in Haldon St, Lakemba, wearing a white T-shirt and black pants, I knew straight away I did not fit in. It was enough to make me feel uncomfortable.

media_camera Tanya Smart wearing a burqa in Haldon St Lakemba / Picture: Craig Greenhill

I was shopping for the niqab to wear into the CBD and test how Australians react to a woman in traditional full length clothing.

With not a clue where to start, I stopped a young Muslim girl on the street and asked where to find a niqab.

To my surprise, she offered to walk me to a shop and helped me find what I was looking for.

Once changed, I blended in instantly into the Lakemba community — I was no longer an outcast.

media_camera Zahra Hazime, 18 and Amira Hamze, 17 with journalist Tanya Smart / Picture: Craig Greenhill

At first I was worried and overwhelmed with paranoia that everyone could see the real me underneath.

But I was wrong, under the protection of the niqab, I belonged. At a local grocery store I walked up to the shop keeper and asked where I could get a hamburger because I was so nervous, it was the only thing that came to mind.

The woman was friendly, but my heart sank when she asked if I was “Australian”.

“Yes,” I replied, and thanked the woman before leaving the shop.

After walking out I strolled down the street before stopping at a clothing shop and looked through a rack of dresses, desperately trying not to stick out.

No one looked twice.

media_camera Tanya Smart wearing a burqa in Haldon St Lakemba / Picture: Craig Greenhill

Returning to the grocery store, I revealed my identity to the friendly shop assistant and her colleague.

I asked 18-year-old Zahra Hazime about her experience of wearing the scarf and she opened up about people’s reactions.

“Honestly, a little kid coming up to you and just giving you the biggest dirty look, and then the mum will be like “don’t speak to her,” It is really bad,” Ms Hazime said.

“You have to learn to put that on the side.

“Everyone is their own person. I believe everyone can follow whatever religion that they want,

“With us Muslims we actually see other religions coming into ours.

media_camera Tanya Smart wearing a burqa in Haldon St Lakemba / Picture: Craig Greenhill

“We believe you are doing what we are doing, following the same rules.

“It is all the stuff that is happening, the ISIS are not even Muslim. They just make us look bad.

“All that is happening now is not right; they see the evil in everything.”

Amir Hamze, 17, said she regularly faces negative comments about her choice to wear traditional Muslim clothing.

“I have the scarf on for three years, everyone knows me here and people ask why I put it on. They say it is not nice,” Ms Hamze said.

“Taking off the scarf is like a sin.”

Reflecting on my experience behind the veil, it was interesting as an experiment, but I wondered how it must be to live like this all the time.

media_camera Tanya Smart at Lakemba Train Station / Picture: Craig Greenhill

Originally published as Life under the Muslim veil