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and they don’t ask me to. I never see them outside of school. I’m known as a hardworking girl, which I am. A nice girl, no doubt, but I’ve declined so many invitations to parties that people have stopped asking. I’ve never spoken to Charlene or Sofia about what is important to me. Nobody knows, for instance, that I am Muslim. Nobody asks. When I refuse a cigarette, nobody cares why. I could explain that my religion prohibits smoking, but who would be interested? It is important. But who can I talk to? My own sister doesn’t want to understand me anymore.
    I wish the whole world could know what I am. Who I am.
    Most journalists talk about what they do not know, about matters they don’t take the trouble to understand. They adopt the clichés that suit them—take one aspect of an issue until it becomes a caricature. For them, being a Muslim man means wanting to enslave women, to deny them any rights, any life. I can’t say that this isn’t a reality. But it’s only one reality among many—the one that is best known since it’s the one that gets the most media coverage.All I need is to be in sync with my beliefs and religion, even if that seems ridiculous to other girls my age. It’s true that I’ve never gone out with a boy. So what? I have lots of other things to think about for now. Besides, love seems too important to last only three days or even two months. Or does being a teenager mean you have to be frivolous? Should your main interest be the color of your eye shadow, or the clothes you wear? Should whether my thong shows above my jeans be my sole concern? What a fascinating debate, right? Am I strange because all this leaves me indifferent? Actually, I am not indifferent! I am raging mad. I’d like to be able to confide all of my feelings to my sister. To my Djelila. I wish she could understand me. Approve of me. Be like me.
    “I’ve decided to wear a head scarf, Djelila,” I tell her.
    Djelila’s mouth goes slack. Her eyes search mine, trying to decipher whether I’m provoking her, joking, or serious.
    “I’m going to wear a head scarf,” I repeat.
    “What?”
    It’s almost as if I just announced I’m on drugs!
    “I don’t understand,” Djelila goes on stubbornly.
    “I need to feel like myself,” I explain. “I need to be respected. I want my beliefs and my choices to be respected. I’m an Arab, Djelila. Arab and Muslim. That is our parents’ and our grandparents’ religion.…”
    “True,” Djelila says. “But Hana Leïla is Muslim and she doesn’t wear a veil. Neither does Mom.”
    Djelila speaks softly. I hear disbelief in her voice. She isgiving up, as if she’s suddenly realized to what extent we have become different.
    I take her hand. I don’t want her to forget we are sisters.
    “We already talked about this, Djelila. You know how I hate seeing girls exposing themselves on billboards and in magazines. I don’t want to be like them. That’s not what it means to be a woman. I need to be respected.”
    “I want to be respected too,” Djelila says. “Without having to disappear or hide my face.”
    Djelila retrieves her hand. The tension between us is palpable. We are enemies. Enemy sisters.
    But it’s not what I want.
    I would love to make her see things my way. If she were to follow my example, I’m certain she would be happier. And less in danger.
    I guess I want to protect you, little sister. But from what?

I wanted to protect you, Djelila. But from what?
    I have no photograph of you except the ID picture on your public transportation card. It also happens to be the one that appeared in the newspapers. I guess the journalists got it from your registration card at school.
    No journalist dared come to our home. Uncle Ahmed was on guard in the lobby of our tower and threatened them, along with anyone whose face he didn’t like, anyone who ventured beyond the mailboxes, with a lawsuit. He stayed there three days. Maybe he slept there too. I’m sure he would