She took a breath in and continued. ‘Every day since we’ve been here I wear a different outfit and I become someone else. Every costume has a story and comes with a way of behaving attached to it. If it’s pretty and feminine or if it’s practical. Some of the clothes in the cupboard here are heavy and some of them restrictive. They made me think about my own clothes. Why do I dress the way I do? Because that’s how my mother dressed and the women in my village. Or that’s how my husband of the time wanted me to dress. Each one had an opinion. The first wanted me to wear these long, loose abayas or plain coats. The second thought I should lighten up and wear trousers and colours, not attract attention to myself. Then Ibrahim encouraged me to copy you, Salma, and we started to go shopping together. There was never time to think, what do I want to wear and why? Well, I’ve made a decision. I’m not clearing it with you or asking your opinion. I’m just telling you so that you know and don’t act all surprised. From now on I will stop wearing hijab. That’s it. I will take my headscarf off.’

The announcement stunned Moni and Salma. They had not seen it coming. It made no sense. Yet Iman continued to talk, and they followed her peculiar logic, an argument connected to uniforms and costumes, roles and camouflage.

‘If I’m not dressed for a role, then who am I?’ she said. ‘If I don’t know who I am, then how can I know what I want? The hijab wasn’t forced on me against my will, but I wasn’t given a choice to wear it or not, either. It was what the other older girls in my family were wearing. It felt natural that at a certain age I would wear it too. But if I were free to choose, I might not have chosen it. I might have chosen something else. Maybe I would have dressed like Mulan or like a cowgirl. We think we are the ones wearing an outfit, but it’s imprinting itself on us.’ Iman could not believe her own fluency, how she was talking and the other two were listening. It had never happened before. Not one stutter, not one fumble for words. She went on. ‘Maybe no one in the world really has a choice. Even men. If you’re born in a certain place or a certain century, you just fall in line and dress like everyone is dressing. The kind of clothes you would find in the shops. It’s artificial. And I want what is natural, what is true to myself, the self I was born to be . . .’