Where Is the Mexican Hijab?

Alhamdulillah, I became Muslim in 2023, and like many reverts, I quickly started navigating a new layer of identity — one that people often assumed for me.

The moment I put on the headscarf, some Latinos began to assume I was Arab. Not because I said anything, but because that’s what most people in our community associate the headscarf with — simply because they don’t know any different.

And in some ways, I understood it. At the masjid, I saw women wrap their headscarves in ways that clearly reflected their roots — styles passed down, familiar fabrics, patterns from home. There were Turkish styles, Malaysian styles, Saudi wraps, Somali drapes — each one carrying its own cultural rhythm.
And while hijab itself is more than just a scarf — it’s modesty observed by both men and women — what I’m talking about here is specifically the cultural way the headscarf is worn.

The way these women wore it wasn’t just about modesty. It represented where they came from. It represented them.

But I kept asking myself — where do Mexican Muslims fit into that?

What does our headscarf look like?

Sure, we could wear traditional Mexican dresses — the kind you’d find at folklórico performances or cultural events. But those are heavy. Formal. Not really something you’d throw on for class or a quick trip to the store. And they don’t create the kind of consistent visual identity that other cultural hijab styles do.

That absence made me reflect.

The styles we see today didn’t appear out of nowhere. Someone in each of those cultures made a decision — to wear their headscarf in a way that felt familiar, natural, and theirs. Over time, it became their norm.

So why not start creating that for us?

Something that reflects our Mexican heritage in a way that’s casual, wearable, and personal. A style that doesn’t require a whole explanation. A piece that feels like home and deen in one.

That’s exactly what inspired the first design — a twist on the blue striped headscarves I grew up seeing in paintings of Mexican women and in the rancho. They weren’t called hijabs, but they carried a quiet modesty, a sense of strength. I reimagined that same feeling in soft viscose modal — something light, breathable, and easy to wear. A new take that still feels like us.

This isn’t about trying to stand out or fit in. It’s about feeling seen.

And maybe, this is where it starts.