“It’s what you represent now,” Maya shot back. “In this country, the jilbab isn’t just a scarf. It’s a political flag. When you wear it, you side with the identity politics that burn churches in Aceh and bully non-believers in West Java.”

At school, she didn’t sit with the hijrah girls or the vapers. She started a debate club called “Jilbab & Justice.” The first topic: “The economic hypocrisy of the hijab industry —why does a ‘modest’ silk jilbab cost a month’s salary for a ojol (online motorcycle taxi) driver?”

The second issue came from her own grandmother in Yogyakarta. “Finally!” the old woman wept over video call. “You won’t bring shame to the family at the pengajian (Quran recitation).” Sari felt sick. To her grandmother, the jilbab wasn’t faith; it was a family honor badge, a tool to police female bodies against the male gaze.