Henna – Inscribing Restoration and Flourishing

Henna

The scent of herbs, flowers, and spices all at once, colliding in swirls that fall onto my hands, imprinting them with stories of the women who decorate my skin so exquisitely. That is henna.

I have worn henna every year since I was an infant: usually in celebration of the Islamic holiday Eid, and doing so is accompanied with all the jubilation and triumph and ecstasy that I wish I could bottle up and dispense as needed for those moments when clouds of dazed sadness and despondency fall on me like a hammer.

And somehow, as though my very nature recalled the henna I had worn so proudly every year for Eid, and had saved its alluring, aromatic essence for me – just in case the hammer fell – I reached out to my aunt this past Eid with a message. Perhaps a call for help, in a way.

“I know I can’t take off Eid because I already took time off being sick. Still, I wish I could have henna this year. I haven’t had it in years.”

My aunt, as is congruent with her compassionate disposition, immediately located a henna artist and it was set.

Sitting in the chair again before the henna artist felt comforting, calming, and warm. If I closed my eyes, I could remember the era when I didn’t know the pain of sobbing about my loneliness, of holding back tears as a supervisor said my anxiety made me akin to a paraplegic, of the background of depression that’s always lurked there in the distance, ravenous for an inciting event to open up the gates and release the hammer.  

The notion of henna being a woman’s art – and a cultural, religious symbol which I can literally inscribe on my hands – moves me. I experienced that when leading a women’s and sexual health class with Muslim women who are refugees.

The women were insightful and incredibly self-aware. When we spoke about the importance of educating ourselves and our children about sexually transmitted diseases, the response was positive and affirming (in stark contrast to the portrayal of Muslim women and particularly refugees in media as backwards and regressive). Instead, they are the first to showcase that their history of resilience lends itself to seeking out the most efficient ways to care for themselves and their family. We discussed their children’s struggles with mental health concerns, HPV vaccinations, and essential health care resources. And interspersed within the conversation were my references to Islamic values such as feminism, equality, and the importance of seeking knowledge. These women are a testament to the same power I see in henna.

They remind me of the reasons why it is so bold and brave to be a Muslim minority woman in the States. Before my mind’s eyes flash memories: spending time begging superiors to give me time off for Eid, worrying that I would be called unprofessional at work for “tattoos”, being shunned for wearing a headscarf as a child.

My experiences sharing health education with refugee women who so eagerly engaged in questions about personal health and the health of their children and families

Illustrated the possibility for repair and flourishing that henna has held out to me.

I am reminded of the hard but fulfilling path to success these women choose to take no matter how many times the hammer falls, incessantly, again, and again, and again.

Medeeha Khan
Lewis Katz School of Medicine, 4th year medical student