Yesterday I noticed two women park their cars near my house. It’s common at this time of year: we live near the park. One car was dark blue with a dent on the offside wheel arch.
They had several children of different ages with them who chattered on the pavement. The women got out. They both wore the niqab. The children wore summer clothes, pale colours, short, light, airy. The children spoke to each other in English. The women did not.
They all went to the park and a little while later when the rain started, they came back, got in the cars and drove away.
When I see women locally, if I know them or not, whatever they wear. I smile and say hello or good morning or something similar. I thought about these two women and their families.
What if it was really scary to come out of your house. What if the street outside seemed like a trap or a place of hate and fear. What if just going to the shop or the park was a huge undertaking but you just had to do it for the chattering children were demanding to go out to the park. What if you’d rather not go, not face the stares, the comments, or any of it. What if it was not like you had hoped or expected or wanted. What if…
Of course others might struggle to leave their home for many reasons and might expect a more or less sympathetic response. We each deal with our anxieties differently. I remember a time when wearing sheep brooches was part of my armour against anxiety. I’d put on one or two or seven or eight. Only a few people worked it out.
But even so I was a powerful woman by comparison: a white university educated, career woman. And it is about power. A white university educated male politician, more powerful than me, can liken a small number of women to street furniture and by doing so ramp up anxiety. And make going out even more challenging.
I go out to the park most days. I say hello to people whether I know then or not. I smile whether I can see their face or not. I try to love my neighbours.

In our life and our believing
The love of God