By Cynthia Guerrero
how Gaza redefined my idea of beauty
Originally published on March 31, 2026, on Substack.
All praise is due to Allah, the Giver of Honor and the Granter of Victory.
Bismillah
Context matters. I am a Latina revert, more specifically a Dominican revert. If you know anything about Dominican women, you know that hair is our specialty. Our beauty salons are filled with women from different backgrounds, tapping their feet subconsciously to the pulse of the lively merengue reverberating from the speakers, all awaiting their turn for the distinguished Dominican blowout.
Growing up, hair care was a sacred ritual practiced every Saturday in my household. It felt daunting as a child who just wanted to go outside and play, but as an adult, it feels restoring and ancestral— the method to hair oiling, the science behind protein treatments, the hour spent underneath the hairdryer.
Upon accepting Islam, I fully understood that khimar (i.e., hijab) is fardh, and I believed in the sanctity of hijab, but I never thought I’d be amongst those who wore it. Perhaps it was vanity, fear, intimidation, or maybe, all of the above. The nuances and complexities of being a revert, specifically in relation to hijab, are a multitude. Coming from a background where the length, texture, and health of your hair are celebrated and praised, hijab felt like a colossal undertaking. Will my family think that I’ve become extreme? Will I take it off? Who am I without the one attribute that made me beautiful? Who decides that I am beautiful and why is it important that I am? Am I more attached to the things of this life than I am to Allah?
As a woman living in the West, actively resisting ever-shifting Eurocentric imposed beauty standards, is no easy feat. There is always something new advertised towards women, a gadget or pill, with the promise that this will make you prettier, thinner, more palatable. It requires complete knowing and acceptance of oneself to not succumb to the demands of the world, demands that you shrink and give up the best parts of yourself for its love; love that is most fleeting, here today and gone tomorrow. Confessedly, there are days in which these false ideals seep into our psyche and our self-image becomes reliant on how much of ourselves fits into the current beauty standard. Beauty standards that are not measured or rooted in character, ikhlas or piety, but instead are measured by your ability to be desired. Although we know better, we betray ourselves.
Ramadan 2024, the world was in collective grief and rage as Israel’s genocide in Gaza was in its fifth month. In NYC, we were in the thick of escalation, shutting bridges down, disrupting Presidential campaigns, facing police brutality and repression. Many of us spent nights in cold cells; our bodies still hold the trauma of being slammed onto concrete by officers sworn to serve and protect — but Gaza was our compass. It remains so. Solidarity is a verb, it means continuing to show up with our bodies because the worst of what we endure still fails vastly in comparison with what Palestinians are being subjected to every single day at the hands of tyrants acting with impunity.
Children desperately dig their fingernails into rubble in search of a mother to dignify, a mother to bury.
The screams of sleeping families in displacement camps burned to ashes by 2000 lb U.S. manufactured bombs.
The pleading of the starved. Their bones.
Hind Rajab.
Throughout this time, death was something I thought about regularly as I was witnessing it in its most tragic and devastating form. Individualism, a byproduct of capitalism, permeates our subconscious so much so that we treat death as this far away occurrence that will touch us only when we are ready for it to do so. As Muslims, we know every soul will taste death, that is a promise from our Lord, and the details of our return to Him are only known by Al-Mumeet, The Bringer of Death. Death is a positive CT scan, an accident on the side of the road, death is a drone in the clouds. Though they are a people who love life, who share laughs over tea with their neighbors and kiss their children goodnight; the people of Gaza prepare for death. The women cling to their hijabs; wearing them around the clock, for they know martyrdom could come for them as they sleep, and if it does, they will meet their Lord in a state of obedience. The men bid farewell to their families; in the case that they do not return to them, as they go out into the night, seeking aid at distribution sites. The children recite the Quran intently on the remains of a destroyed mosque. This is taqwa.
Gaza shattered every glass, lifted every veil.
Beauty had taken on a new meaning. Beauty was Medo Halimy, who planted small gardens near his tent, holding on to hope until his last breath. Ahmed Abusweilem, an eight-year-old boy, who houses scared stray cats and feeds them from his own food. Renad Attallah, who shares beloved Palestinian recipes on social media, her love for her culture radiating through the screen. Anas Al-Sharif’s commitment to sharing the truth, his advocacy for his people. Saleh al-Jafarawi’s beautiful adhan. Bisan Owda’s perseverance. Yahya Sinwar’s resolve in his final moments. Our brothers in the resistance. Beauty are the names of those unknown to the world but known to Allah Azzawajal. Beauty is Gaza.
The obvious fact is that our lives have never been changed, nor have our days ever been made better due to the symmetry of someone’s face, the fullness of their lips. What impacts us deeply as humans is a person’s kindness, generosity, their inclination towards mercy.
So, where are you going?
On the 29th night of Ramadan 2024, I made the dua of Prophet Dawud (AS):
O Allah, I ask You for Your love and the love of those who love You, and the love of those deeds that will bring me Your love. O Allah, make Your love more beloved to me than myself, my family and even cold water
The next morning, I looked at myself in the mirror, exhaled deeply, said Bismillah, and put the hijab on. Three days later, at an Eid of Rage action, the NYPD violently stripped me of my hijab in broad daylight. I have not yet allowed the space to process what being brutalized in that manner did to me. To be frank, at the time it felt self-indulgent to sit with my feelings while Israel was systematically starving Gaza to death. I moved on as best as I could, borrowing strength from family, friends, and comrades. The mortal men in uniform with God complexes, who are still policing the streets of New York City today, may think that they are above accountability, but we will all be held to account for what our hands have set forth. There is peace in knowing that Allah is Al-Baseer, The All-Seeing. Nothing can be concealed nor revealed to Him.
This past weekend marked two years in hijab.
Alhamdulillah Alhamdulillah Alhamdulillah
Most days, hijab feels as much a part of me as one of my limbs, and other days, I feel its weight. There are moments where I am steadfast in my commitment, and there are moments I am in need of guidance. One truth remains unchanging, His rahma meets us exactly where we are. I am emboldened and strengthened by the vastness of His mercy and by His love for me. Hijab is a mercy from Allah, I know this to be unequivocally true, and I know that as long as I keep taking steps towards Him, He will continue to run towards me.
Lastly and with all humility, O Gaza, words do not suffice. I am forever indebted.
Victory is yours. The Granter of Victory decreed it so.
We will leave no stone unturned, fighting beside you.
About the Author
Cynthia Guerrero is a second-generation immigrant from the Dominican Republic. She resides in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where she works as a case manager, advocating on behalf of underserved communities. She reverted to Islam at the age of 25.
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