MAPLE GROVE, Minn. (AP) — Ice crystals clung to the eyelashes, parka hood, beanie hat and headscarf of Ruqayah Nasser as she took a break after her first-ever snow tubing runs in a Minnesota park on a subzero (-18 Celsius) January morning.
She had joined two dozen other members of a group founded by a Somali-American mother in Minneapolis to promote all-seasons activities among Muslim women, who might otherwise feel singled out in the great outdoors, especially when wearing hijabs.
“They understand my lifestyle. I don’t have to explain myself,” said Nasser, who recently moved to the Twin Cities from Chicago and whose family hails from Yemen. “My religion is everything. It’s my survival kit.”
As one of the most visible signs of the Muslim faith, hijabs often attract controversy. Within Islam, some women want to wear the headscarves for piety and modesty, while others oppose them as a symbol of oppression. In the sports world, including in the last Olympics, devout athletes have often faced extra hurdles on and off the field in finding accommodations for religious practices.
Concerned about safety as a woman — particularly one wearing a head covering — but determined to get outdoors to beat seasonal depression, Nasrieen Habib put out a social media post about creating a hiking group three years ago.
From the nine women who responded, her Amanah Rec Project has grown to more than 700 members. There’s a core group for Muslim women only — for “more sisterhood and modesty,” Habib says — as well as a group for families. In addition to weekly outings, they organize longer trips and education on everything from appropriate winter clothing — a challenge for many migrant communities — to health and environmental sustainability from the perspective of Islam.
“It’s a way to live your whole life according to a set of beliefs and rules. And part of those beliefs and rules is taking care of creation,” Habib said as her 4-year-old son took a break from tubing in a toasty chalet at Elm Creek Park Reserve near Minneapolis. “How can we be more sustainable in a time where we see the impact of climate change, especially impacting people who look like us in the Global South?”
Two sisters, Ruun Mahamud and Nawal Hirsi, moved to the United States from Somalia as children about two decades ago.
They found a safe haven in Minnesota where, since the late 1990s, growing numbers of East African refugees have created an increasingly vocal Muslim community. Democratic Rep. Ilhan Omar was the first lawmaker to wear a hijab while on the U.S. House floor, and Minneapolis was the first large city in the United States to allow the Islamic call to prayer to be broadcast publicly by its two dozen mosques.
Even though she feels “safe and accepted” in her hijab, Hirsi joined the group for extra support.
“I love being outdoors and joining this group has made me more comfortable to participate,” she said on the tubing hill, where she had convinced Mahamud to come along for the first time.
“Oh my gosh, it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever done,” Mahamud gushed after speeding downhill on a tube attached to her sister’s as their daughters recorded the adventure on their phones.
The sisters said it’s important to include love for the outdoors and physical activity in their children’s religious upbringing.
“Taking care of one’s health is part of our faith,” Hirsi said.
Muslim women who wear hijabs can face multiple barriers to sports participation, said Umer Hussain, a Wilkes University professor who studies religion and sports. They range from activities where genders mix or head coverings pose logistical hurdles to conservative families who might frown on it.
Groups like Habib’s tackle empowering women in their communities as well as raising awareness about religious accommodations like single-sex spaces or locations for prayer.
“The biggest barrier, for women specifically, is having access to spaces that allow us to practice our religion while keeping our modesty and abiding by the Islamic laws that tell us we are not supposed to be in mixed spaces without covering up,” Habib said.
She appears to have tapped into a great demand.
“When she told me she was going to start a hiking group to get sisters out in nature … it was like actually something I’ve been looking for for a very long time,” Makiya Amin said as she climbed up the tubing hill in a long white skirt, bright-red headscarf, and heavy winter coat. “I didn’t really have those type of people who were outdoorsy already around me.”
Isho Mohamed joined the group for the wide-ranging conversations as much as for the outdoors, which as a self-described “homebody” she had largely avoided since college days.
“It’s a safe space that takes me out of my comfort zone,” she said of the group outings. During them, the women share about work experiences but also life as immigrants and, most importantly, their faith.
“We also talk about spiritual connection and connecting with God as well, and just say a little prayer here and there when we’re walking,” Mohamed added.
Her cheeks glowing above her ski mask after two hours on the hill, Jorida Latifi was with her 7-year-old son among the last to hang up their snow tubes. Originally from Albania, Latifi has gone out with the group almost weekly since joining more than a year ago.
“With Muslim sisters … they do understand you, what you go through, even with the clothing and hijabs,” Latifi said. “It feels way, way more like, you know, where you are with family.”
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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
