The Silencing of Muslim Women

Ramadan reflection #3

I do not feel personally oppressed in my way of dress, my speech, and my actions. I wear hijab by choice. I feel free and am free to voice my opinions, even dissenting ones. I go to a university 800 miles away from home and live in a dorm. These are privileges relative to the opportunities of my Muslim sisters around the world and even in America.

Despite my proclaimed liberation there are moments and experiences that contradict this narrative.

This morning I attended tahajjud prayer, one that starts at 3 am and continues until we eat suhoor. I’m known to get unusually silly, hyper, and giggly during all-nighters.

As my friends and I gathered around a mat to eat we conversed. Our conversation wasn’t significant but I was light and filled with laughter. My sounds of happiness blended with the sounds of moving forks, shuffling feet, and conversing men and women. One sister felt the need to shame my friends and I for our joy. Her words were harsh and essentially relayed the message “if you want to laugh, leave the masjid”

The mosque has been a second home for me. It is a place where I made lifelong friends, taught kids the Arabic alphabet, broke fast, and bowed my head in submission countless times to my Lord. It is a place I love and cherish. My life would have carried a different path had I not felt welcome and comfortable to be in it.

So to the lady I made no response to and to all the Muslim men and women who expect me to be silent, this is what I have to say. Whether you think my voice is awra (private) or not gives you no right to (attempt) to rob me of my second home. I believe Allah would much rather hear the sounds of joy ringing in His house than a harsh silence forced on by degradation of His believer’s humanity.

[A reflection on a reflection]

Agency. What a rare commodity it is for a woman.

Thankfully it is a privilege I have, I can use, and I do use. Rare is it for the women in Afghanistan under Taliban rule. Rare is it for the Rohingya Muslims of Myanmar living through a genocide. Rare is it for the women of Palestine living under occupation. Rare is it for the 3 American women murdered everyday by a current or former male partner. Rare is it for the 1 in 5 women aged 16–59 that has experienced a form of sexual violence. Rare is it for the women in France who earn on average 26% less than men.

Agency, what a rare commodity it is for a woman.

Thankfully I had a father that wanted to raise his 2 daughters to be strong, to be independent, and to be accomplished. My mother I’m sure wish she had done more in terms of her education, career, and personal life. She never finished college, she worked all of my childhood but I see in her dissatisfaction. My dad was pusher. He pushed me (and my sister) to always play a sport from the time is I was 5 until I was 18. He pushed me to take the hardest classes and get the highest grades. He pushed me to participate in community, extracurricular, and volunteering activities. He pushed me not to lock myself in my room in solitude. He pushed me to be the best in every way he knew would help me to succeed. My father is a VERY strong man, because everyone knows what a stubborn brat I used to be. He never stopped pushing me. Even when I cried. Even when I boycotted his behavior by refusing to talk to him. He happily drove me to practices in silence. I didn’t know it as it was happening but he shaped me into the loud, confident, fearless woman I am today. Not because he meant to (or maybe he did) but when the harshness of his words cut they prepared for a world of harshness that might do the same to me. My thick skin doesn’t let it.

Agency, what a rare commodity it is for a woman.

I look at my fellow devout, practicing female Muslim peers, there is a stark contrast between them and me. The way I was raised. The ideology to which I subscribe. The fire that exist in me that was put out in them. Who put it out? What man did that to you?

Agency, what a rare commodity it is for a woman.

I was raised by a pusher and it’s not surprise that I am one myself. So now I push the way my father did to me. Even when it’s harsh. Even when my friends look at me in way that shows this concept is so foreign to them. I do it because I love them. I do it because I believe that The Lord of all the worlds gave this concept called agency to them.

The man who didn’t fear God took it away from them.