I have tried to define it in a way that softens the blow for you, like sugar after bitter medicine for men whose voices quaver in the face of it or whose lips twist in contempt. I have said no when I meant yes, and yes when I meant no. I have condemned it in all the ways a Muslim woman must while keeping it proudly pinned to my chest as if by condemnation alone, I had already improved it.
Deep down, I like watching your apprehension. There is a pop of power in this word that puts you on edge, and it explodes on my tongue like sweet firecrackers. Maybe I like that it repels exactly the right kinds of people. Maybe I like that it’s complicated, and you have to untangle exactly what I mean by it and to which degree—complicated enough to be fitting for the lived experience.
If I could use the word “woman,” I would, but to convey even an ounce of what this means to me, I would have to shake you by your shoulders with my face an inch from yours, screaming, I am a woman! Don’t you understand?!
No, you do not understand, and you will never understand, and I don’t even want to give you the satisfaction of understanding because you could never make up for it. You could never be good enough, and maybe—maybe I’m spiteful and feel a petty sort of revenge watching you grapple with the word. I want you to break your little head untangling feminism while I remain tangled here within the patriarchy you sit there reminding me of.
Did you get a nice glimpse behind my smile? There is an evil joy in knowing that before the word, you must have thought I was a nice person, but now you have to wonder: does she hate men?
I hate men in the way a human being is weak. At least I know my shortcomings. Ah, but you—in all your maleness—don’t even recognize the black spot on your soul that is your subconscious sense of superiority over me. Over her. Over my sisters.
Don’t make this about God because He is my only refuge. Not to you do I submit, but to Him and His decree that I live here as a woman in patriarchy. When you asked if I would be okay with walking behind men—that, at the end of the day, if I would let him take the wheel—the only thought that crossed my mind was whether I would be punished, like Iblis, for not bowing to Adam, or if, by being Adam’s daughter, God might forgive me, like He did my father عليه السلام, for being audacious enough to believe that, with Him, I can carry anything and do everything offered to me.1 Why are men allowed to be arrogant, but women are not?
If I had to, would I choose to work or stay home with my children? I don’t know. But, do I have to?
There are tomes and tomes of literature on this very question: Can women have it all? Considering the social and structural realities of her life, can she be a SHE-EO and a mom of five? Can she have worth conferred upon her by this Western capitalist society and still be a good, nurturing, and self-sacrificing woman? (Sure, she can! At the almost certain likelihood of running herself into the ground.)
Others have asked why worth attaches itself to masculine domains and never with her, here at home. The feminine is always pejorative. Still more, why is the onus of this question on her? What a privilege that this is not a question you have to agonize over. Patriarchy comforts men in that there will always be a woman around whose job it will be to give her life over to the enhancement of his.2
No, I don’t know if I would pick ambition or my children. I couldn’t know until I find myself lying there, holding my child in my arms, still slippery from amniotic fluid, and suddenly without a doubt, I would light myself on fire for my child. I couldn’t know until I am watching the clock get closer to five and wondering if I want strangers to see me more often than my kids do.
Isn’t the real question behind your question one I should ask you too? How comfortable are you with sacrifice? How comfortable are you with giving up a part of yourself to God?
Maybe I’m tired, and you ask too many questions. Maybe I like that when I go with this word to my sisters, I don’t have to explain myself beyond just this one little word which combination of agreement and disagreement I bring with it today. They get it, and they embrace me in a silent understanding.
Qur’an, 33:72
Rahman, Yumna (@kolponaaa). 2024. “here’s a long one.” Instagram, February 13, 2024. https://www.instragram.com/p/C3UB5ntAVLf1J-ocX1PNskpJBun4zVwV_qoUG40/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==
Adrienne Rich, Of Woman Born: Motherhood as Experience and Institution, Norton paperback edition, reissued, Women’s Studies (New York, NY London: W.W. Norton & Company, 1995), 221.