The Unspoken

Category: Family & Expectations

  • Virginity Isn’t a Choice. It’s a Chain.

    They chained our dignity to a membrane, and called it honour.

    In much of the Arab world, virginity is not private.
    It is not intimate.
    It is not yours.

    It belongs to everyone but you
    your family, your tribe, your community.
    Guarded. Weighed. Judged.
    Your body becomes a ledger of their honour.

    For men, there is no ledger.
    No hymen. No proof demanded.
    They roam. They conquer.
    They laugh in cafés, smoke in rooms,
    their bodies untouched by consequence.
    Their stories never stain a name.
    Their flesh is theirs alone.

    But for women, virginity is life or death.
    If you are not a virgin on your wedding day,
    you risk your life, your honour, your family’s name.
    A wedding night without blood on the sheets
    a whisper in the marketplace
    a rumor in the wrong ears
    and shame is not a feeling.
    It is a verdict.

    Some call this sacred.
    Some cloak it in words like honour, protection, faith.
    But peel back the layers and you see the truth:
    Power.
    Held by men.
    Pressed against women.

    It is not God.
    It is not morality.
    It is control.
    Who gets to live freely.
    Who must walk in fear.

    The double standard is savage.
    A man’s mistakes make him worldly.
    A woman’s desires make her disposable.
    He is forgiven.
    She is erased.

    Yes, the West has its own chains
    slut-shaming, purity culture, whispered judgment.
    But at least there is dialogue.
    At least the question, why?, can be asked.

    In Arab households, silence is deeper.
    Questions are dangerous.
    To challenge virginity as honour
    is to challenge family, tradition, God Himself.
    So most women swallow the fear.
    Some are forced to navigate the impossible:
    turning to anal sex to avoid “losing” their virginity,
    because there is no evidence, no proof, but the fear, the pressure, the judgment, remains.
    They wear the chain. Carry the shame.

    But silence is not safety.
    Obedience is not dignity.

    What if virginity were not currency?
    What if honour were not measured in hymens?
    What if women’s lives were valued for humanity, not restraint?

    These questions are not betrayal.
    They are survival.
    They are love, for our mothers, our sisters, our daughters
    who deserve more than a life defined by what they have not done.

    Virginity is not sacred.
    Women are.

  • Stuck in the Shadows of Our Fathers


    The Invisible Control Still Shaping Women’s Lives in the Arab World

    Some of us were born into the so-called 1%.
    Raised in the capitals of our countries.
    Surrounded by art, education, liberal pockets of “freedom.”
    We like to think we’re modern.
    That we’ve outgrown the old rules.

    But ever stop to ask:
    How free are we, really, as women in the Middle East?

    Ever catch yourself thinking twice before sitting in a car with a man?
    Ever feel that subtle shame when you see another woman doing it and think:

    “Mmm, that doesn’t look… clean”?

    That’s not just your judgment talking.
    That’s the generational virus, passed down from fathers, cousins, even ourselves even if we like to believe we’re not infected.

    We are.

    We grew up with governments run by men, with a handful of women tossed in for show, “quota women” who often couldn’t (or wouldn’t) fight for our rights.
    And when a woman does get elected?
    She’s usually expected to be modest, religious, “presentable.”
    Not tattooed. Not loud. Not free.

    We say we’re modern.
    But we’re still living in the shadows of men born in the 1950s, raised in the ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s
    men whose rules were never about justice, only about control.

    In their world, if a woman was seen out late,
    she wasn’t working late.
    She wasn’t running errands.
    She wasn’t with friends.

    No, she was doing something dirty.

    If she smoked, she wasn’t casual.
    She was cheap.

    If she had a drink?
    She must be asking to be used.
    Not wife material.

    These weren’t fringe ideas.
    They were the standard.

    And the worst part?
    That mentality never really died.
    It just evolved.
    Wrapped itself in softer language.
    Became “suggestions,” “concerns,” “warnings.”

    It’s no longer:

    “You’ll ruin the family name.”

    Now it’s:

    “Just be careful — you know how people talk.”

    And they do talk.
    Let’s not pretend otherwise.

    You could grow up in the most educated, well-traveled, “open-minded” family
    but don’t tell me you don’t have at least one relative who still says:

    • “Don’t bring a guy over what will the neighbours think?”
    • “She’s in a car with a man? That’s not appropriate.”
    • “Be careful about your reputation, you don’t want to be that girl.”

    A woman’s worth is still measured by how little she’s seen.
    How quiet she is. How covered she stays. How well she hides.

    Meanwhile?
    Men flirt.
    Men cheat.
    Men catcall.
    Men slide into DMs and get celebrated for “having game.”

    He’s not seen as impure.
    He’s just figuring things out.
    He makes mistakes.
    She is one.

    We’ve built a system where a man’s actions are his own
    but a woman’s actions belong to everyone else.

    Her body is a community project.
    Her choices reflect her father’s pride.
    Her voice threatens her brother’s ego.
    Her independence offends her mother’s sense of reputation.

    And when a man crosses a line
    when he harasses, assaults, or takes advantage
    we still blame the woman.

    Because:

    • “She shouldn’t have been out that late.”
    • “What was she wearing?”
    • “She gave him the wrong idea.”

    But we never ask:
    Why did the man feel entitled to cross the line in the first place?
    Why aren’t men taught to carry the burden of their own actions?
    Why is honour only ever dumped on women’s shoulders — and never theirs?

    The answer is ugly.
    Because in our societies, a man is always just a man.
    But a woman?

    She’s a reputation.
    A symbol.
    A risk.
    A warning.

    And we’ve punished her, generation after generation — for simply existing.

    It’s time we stop calling this “culture.”
    It’s control.

    And it’s time we name it for what it is.