The Unspoken

Tag: faith

  • Unfiltered: Islam and the Obsession With Sex

    A Muslim Woman Speaks

    I was told that Islam is justice.
    I was told that Islam is mercy.
    I was told that Islam honours me.

    Yet, when I look around, I see something deeply unsettling. The shadow of sex looms large, not just as a private matter, but as the very framework that shapes how women are viewed and valued.

    From the Prophet’s marriages to the promise of virgins in paradise, from the veil that hides my hair to the silence I am expected to maintain, sex defines the contours of my existence. It’s not merely about desire; it feels like a prescription for how I should live, how I should be seen, and how I must navigate this world.

    The Prophet, held as the paragon of morality, had 44 wives, some very young. His actions are defended as “appropriate for the time,” yet they continue to shape expectations today. I find myself wondering: Was this divine wisdom, or simply human desire inscribed within the sacred?

    And what of paradise? For muslim men, the promise is virgins, untouched and eternally pleasing. For women, the reward is their husbands. Is this truly paradise? Where is the equality in this vision of the afterlife? Why, even in the hereafter, are we defined not by what we might receive, but by what we give?

    Here, in the world we inhabit, my body is treated as something to be controlled. Cover your hair, because men might look. Lower your voice, because men might desire. Walk softly, speak gently, because the discomfort of others must always be guarded. I cannot escape the realisation: I am asked to shrink, not out of devotion, but for the sake of others’ control over their impulses.

    We are told that Islam elevates women, but the truth often feels far different. Our worth remains tied to our virginity, our submission, and our ability to regulate the desires of others. What is presented as dignity feels like restraint. What is called justice tastes like inequality.

    I am Muslim, and I am a woman.
    I am more than a veil.
    I am more than a virgin.
    I am more than a vessel.

    I choose a life free from these confines. I will not allow my worth to be defined by the desires of others, nor will I let their discomfort dictate my presence. My body is not a battleground. My soul is not a possession.

    To question is not rebellion; it is the pulse of life.
    To reflect is not defiance; it is clarity.
    And if we cannot question, if we cannot reflect, are we truly living?

  • Polygamy: Lust Disguised as Devotion

    I was born and raised Muslim.
    I know the prayers whispered before sleep,
    the rhythm of fasting,
    the rules that pressed against my skin like a second layer of clothing.
    But knowing does not mean obeying without question.
    Faith is not silence.
    Devotion is not surrender of thought.
    And I will not pretend that every verse, every practice, is sacred simply because most Arab men, and even women, defend it.

    Polygamy.
    That word is dressed in holiness, wrapped in God’s name, and paraded as if it were a gift.
    But beneath the veil, it is nothing more than a system upheld by most Arab men,
    to serve most Arab men,
    to gratify their penis while women are told to bow and call it divine.

    They speak with pride of the Prophet’s many wives
    forty-four, maybe MORE, who fucking knows… some heartbreakingly young.
    They boast.
    They defend.
    They glorify.
    And when unease rises, they soothe themselves with excuses:
    It was a different time. It was for the protection of women. It was political.
    But peel away the layers and the truth is simple:
    it was about power, raw lust, and domination.

    And here is the question that burns:
    If Islam claims to complete what came before,
    to follow the thread of Christianity and Judaism,
    then why did none of the previous prophets, Noah, Abraham, Moses, or even Jesus, practice this, even though they lived in far harsher, more brutal times?
    If this faith was truly about progression,
    why cling to a practice that reduces women to vessels and is defended and glorified by most Arab men, even if they themselves never practice it?
    The answer is not divine.
    It is human.
    It is most Arab men.
    It is lust, RAW lust, disguised as law.

    Religion became the mask.
    Desire was the driver.
    And women were the price.

    Even today the echo is loud.
    Most Arab men defend polygamy,
    they glorify it,
    they excuse it
    the belief that their penis, their urges, are too mighty to restrain,
    too holy to deny.
    So the system bends,
    always bending to accommodate most Arab men,
    while most women break under its weight, brainwashed to think it’s a man’s God-given right.

    This is not faith.
    This is not holy.
    This is patriarchy stitched into scripture,
    asking us to bow to desire and call it God.

    I was born and raised Muslim.
    I know its rules,
    its demands,
    its silences.
    But I will not accept everything placed in my hands as sacred.
    To question is not betrayal.
    To refuse is not sin.
    And until we name polygamy for what it is
    a system defended by most Arab men to feed their lust while masking domination as devotion
    women will keep paying the price for most Arab men’s pride.

  • Behind the Veil: Freedom and Control

    أَعْطِنِي حُرِّيَّتِي أطلق يَدَيَّ

    We, Arab women, are told that certain coverings, whether draped over our heads, wrapped around our bodies, or stitched silently into our thoughts, are our protection, our honour, our virtue. We’re taught they are “the best way,” the path of respect, faith, and dignity. But often, that “choice” was never ours. It was handed down like an heirloom no one dares to refuse, from fathers, brothers, grandfathers — and in many households, mothers became the keepers of these rules, expected to guard and enforce them.

    Growing up in the Middle East, I noticed that some Arabs equate ‘openness’ with staying out late, drinking alcohol, or flaunting luxury, the iPhones, the cars, the botox. Freedom, they suggest, is measured by visibility and display. But in my observation, freedom is not in these symbols. Behind all these signs of “openness,” many women remain caged, tethered by invisible strings to boundaries we didn’t choose, boundaries that shape every step we take.

    The headscarf is only one kind of veil. Others are harder to see: the rules whispered in our homes, the limits we feel in our bones, the judgment that trails us even when no one is watching. Whether we remove the cloth or keep it on, the weight of expectation clings to us.

    True openness is not the hour we leave the house or the brand of shoes we wear. It is the ability to decide for ourselves, to move, speak, dress, and live without being pulled back to a cage we never built. It is the courage to interrogate every rule, every expectation, every inherited “must” and “cannot.”

    The hardest truth? Some boundaries in the Middle East were created by men, enforced by tradition, and passed down through the very women who were once bound by them, mothers, aunts, grandmothers, who believe they are protecting us. Protection becomes control when obedience is the price.

    Breaking free is not just about what we take off. It is about what we unlearn. It is a rebellion of thought, a claiming of our own voices, a quiet revolution in the mind. It is naming the cage, loosening the strings, and knowing, with unshakable certainty, that our lives, our bodies, our choices, and our voices are ours alone.

    And when we speak this aloud, when we lift not just the veil on our heads, but the veil on our minds, the walls begin to crack. And in that first breath of air, we understand freedom not as society defines it, but as we feel it deep in our own skin.