The Unspoken

Tag: relationships

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • When Oud Meets Indie Beats: The Dance of Arab-American Love

    Love is beautiful and complex. Mix in the intoxicating blend of Arab passion and American frankness, and suddenly every glance, every touch, every word carries a rich tapestry of desire, curiosity, and unspoken meaning.

    This is more than a meeting of cultures, it’s a dance between fire and ice, rhythm and silence, poetry and blunt truth.

    In Arab homes, love is expressed through electric touch, fingers brushing, hands lingering, a kiss that says everything before a word is spoken. It’s the warmth of family gatherings filled with laughter, stories, and closeness that invites you to lean in.

    In American lives, love often breathes in space, spoken openly, direct, sometimes distant but always clear. Boundaries are honoured. A hug is an invitation, not automatic. Words carry weight, both promises and truths.

    When these two worlds come together, in the bedroom, around the dinner table, or in quiet moments before sleep, a magical dance begins. Sometimes a slow, sensual tango; sometimes a playful back-and-forth where hearts tuned to oud melodies and whispered poetry try to sync with beats of indie honesty and raw truth.

    This dance calls for patience and learning, discovering the secret language of touch and tone, knowing when to step forward and when to give space, recognising when silence speaks louder than words.

    It means understanding that culture shapes us, but doesn’t define all of us. Each partner is a universe of complexity, longing, and contradictions—waiting to be known.

    Love between Arab and American hearts is a wild bridge, built on desire, empathy, patience, and courage. It’s about embracing difference without losing connection, choosing understanding over judgment, and meeting each other halfway even when the path is winding.

    There will be moments when words fail or gestures are misunderstood, but those moments are not the end, they are invitations to deepen empathy, to listen more carefully, to hold space for growth.

    Learning to love across cultures means seeing your partner not just through the lens of background or habit, but as a whole person with a story, fears, dreams, and hopes that deserve respect.

    It means speaking honestly while holding kindness, honouring boundaries while reaching for closeness, and nurturing a shared language made up of trust, vulnerability, and grace.

    When you build love this way, you create a connection that’s richer and stronger than the sum of your differences, a love that can weather storms and shine brightly in the quiet everyday moments.

    For anyone standing between two worlds, navigating identities, expectations, and the pull of belonging, know this: love is possible. It is a journey of discovery, patience, and courage. And it’s one worth taking.

    Because in the meeting of East and West, passion and frankness, fire and ice, oud melodies and indie beats, we find not conflict, but connection, an ever-evolving story of two hearts learning to beat as one.

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