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?
