Tag: women

  • The Cult of Control: Rethinking Islam

    I want to be clear: I am not writing this as a person who hates faith. I’m spiritual, not a believer in organised religion, but I deeply respect those who find meaning and comfort in it. Still, when religion, Islam in particular; becomes the tool through which women’s voices are silenced and their lives controlled, then I have no choice but to confront it. I didn’t come here to dismantle anyone’s faith, I came to question the systems that have used that faith to justify inequality. And to do that, I have to go through Islam itself.

    Most Muslims are taught from childhood that the Quran was revealed by God, delivered through the angel Jibreel to Prophet Muhammad, and preserved word for word without human interference. It is the foundation of faith, the source of law, and the unquestionable truth. To doubt it is to risk not only your faith but also your place in your family, your community, and even your safety. Yet here I am, daring to ask the questions most would silence before they even reach their own lips.

    While most Muslims believe the Quran is divine, I believe it was written by a man, or at the very least, shaped by human hands, politics, and culture. And that man, Muhammad, made sure that in every possible aspect of life, the benefits tilted toward himself and other muslim men. The Quran, rather than being a universal book of justice, has functioned as a handbook for patriarchy, cementing women’s obedience as sacred duty and muslim men’s dominance as divine order. Call it what it is: not revelation, but construction. Not divine freedom, but a cult… A very successful one.

    Think about it. Muhammad is the only “prophet” who comes without miracles. Jesus healed the sick, raised the dead, and defied nature. Moses split the sea. Noah survived the flood. Ibrahim destroyed idols and stood against kings. Even Adam, the first human, stands with Eve as the first partnership of creation. But Muhammad? His “miracle” is a book….? a book that conveniently grants him ultimate authority, endless privilege, and a license to structure society around his own desires. Is that prophecy, or is it celebrity influence in 7th-century Arabia? Was he a prophet, or was he an ordinary man who mastered persuasion, charisma, and control? Sounds like a celebrity to me.. It is like Tom Cruise’s scientology.

    And here’s something else I want to argue: let’s say Islam really does exist as a divine truth, well, even then, Muslims themselves believe that the real Messiah is Jesus, or ‘Issa’ in Arabic. He is the one who will return to save humanity from evil, from the Dajjal, the Antichrist. It’s Jesus, not Muhammad, who comes back to defeat the darkness and restore justice. So why are we even wasting our time putting our faith in what came after him?? If Jesus is the one destined to return and save us, why are we investing so much of our belief system into a man who came 600 years later, claiming authority through a book alone? Why build an entire religion on top of what even Islam says Jesus will ultimately complete?

    And let us speak of his marriages; forty-four women, by some accounts, including children. This is not piety; this is power, and in modern day, it is not ok. And no, “times were different” is not an excuse. Jesus did not marry children. Noah did not. Ibrahim did not. Adam had Eve, not Eve and Zainab and Aisha and Hafsa and Mariam and a rotating door of women whose presence just happened to consolidate alliances, wealth, and authority. If this was God’s plan, then why does it look so much like the blueprint of male power, repeated across history under the name of religion?

    When I peel back the layers of faith, culture, and the endless repetition of “Islam honours women,” what I see is a system designed for Muslim men, by Muslim men. The Quran tells us women are obedient. That men are guardians. That inheritance is unequal. That testimony is worth half. That men may have multiple wives, while women may never have the same freedom. That divorce rests in men’s hands. That modesty, honour, and chastity are the burden of women, while men move freely. All of this dressed in the language of holiness, as if obedience to men were obedience to God.

    And what has this created? A society where most Arab men sit comfortably on a throne of inherited privilege, claiming their power comes from heaven itself. A society where most Arab women are told that submission is sacred, silence is virtuous, and questioning is sin. A society where generation after generation is brainwashed to believe that inequality is divine order.

    But I ask: if this book were truly divine, would it tilt so clearly in one direction? Would it place half of humanity beneath the other? Would God, who created both man and woman, decide that one is always entitled and the other always obedient? Or is this the hand of man, writing himself into God’s role, ensuring that his word becomes law, and that women remain chained to his authority forever?

    As a woman born into Islam, I refuse to accept that my worth is half. I refuse to accept that God would honour me only through obedience to Muslim men. I refuse to accept that inequality is sacred. If faith is meant to be justice, then where is the justice in a book that elevates one gender over another? Where is the mercy in marriages that treat women as property? Where is the honor in silencing half the world’s voices?

    Some Muslims are afraid to ask these questions. But I believe asking them is the first step toward freedom. If Mohammad was a prophet, then let his message withstand scrutiny. If the Quran is divine, then let it prove itself without hiding behind fear and punishment. And if it cannot, then let us be brave enough to name what it truly is: a system of control, built by Muslim men, for Muslim men, disguised as the word of God.

  • 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.

  • Your Body Was Never the Problem جَسَدُكِ مِش عَيْب

    From the moment an Arab girl’s body begins to change, she is put on trial.

    Not for what she’s done, but for daring to exist.

    The rules arrive like verdicts:

    “Cover up properly.”
    “Sit up straight.”
    “It’s shameful to laugh like that.”
    “Lower your gaze.”
    “Don’t talk about such things.”

    اِلبِسِي مِنِّيح
    اِقعُدِي عَدِل
    عَيْب تِضْحَكِي هِيك
    غِضِّي بَصَرِك
    لا تِفْتَحِي هِيك مَوَاضِيع

    They call it protection.
    They call it religion.
    They call it love.

    But what it really is, is control.
    A cage built with shame.
    A system designed to keep us small, obedient, afraid.

    Afraid of being seen.
    Afraid of being wanted.
    Afraid of wanting.

    This is how a girl’s body is turned into a crime scene before it ever becomes her own.
    Desire becomes dangerous.
    Curiosity becomes corruption.
    Sexuality becomes sin.

    And so we learn to erase ourselves.
    Not just our skin, but our hunger.
    Not just our questions, but our joy.
    We learn to carry the burden of everyone else’s shame.

    But shame is not sacred.
    And silence is not protection.
    Silence is disappearance.

    And we’ve disappeared enough.

    Our mothers were taught to endure.
    We were taught to endure.

    But endurance is not freedom.
    Obedience is not virtue.
    Fear is not faith.

    So what if we are done enduring?

    What if we say, without apology:
    I choose.
    I want.
    I am.

    Not rebellion, reclamation.

    Because our bodies were never dangerous.
    What’s dangerous is a woman who knows her body is hers.
    A woman who no longer folds herself to fit the smallness of others.
    A woman who refuses to make her existence conditional.

    So let’s stop folding.

    Say it, in Arabic, in English, in the language of every woman who’s been told her body is shame:

    My body is not your honour.
    My voice is not your threat.
    My existence is not your permission to grant.

    We will not whisper.
    We will not bow.
    We will roar.

  • 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.