Majid Minhas’s ( father of Rashid Minhas – famous Pakistani Air Force ‘martyr’) letter to my grandfather
There’s some bizarre criticism going on about the Islamic Center at NYU (IC), and I personally don’t know half of it nor do I care to know, but as part of an incredibly personal Ramadan Reflection I want to share how the IC saved my Islam and transformed my life.
Four years ago, after having emerged from a series of difficult events followed by an even more challenging period, I was told that I had social anxiety so severe that I was accepted to be part of a university clinical study for people who cannot participate in society. I’m not talking about simple stage fright, I’m talking about not being able to order pizza on the phone because it was an extremely frightening experience. Saying ‘salaam’ to a Muslim was so incredibly difficult that if I had managed to muster a smile I would recognize it as an accomplishment. I spent months with the only people I would ever talk to being my parents and siblings. It was so bad my parents sent me to a therapist to try some cognitive based therapy to improve my ability to socialize. Coming from a childhood where I was regularly recognized as a leader, repeatedly told that I was someone who would change the world, it was excruciatingly difficult to accept what my life had become. My life was a void, and no matter how much I tried there just didn’t seem to be a way out of the abyss.
Simultaneously, I had become less inclined towards Islam. I secretly read the Dawkins, the Hitchens, the Sam Harris’s, and although I found much of their writings to be vitriolic garbage, I still could not come to terms with the concept of God. After reading Nietzsche, Epicurus and the other big old-atheist philosophers I was convinced God was this misogynistic entity that annoyingly interfered in mundane human matters. Therefore, God was not something worthy of worship. I could go more in depth, but this matters not. What matters is is that I did not feel Muslim, even though I wanted to be Muslim. I still wore my hijab, still prayed , and went to juma looking for answers. I convinced my parents to take me to umrah that year to try to get my spiritual on. Umrah gave me a short spiritual high, but I saw too many things wrong in Mecca and Medina that it did not deeply affect me like Hajj had six years prior.
Eventually my therapist, recognizing my struggle with religion signified its importance to me, thought it would be a good idea to go to different masjids and try to reengage with Muslims. I had recently moved to Newark, NJ for a masters program, whose only purpose I believe to this day was to provide this sort of ascetic period in my life so I could improve upon my very poor character. I was so afraid and ashamed of who I was that it was extremely difficult to actually enter a masjid that I was not familiar with. I felt like a sinner, a hypocrite that did not belong. I would spend hours mustering up courage to attend a juma khutbah in NJ only to come back dejected and feeling even worse about the type of person I was. Eventually, after reading and youtubing a bit of Imam Khalid Latif I messaged a friend who I knew was at NYU to ask if non-NYU students were allowed to attend. He immediately invited me to try out the IC, telling me there is no place like this community.
There’s a passage in Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling, if I remember correctly, about love. It’s about how if you love something you should not pursue it, because the initial love you feel is at its apex, and once you get to know the loved object, and see its imperfections it will slowly erode in its magnificent meaningfulness. I remember entering the ICNYU, at the basement of this church, and being completely in awe of what was going on around me. I saw a woman in a short skirt feeling comfortable to walk straight in the musallah and not have others stare at her in disapproval. In fact, a girl showed her where to get a long skirt so she can pray. I saw this divider that was placed in such a way for both women who want to pray behind a barrier, and an open space for women who did not want to pray behind a barrier. I saw that the area that was demarcated for women was permanently set aside for women and that if too many men came for juma they had to overflow out by the stairs of the church. I listened to a khutbah that made me feel for the first time in so long that this super-awkward-wont-talk-to-anyone-not-really-muslim-girl felt like she belonged. I was so fascinated I didn’t want to touch anything, I didn’t want to talk to anyone, because I was convinced the bubble would burst and it was all a facade. Seeing all these people with intentions that seemed so pure and honest, it was too hard for a cynical girl who lost hope to believe in. But I returned.
I started attending Shaykh Khalil Abdur Rashid’s class on Islamic spirituality. We read a book that was written by a teacher of my Imam’s back in Binghamton, which made me feel as if there was some sort of spiritual meaning behind what I was doing. I remember going to these lectures and hearing very simple concepts that I’ve heard a thousand times before, but because they were spoken with so much love, they truly affected me. Still being at the height of my social anxiety, I would sit in the back on the cold hard tiled floor, while everyone else would sit on the carpet and grab seats. I was undeserving of the carpet. I would make sure I was the last to sit, so no one would feel compelled to ask me to sit with them. I was sure by the way I was doing this I was completely unnoticeable – evinced by the fact that no one would say salaam to me … no one ever paid attention to me. One day, a few weeks into class, I had come to the masjid, perfectly timing my lateness as usual so no one would notice me come in, when my absentminded thoughts were interrupted by a large pillow placed on the cold tiled floor in the exact position where I always sit. I looked up and saw that Imam Khalid and his at the time newly-wedded-wife Priya, who always left the masjid when I arrived, quickly glanced to see if I’d sit there and then looked away when I noticed them. I was stunned.
Here I was this girl that went from being told she’d easily be the first Muslimah senator to finally accepting my life of being a complete nobody unworthy of any attention, and someone noticed where I was sitting and thought of giving me a small piece of comfort. Something in me at that moment broke apart and opened up something that I thought I had lost forever. As tears streamed down my face, I felt imaan rising out within me, in this weirdly dramatic matter. Shaykh Khalil spoke about that day how whenever there is a religious gathering, the angels make dua for us. Just a month prior I would brush that off as childish nonsense, and at that moment I thought of how beautiful of a concept is it that unseen beings that know we are imperfect and are perfection themselves would think of making dua for us. Having gone from over-intellectualizing religion to the point of being this sanctimonious douchebag, to having something so simple bring me back to see the light was an unforgettable experience.
I firmly believe that a good community is one that guides without knowing that it guides, heals without knowing that it heals and inspires without knowing that it is inspirational. Humility, a sense of purpose, and love naturally guides people to a greater state of connection and imaan. There’s a beautiful hadith about pre-existence souls that upon recognizing each other in this world come together harmoniously. I went to every juma and class that I could and without talking to a single person, witnessed the community around me, not just Imam Khalid, being this positive force in bringing me back to something that I used to know. It was fitrah at its finest. I slowly went back to Binghamton, more cheerful and less cynical, more loving and less harsh, and developed a long-lost relationship with God.
I then was blessed with an acceptance to the University of Pennsylvania (Penn) where things continued to improve as I met even more people that were loving, healing, inspirational, and guiding to me. This year I decided to be part of the Penn-NYC iftar committee, not just because I love organizing things and secretly am a megalomaniac, but because both the (IC)-NYC and Penn community mean so much to me. I moved to the NYC area mainly so I could be close to the IC, and, yes, it’s changed, and I don’t feel the same connection I felt to it long before. I’m a small town girl who still doesn’t understand how the city-life works, I do recognize now that things aren’t perfect here, I don’t understand the social stratification of young Muslims here into their different career types among other things, I seriously struggle with how to balance the worldly with the spiritual when things here are all about immediate consumption and everything is constantly over-stimulating….
Four years ago I was an atheist-agnostic-muslim-something, today I am comfortably a Muslim.
Four years ago, I couldn’t even say salaam to a single Muslim; two weeks ago I MC’d an iftar for 175 people.
I’ve been meaning to write a few posts, but I’m waiting for the right thoughts in my mind to coalesce:
Anyway, this Thanksgiving break was the first time I ran into many members of my home community in a state of hijablessness. The feeling of normalcy that had been gained during my months of Penn was replaced with some embarrassment, guilt, and a little anxiety. There was an odd sense of shame that came with showing my hair in a room of people, who all had their hair exposed, because they have known me since a child as a hijabi. I haven’t made a decision yet on the hijab, and I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. I’ve worn the hijab for over a decade, it’s kind of difficult to make a decision within a few months time.
Someone I know, who also at some point in time experimented with the hijab, perfectly sums up how I feel with hijab experimentation:
In terms of hijab, I really, really like being without it. And I kind of hate that feeling. But it feels like now all my actions don’t represent anything. They represent only me. Part of the reason I took it off was because I was beginning to feel strangled by metaphors. Like people (parents, friends, strangers) were seeing or hearing one thing and it would mean something bigger than it actually was. And not just regarding the hijab, but a lot of other little things too. So taking it off was just a small step of being free of that feeling…. Unveiling is not inherently liberating but perhaps the meanings I, myself, had attached to the veil have now disappeared.
I did have a discussion with my Imam on the hijab and what it means in modern day society. I don’t want to share his words since they were meant for me personally, but knowing that I have a community available to me that has been supportive and not judgmental (I know from stories from friends that it’s quite common to be harassed for taking off the hijab) about it has been a great blessing. It is one of the things I recognized as something to be grateful for this Thanksgiving.
Warning: This makes no sense. Slightly emotionally charged AND super awkward.
Note 2: This is a very individualized post and may not relate to too many people.
Women are native to Paradise: is this not the most underestimated disclosure of the Book?
Today, the above quote popped up in my life and it made me think about hijab and innocence (and sexuality?). If I’m correct in that he’s speaking about hoors, I see the quote as recognition of the importance of women’s spirituality and maybe implying that women too have the right to be seen as sexual beings. (Side note – Besides hoors, we also have the story of Zuleikha in the Qur’an, who, interestingly enough her attraction to the beauty of Yusuf (AS) is seen by Rumi as really a spiritual desire to find God).
In contrast to this (I can’t phrase this correctly), depictions of hijab today involve describing women as diamonds that need to be protected or lollipops that men are able to respect. Recently, I read a study conducted that attempted to determine the relationship between hijab and sexuality, which concluded that hijabis are held to an idealized understanding of femininity as well as are seen as those who trounce sexual objectification with their rejection of Western-oxcitiy. Rather than being in control of their sexuality, it’s almost as if hijabis are responsible for taming others. Hijabis seem to be held to an ideal standard where women are expected to be at this fantasized level of innocence and purity, and this brought about another question that I have on my list of questions I’m trying to answer:
In an awkward transition, all this comes back to labels that I’ve been given throughout my hijabi life – innocent, modest, cute, naive, etc. Ask my family and they’d disagree with all of these labels. However, when I won a game of Cards Against Humanity, played with friends, it was photographed to be displayed as a complete aberration to my seemingly ossified character.
Being a hijabi is difficult.
We’re the permanent virgin in the virgin/whore dichotomy. Without my hijab I feel as if I am permitted to express myself without fear of contaminating this image that every type of person, Muslim or member of other faith, holds against Muslimahs. Expressing my thoughts on something that is antithetical to my supposed innocent character is always shocking to people. Certainly there are a plethora of hijabis who regularly challenge these stereotypes, but, in my personal experience, there is this great fear of saying something that would violate the delicate and fragile symbol that the hijab holds for so many people (Also I already have a mental note to write a post on the ‘good hijabi vs. badass hijabi dichotomy’ that I’m not a fan of)
This week I posted a photo of myself at Times Square that garnered a lot of attention perhaps due to my expressive gait, and I had no understanding of how to react to this. I started to doubt myself. The night I took that picture people came up to me and asked if they could take a photo of me. I initially assumed it was because I was wearing shalwar kameez and it looked exotic, but after seeing the reaction from people both in offline and online life I’m starting to believe it may have been due more to my exotic appearance as a whole. It’s as if people have started to assume I’m going through some bizarre Muslim version of Edna Pontellier’s Awakening. Suddenly, hijablessness has transformed my intransigent character to one that can assume more than innocence, and I have no idea how to react.
Looking at sources in the Qur’an and hadith (if you’re into hadith), In complete opposition to the innocent hijabi character, we have hoors. [Q: Is innocence the only way to heaven?] But besides that we have a queen, thinkers, warriors, and much more. We have women who are modest, but also women who stood up for themselves, women who stood up for their society, women who worked for what they believed in, women who would feel comfortable enough to ask the Prophet questions about the fiqh of sex, etc.. Basically, women who were individuals, who were more than a hijab (if they wore one).
Our tradition celebrates the diversity of various women’s thoughts and actions. Yet, in modern day society, I feel that hijabis are stereotyped as this singular character in communities, required to sacrifice her individuality in order be a paragon of Modesty. And I think as a result my new goal with this experiment is to prove this thought wrong. To prove that I can assert some level of individuality without feeling pressured into being this person that I am not, without having to be labeled ‘badass’ if I refuse to be the modest hijabi (Personally think the term ‘badass hijabi’ can be just as bad as being the stereotypical modest hijabi, since now women are forced to hide their vulnerabilities so as to be constantly ‘badass’.)
Random thoughts for Post #2:
- Isn’t it odd that women in paradise are recognized all over Islamic literature as sexual beings, but Muslimahs find it difficult to even have a single discussion on sex?– I recently posted on MWIH a few papers on Islam and sexuality, and most of the reaction from Muslim women was a mixture of relief and surprise since they felt that these are conversations that people are too afraid to have. Is this another thing to blame on culture?
- Are we (the non-scholars) understanding Islamic modesty wrong?
- How to become more grounded in an aspect of faith that is so public and to make it about a relationship with God, rather than other’s perceptions — is that possible — to make physical appearance solely a dedication to God?
- Is the hijab supposed to be tied directly to sexuality? Do we wear the hijab in reaction to men?
- Trying to find an overarching theme that involves more thinking rather than telling my personal story… right now my thoughts on this are too hazy to write something clear.
After reading a few books on the unreliability of hadith, having a long conversation on lack of authenticity of hadith, and interacting with many Quranists, I thought it might be time to make a list of some resources that discuss hadith that generally defend hadith. Not saying that I have strong convictions in defense of hadith, but being that the introduction to the lack of authenticity of hadith brought about an internal religious meltdown in undergrad, I thought it might be time to find things that permit a sense of balance.
To be updated.
Written a few years ago
I generally try to read one ayat a day to give myself time to reflect upon it. I haven’t gotten too far in the Qur’an with this process, so the ayat I read today is from the beginning of Surutul Baqara:
And be steadfast in prayer; practice regular charity; and bow down your heads with those who bow down. 2:43
Immediately upon reading this ayat I thought of the many lectures or khutbas I have attended on this subject on maintaining khushoo in prayer. The thought of ensuring that prayer is one that is made with attentiveness and spirituality has been inculcated into our minds since the very beginning of our religious education, and yet salah is nothing more than a perfunctory task for most of us. We can’t always perform salah with people who are God-conscious, to assist us with our own khushoo, right? I came up with a general reflection on this ayat, and thought that was all I was going to receive from it.
I began writing this essay in my mind while in class (and being that it’s been 12 hours since I was in class, this current blog post is not up to par with my original thoughts), as I started to think about what is considered the ideal goal in our society. We favor and strive to become the people who speak eloquently, the people who can purchase impressive items, or the people who know the names of things/ideas/processes. However, if we were to pray with those people, those people who we specifically and primarily attribute these qualities to, they surely would not be the ones who have attained the status of the Ar Raki’ûn mentioned in this ayat. They, therefore, would not be the ones that we are told to bow down with (this is in no way implying that we should pick and choose who we are going to pray salah with, just wondering who it is that would most likely help us in obtaining better humility, concentration in salah.) So who could it be?
At that moment an image of my father popped up in my head. And as a result of the many ephemeral realizations of seeing the importance of something we regularly take for granted, I knew I had to write a blog post about this. A reminder of the greatness and blessings of having a good family. My father, a highly educated man, but one who has an illuminating sense of humility and docility. I’m using the word docile, a typically negative word, but in a way that Shaykh Hamza Yusuf mentioned in a recent lecture I listened to. Docile in the sense that one is teachable, a positive word. Docile as in the complete opposite of one who becomes arrogant once they learn, utilizes information in pedantic manners. Docile as in something far from the ideal that society generally strives for.
Just recently I spoke to him about a fact I learned today about Malcolm X, and his expression of curiosity and amazement was the same that I see every time I mention any interesting thought to him. My father, a person who I would never doubt any fact he presents to me due to his own intelligence, finds even the smallest thought a person has as important and fascinating.
Lord, fill a Muslim’s heart
With a desire so fervent
That it will set his heart aflame
And stir his soul.
- Muhammad Iqbal (at least the Internet says so)
I remember a few years ago reading Yasmin Mogahed’s piece on being against “western” interpretations of feminism and how leading prayer isn’t a sign of equality but rather a hidden desire to be like men, and disliking it very much. And then Sana Saeed’s piece, which primarily focused on criticizing frameworks of Progressive Islam, but she did spend a bit of time saying that the question is not about a radical reinterpretation of Islam but really about space,
[T]he problem is about how we frame our discussion on equality. The problem is not about where women pray in relation to men, but rather what this position says about their space in the community. Space speaks – space has meaning not in and of itself but because it is given meaning by those who create it and those who inhabit it. The space created for Muslim women in the masajid of North America says more about their position in the community in terms of religious engagement than about a centuries old, outdated position of prayer. Praying next to each other or having a female Imam lead a mixed-sex congregation doesn’t, still, get at the root cause of the problem. It takes a rather stark and “radical” action and imposes it immediately, without allowing for natural evolution. Spatial restructuring requires mentality restructuring. Change the position of these women in their community and then you will create changes in space. This is how it is done organically as opposed to through sensationalism.
Then there’s that Sh. Hamza Yusuf sound clip that revolves around every few months and no one does anything about it after that.
And now there’s this viral Ali Gomaa article, ” if the Americans agree and feel satisfied with adopting the legal opinion which permit women to lead men in prayer then it is their own preference but we don’t issue such fatwa in our country because it goes directly against our cultural heritage which was established for centuries. The ultimate aim for any jurist is to look out for the interest of his people without contradicting a juristic consensus.”
All this brings me full circle back to a list of questions I drew up a while back before starting the hijab experiment. If we were to step back a little further from the women leading prayer topic and discuss gender and space in the context of religion two of my questions that I’m still trying to figure out are
My main problem with Yasmin Mogahed’s article is her definition of Western feminism. Although I agree that I find certain aspects of Western understandings of feminism quite problematic and excluding, I don’t see her interpretation to be correct. She argues that Western feminism has adopted the framework of women imitating men, and that shouldn’t be the goal of women. To me, the goal of “Western” feminism is to give both men and women greater access to public and private space. This means that women should be able to have better access to the public sphere, where traditionally they are meant to be in the private, and men should be able to have greater access to the private sphere (greater paternal rights, emotional validation, etc.), where traditionally they are meant to focus on the public.
Among Islamic conversations, this form of feminism is validated through the hijab. There is a popular argument about how women who wear hijab can fully participate in society, as men will be able to respect them more. I remember learning as a child stories about how women during the Prophet’s time were harassed and the hijab was brought about as an identifier of their religion, and, as such, members of a larger community that will come to their defense if they were harassed. This sort of thinking has led me to believe the hijab is a form of spatial division (in the context of the Qur’an, the word ‘hijab’ is used to discuss spatial division but does not refer to women’s clothing as it literally means ‘curtain’). The hijab, in theory, should give women greater access to the public sphere, and, in theory, the state of hijablessness is a state meant for privacy. It’s a physical marker of mental spatial division.
But that’s not really true. Women who wear the hijab are still harassed by men. Are the cases of women being harassed by men simply exceptions to the rule? Many Muslims seem to agree that they are exceptions, but that doesn’t explain the high level of sexual assault in Muslim countries that women have to face. Could it possibly be that the high levels of sexual assault we see in these regions is related to the idea disseminated through this argument of the purpose of hijab — that men are unable to control themselves, and it’s somehow women’s responsibility to quell men’s sexual desires? If the answer is yes, then that does indeed make hijab not an individual choice, but a community obligation. [This argument also leaves greater room for victim blaming as it seems to say that women who choose not to defend themselves with their clothes are deserving of sexual assault.]
A second question that comes about from this argument, is that if hijab is the solution to interaction in the public sphere why are gender roles still one of the most confusing topic for young practicing Muslims? (I follow this blog of this young imam that takes questions from teenage Muslims, and half of the questions are on the topic of proper gender interaction) In a recent article Haroon Moghul wrote about the Muslim marriage problem a young man asked, “Can I ask a woman in a headscarf for her phone number?” Is this being asked because the topic of marriage belongs in the private sphere category and such a question interferes with the public/private division? Why are/should women be less approachable because of their hijab?
In my personal experience with the state of hijab and hijablessness, I’ve noticed that I get less attention when not wearing the hijab (which was initially surprising to me since I had a ridiculous belief about how the hijab relates to beauty — but that’s for another post). In fact, I feel I have received a greater amount of respect with my inconspicuousness, primarily due to the lack of attention I receive. I’ll just say that a friend once told me that I ‘attract [strangers who are] creepers,’ and without the hijab I no longer get that attention.
So going back to the Ali Gomaa article, where he states that the argument of whether or not women should lead prayers should consider cultural understandings, we could take into account about how here in America at least women’s participation in society is generally not affected by physical appearance. [Ok, that is a total lie but believe me for a second specifically in regards to the state of hijab or hijablessness and not the pressures of beauty placed on men and women (hijab and modesty -- for another post).] As such, does that mean that we don’t necessarily need to make this physical division of space? This is where I get stuck since I think that I’m mixing too many thoughts in one idea and I lose my ability to explain things….
Anyway, basic conclusion that everyone already agrees with, clothing choices should not determine the level of respect a person receives nor should it determine their access to society. Is this reason enough to permanently take off the hijab – for right now, no.
A feeling of connectedness to home, spiritually speaking, would appear to make sense as a reason for wearing the veil and subsequently make it all the more dreadful to those seeking to police an othered citizenry. The veil constitutes a marker of divinely ordained and radically differentiated space, which is collapsed through the premise that one is always under God’s law from the ultra-orthodox Islamic perspective, but it is also the case that the veil actually can and might be liberating for those seeking spiritual solace in police states, both literally and figuratively. Coupled with the fact that the veil does not have to be worn inside the space of one’s home, it becomes evident that the symbolic value and meaning of the veil is an affirmation of the radical division of space requisite to Allah’s law, which is itself an interpretation as the Koran offers little guidance as to how women are to dress in public space aside from the injunction in Sura 4 to cover their “ornaments” and to dress “modestly.” The varieties of hijab derive primarily from the Hadith, an extensive collection of secondary writings attributed primarly to the prophet Muhammed and his followers, which actually challenges the clear distinction between the sacred and the profane evident within fundamentalist Islamic theologies. In other words, the diagnosis for hijab is Koranic, but the prescription derives from other sources, which thwarts any attempt to locate various forms of hijab as divinely ordained or, at the very least, Koranically-based. However, the radical division between the sacred and the profane within Islamic theology, which is shared amongst the foundational narratives of all Abrahamic traditions, is precisely what the veil is meant to overcome from the insider’s perspective, even if the veil differs according to the spatiality of its cultural capital, which is only part of the issue at stake in the French veil ban. Summarizing the findings from a qualitative analysis of veil-wearers in contemporary France, Hussain notes, “[...] in most cases, the women interviewed said they adopted the full-face veil as part of a spiritual journey. Many desired to deepen their relationship with God and draw on the actions of the Prophet Mohammed’s wives for guidance. They recalled their feelings of extreme joy and well-being on the first day of wearing a niqab/seetar.”(31) Building on this sentiment, Afshar’s work comments on the relational tensions brought about by the veil for women wearing it in non-Muslim countries and for converts. She observes:
For Muslim converts the decision to wear hijab in the West is a public political assertion of the right to belong to the community of Muslims, but, particularly for convert women, it is not a rejection of home and hearth and kinship relations with their non-Muslim families and parents. Within liberal democratic states and feminist contexts their decision to wear the hijab is a matter of faith and identity and a political act of solidarity, but not one that alienates them from their kin and communities.(32)
The multiple allegiances that Afshar maintains are critical for making sense of the veil-wearer’s sense of self are exactly what have drawn such sharp theological and political attacks from all sides, even if the purported intent of the veil-wearer is spiritual, and it is problematic to divorce the cultural capital invested within its varieties. On the other hand, critics remain skeptical of the collusion between politics and religion that are embedded within the veil and see such spiritual justifications as a sign of the institutional interpellation that is a necessary component of a totalizing Islamic identity, which is also seen as transforming public space into a theo-national space—one where women are inhrently second-class citizens. Arguing against the theological homogenization of identity, Berger contends that “the contemporary use of the hijab seems to ignore or negate sexual difference in the theological order by helping to define and assert a single, overarching Islamic identity, while at the same time firmly establishing women’s specific role in the process: it is as though the particular invisibility of the hijabwearers enabled Islam to stand: in their place.”(33) Berger’s combative assault on the ideology underlying the veil alludes to Žižek’s take on the veil within ultra-orthodox Islamic theology while raising the fundamental question at the heart of the veil debate: have the particularities of female identity been thrown out with the veiled bathwater of having one’s identity always-already mediated within the (public) space of Islam? How might these contending perspectives be reconciled?
I may not understand poetry too well, but how can you love Nizar Qabbani and treat women so poorly?
I have no power to change you
or explain your ways
Never believe a man can change a woman
Those men are pretenders
that they created woman
from one of their ribs
Woman does not emerge from a man’s rib’s, not ever,
it’s he who emerges from her womb
like a fish rising from depths of water
and like streams that branch away from a river
It’s he who circles the sun of her eyes
and imagines he is fixed in place
I have no power to tame you
or domesticate you
or mitigate your first instincts
This task is impossible
I’ve tested my intelligence on you
also my dumbness
Nothing worked with you, neither guidance
Stay primitive as you are
I have no power to break your habits
for thirty years you have been like this
for three hundred years
a storm trapping in a bottle
a body by nature sensing the scent of a man
assaults it by nature
triumphs over it by nature
Never believe what a man says about himself
that he is the one who makes the poems
and makes the children
It is the woman who writes the poems
and the man who signs his name to them
It is the woman who bears the children
and the man who signs at the maternity hospital
that he is the father
I have no power to change your nature
my books are of no use to you
and my convictions do not convince you
nor does my fatherly council do you any good
you are the queen of anarchy, of madness, of belonging
to no one
Stay that way
You are the tree of femininity that grows in the dark
needs no sun or water
you the sea princess who has loved all men
and loved no one
slept with all men… and slept with no one
you are the Bedouin woman who went with all the tribes
and returned a virgin
Stay that way.
Abstract: Since 2001 a new urge to moralize the use of violence as an instrument of state policy has appeared in liberal democracies. The American idea of a War Against Terror, and the European notion of confronting a global terrorist threat, have together merged with a discourse on humanitarian military action: the political/moral ‘responsibility to protect’ is no longer to be confined to one’s own citizens. Renewed interest among academics in ‘just war’ theory, the tradition that seeks to humanize war through law, reflects this development. This article questions the assumption that there is an essential difference between war (civilized violence) and terrorism (barbaric violence). It argues that their similarity appears more clearly if we set intentions aside – such as the deliberate or accidental killing of ‘innocents’ – and focus instead on three main facts: (a) modern war strategies and technologies are uniquely destructive, (b) armed hostilities increasingly occupy a single space of violence in which war and peace are not clearly demarcated, and (c) the law of war does not provide a set of ‘civilizing’ rules but a language for legal/moral argument in which the use of punitive violence is itself a central semantic element.
Amazing paper that questions current language used to define the very politicized ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ kind of violence.
Majid Minhas’s ( father of Rashid Minhas – famous Pakistani Air Force ‘martyr’) letter to my grandfather