Still Here

“Will all the medical staff seeing me today be women?” I asked the mammogram technician before I undressed. Without a second thought she nodded, smiling, and said, “Oh, yes, absolutely! We have a coworker who wears hijab so we know and are prepared.” Though I wholeheartedly appreciated her sentiments, I found myself lost in painful thoughts as I changed into the old white robe neatly folded on the chair in the dressing room. Stacking my bra, my shirt, and my undershirt (I’m Arab) atop my purse, safely, inside the lock box provided—the key in the security of my hands—I wondered, would she ever know that my preference for an all female medical team does not stem from my religious background but rather from my body’s exhaustion of being touched by entitled men? Does the nurse know of other women, like me, who had been promised a female physician at urgent care and undressed to only have a man walk in without acknowledging my discomfort and request? Will the radiologist understand how much safer I feel having my breasts examined by someone who has a shared anatomy and a shared sociopolitical experience? An ultrasound and an x-ray cannot show how many times consent was stolen off my tongue. They do not illustrate all the men who helped themselves to my body like a sampler platter I never laid out: 

My ex-husband before we got married. The man in the overcrowded marketplace who grabbed my thigh, then sprinted away laughing before I realized what even happened. The boy in middle school who grabbed my face after September 11th to prove his popularity. My friend’s drunk brother at her holiday party. The foreign exchange student who grabbed my wrist, assuming my “foreignness” granted him access to me. The guy who tugged at my scarf on a date to pull it off because he believed he deserved to see my hair. The upheld and beloved community leaders, engagers, and activists who groom and prey on us during our times of grief and healing.

Contrary to stereotypical assumptions about my faith, this headscarf does not automatically deem women unwelcoming to/of men. It is the men themselves who have established this discomfort. Who have built, with their hands, such toxic environments that women have been taught to walk like minefields. We are unsafe in spaces such as schools, the doctor’s office, markets, fundraisers, social justice events, and as I’ve learned recently, even art communities. This is why I am both humbled and honored to curate and host the STILL HERE Open Mic Night with Waymakers Sexual Assault Victim Services. Because regardless of how many times we are objectified, treated like we don’t matter, or assaulted, we are still here with our stories and with our survival, and we deserve a place to exhale safely.

I invite you to join us Friday, December 4th at 5p.m. PST to share your story or listen to others. The program includes a brief introduction from SAVS Waymakers, followed by an open forum for anyone interested in sharing their stories/expressions. Everyone is welcome. To RSVP and sign up to share on the mic, click here.

Finding the Middle Ground

 

I can’t quite recall when I learned that lonely was a bad word, but I remember that for a good portion of my adolescence, and the rest of my adulthood, I bit my tongue anytime it almost came out of my mouth. To be the ideal feminist (according to feminists and non-feminists), a woman can never express loneliness, but we’re “allowed” to—even encouraged to—embrace aloneness. The thing is, I never saw loneliness as necessarily always a bad thing because it is a concept far more nuanced than the idea of being single. Sometimes, as cliche as it sounds, loneliness is a sensation that exists when we’re surrounded by the biggest and loudest groups of people. And so I was not really surprised when I started feeling less and less lonely the longer I practiced stay-at-home orders.

See, maybe on a subconscious level I knew there was some type of loneliness within me that I couldn’t consciously grasp. Loneliness stems from a feeling of not belonging in either the self, the society, or both. I’ve always known (or been told) how much I don’t belong in places or with people—be it men, friendships/community networks, schools, jobs, and even poetry. But how deep this awareness flowed only became visible to me under pandemic, when I found an opportunity to reflect in a way that’s caused a re-framing I wasn’t prepared for. Suddenly I was reassessing my current friendships, my family relationships, my relationship with God, and well, my relationship with myself.

Since the beginning of this year, I’ve experienced a poetry-based writer’s block and I could deduce its larger causes: I was sexually assaulted in January, then forced to process it alone under pandemic, then my grandmother suddenly died the night before Ramadan, and all this while still trying to figure out what life is supposed to be like without my dad in it anymore. A simple task, no? I called my publisher one day and asked him for advice on how to write about the assault without fear, on paper, realizing that the fear wasn’t speaking out as much as it was about realizing how hard it is to confront Black and Brown men who perpetrate these things (which was the case). He told me I need to grant myself permission to just write it; eliminate the idea that anyone will read it, get out all the ugly and shitty poems, and then watch the flood gates reopen.

I know he’s right, but his advice transcended this specific encounter. My loneliness didn’t start at the hands of this assaulter. It started when I was ten and always left out of Arab girl get togethers and parties because I didn’t talk about the materialistic dreams every little girl was supposed to have. While they all fantasized about the wedding dress, cake flavors, and baby names, I dreamed of the doctorate degree with frustrating late nights of research stacked up next to cold takeout from lunch and four empty latte cups. As the high school and college girls compared who got the best tan that summer, I fantasized about how much fun it would be to teach a college course, rocking a red lipstick and stilettos, and making the classes fun with my social science students. (I envision being that “cool” professor, haha!) My dad had similar dreams for me and lately, it’s been hurting a lot more to realize he won’t be there to see them, but the fear of not manifesting them hurts me more so I wake up with a harder drive than the day before to make them come true, realizing how much less lonelier I’ve become. Then I remember how the older I got, the more vocal I became in my Muslim community, and the less I belonged.

I sought refuge, as in belonging, in other spaces and thought I actually found it in poetry community until I took a closer look at my poems collectively. I saw how little I wrote about culture and religion until very recently, when I started exerting more identity consciousness, because the truth is, saying “God” in these arenas is not welcome. Actually, very rarely have I come across spaces that welcome any sense of spirituality and faith unless it’s Christianity or Atheism. Everything else becomes stereotyped and stigmatized and well, my physical attributes confess my religion even if I don’t open my mouth, and I carry that weight (proudly).

But then the pendulum of authenticity swings back and I remember how uncomfortable I am performing poetry or giving a lecture in any Muslim and/or Arab space because my “not religious enough” physical attributes also speak volumes there. Then I open my mouth and all hell breaks loose (no pun intended). Even now, I worry about some conservative cracking open Contortionist Tongue—my recent poetry book—and landing on chapter two, where a plethora of sexuality thrives. It’s not that I’m ashamed—I mean if I were I wouldn’t have written or published them—but it’s just exhaustion from everything being so hypersensitive. But those poems came out of necessity, because after sexual abuse, domestic violence, and sexual assault, I deserved a form of body autonomy, taking ownership of what I want my body to experience on my own terms. And that came to be through erotic poetry.

I’m not saying I prefer the isolation but this aloneness cleansed out a subconscious loneliness that’s allowed me to reexamine how we build the self, how we build community, and how we build the bridge between the two. And this has actually been the theme of all the prompts I’ve been teaching in every class/lecture I’ve given on Zoom this year, and I have to say, the feedback has been incredible because as humans we’re really good at being eloquent but not quite as good as mending what lies beneath. This creates that loneliness, the lack of grounding and belonging.

A week ago, I was FaceTiming with my mom, who’s still in Syria, and per our usual conversations, I updated her on these thoughts amid my online dating terrors, bills, and her beloved feline grandchildren. I told her that as beautiful as this awakening is, the idea of returning back to a society where I haven’t found the man or friends that enjoy this middle ground is daunting. “I mean mama, really is there no man out there who’ll go to the club or a poetry reading at a bar, but still try to wake me up for Fajr?” The next day, God kind of replied.

I’m not much of a fan of podcasts. Having someone talk to me, faceless and not singing, while I workout or drive or run errands, annoys me. However, I was introduced to a podcast that I decided to take a chance on. Five days and twenty episodes later, I finished listening to every episode of The Amreekies podcast and I know God was telling me to have faith. I’m not at all the most or even remotely religious girl on the block, but God and I have had this unique language for as long as I can remember, and for a brief moment in time I almost lost it, but He brought me back.

 

From the very first episode of The Amreekies, I was in awe at the sheer brilliance of its simplicity and hilarity at addressing things as mundane as house slippers (shout out to the “babooj” folks) to things as gut wrenching as calling out internal systemic racism and questioning religious identity.

This podcast is composed of two Arab American guys, a Palestinian and an Iraqi, who have been lifelong friends that talk about the experiences of the Muslim Arab American trifecta. Recently, they’ve brought on a Libyan American woman to the show and I adore her. To be able to hear of another badass hijabi who can hold her faith and authenticity but call out bull shit boldly, is what I needed to hear. Women always tell me (in secret) how appreciative they are of my bravery, courage, and social justice community organizing, but even we activists need a source of empowerment and faith restoration every once in a while.

And the guys, damn! The guys who have made me laugh so hard that drivers in the cars around me all thought I was crazy, are incredibly insightful and on point. For the first time in a long time I felt ironically seen (the irony coming from the fact that neither I can see them nor they me). But the vulnerability and detail oriented nature of each episode is impeccable, and the fact that they can incorporate life, culture, and religion, all while walking this middle ground is perfection.

I’m not saying The Amreekies has touched on risque works like that of my written work (yet?), but there have been episodes with sporadic subtle innuendos within context or jokes that almost cross the line that make the experience all the more relevant to those of us Arab Muslims in America who’ve been too haram for the halal-ies and too halal for the haram-ies and have been heavily searching for a place to belong among both our people (Arabs/Muslims) and our people (Americans). This all or nothing polarization is precisely why loneliness exists.

For example, one of my favorite episodes (that’s a lie because they’re all my favorites) is when they discussed Ramadan and how unspoken the anxiety (and even dread) is in the anticipation for it beforehand for some people. I’ve always felt like I was the only one who experienced that eerie precursor but lo and behold, someone else expressed verbatim what I feel silently each year because every other Muslim is out there singing their Islamic version of “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” Don’t get me wrong, I love Ramadan, but there’s something about the time leading up to it that feels heavy and hey, someone else feels it too!

I could go on and on about this podcast but I will stop before I sound too much like an obsessed groupie fan girl because this is not a fan letter. Or maybe it is? Maybe this is a fan letter to The Amreekies. A thank you for nurturing an idea you had years ago to authentically present witty banter and difficult conversation of true experiences that resonate with so many of us—especially '90s Arab Americans. Maybe this is a thank you to anyone who’s ever listened to their calling and created something that was so true to them, they unknowingly inspired someone they did not know needed it. I’m always so touched when someone reaches out to tell me what my words and works have done for them because it reminds me of how much we each matter in who we are and what we do in this world.

We build ourselves when we believe in who we are. We build community when we share our gifts authentically. And we build that bridge between the two when we embrace one another as we are.

Check out The Amreekies here on Apple Podcast or find them on other podcast streaming platforms.

Tell Me Who's Crazy

 

This morning my publisher called me and immediately his tone sunk my heart. “I got a package in the mail today from….” It was a man who had ordered a copy of Contortionist Tongue just eight days ago, when we matched on what was supposed to be a slightly safer dating app. I debated posting this story until I realized that being a survivor of domestic violence and sexual assault means society will forever brand you as paranoid instead of worshiping the insight you offer, both tangible and intangible.

On an unsuspecting Sunday morning I matched with this local Arab Muslim man whose profile seemed quite intriguing. He was educated, active, clever, witty, detail oriented, and had appealing enough profile pictures. (Yes, we women notice those too!) To my surprise, he was quick to initiate and respond, and within minutes a conversation started. At first glance, that would have been seen as a good sign—engaging, active, and interested. After friendly hellos, he asked where he could buy a copy of my book and that even if we didn’t end up working out as a relationship he was grateful to have connected with a Muslim author who provided him with new reading material. I thought that was incredible—mature, positive, and enlightened, so the conversation ensued.

We agreed to do a socially distant meet up to just feel the waters and found a middle ground tea shop and hung out in the parking lot, talking, laughing, and dare I say, connecting. After almost two hours, we said our goodbyes and found ourselves chatting again via text that evening. No red flags were waving so when that same night he asked if we could schedule a date, I didn’t see a reason to say no. We agreed for a beach jog the following weekend and continued texting.

In all honesty, practically everything seemed safe (minus one thing that wasn’t quite yet worrisome), so the next day when he said he just couldn’t wait till Saturday’s jog and wanted to do a dinner sooner, I agreed. We decided on a socially distant picnic and set it for just before sunset. I can’t explain it, but all day the excitement for the date was vivid up until one hour before. Suddenly, my intuition awoke.

When we arrived, I assumed this sensation was merely nervousness about trying to take the leap into trusting a man this seriously by going on a formal date. I realized every guy I ever dated or had a relationship with was someone I knew beforehand whether through community events or community spaces. So by the time those guys and I reached date one, there was enough rapport for me to not feel so heavily nervous. I thought this time, it’s a guy from an app so maybe my soul was a little shaky.

However, as the night progressed, and he kept opening up, my gut was screaming louder and louder. The thing is, society trains us survivors to believe we’ve become so paranoid because of our trauma that we gaslight our own selves. It’s like an emotional imposter syndrome we’re told to never silence.

The night lasted six hours and we both shared our non-negotiables and deal breakers, laughed, took a walk, and then said our goodbyes, but something still kept eating at me and I felt like a horrible person, wondering at this point if I’m the problem. I spoke with my mom and even as I was trying to explain the tug of war inside me, it didn’t make sense. I concluded I deserve to give myself time to process whatever was swirling within me to just find my emotional balance. When I came to text him that after the lengthy date, I found he had already texted me loads of messages expressing his elation in the belief of us, how incredible the night was, and that he was no longer going to talk to other women and just focus on us. If that wasn’t enough, he asked that I come over to his house the following night. That sent my gut over the edge.

I thanked him for the evening and expressed that the night left me feeling a little weighed down and overwhelmed so if he wouldn’t mind, I would like to take the next few days until our beach date to myself and process what we’ve shared. It sounded rational to me, to my mom, to my friends that checked in on me, but apparently not to him.

He continued to text me until 2:00 a.m. pushing the idea of me not processing without him and that’s when things started to click. An abuser’s greatest fear is their victim finding any moment of solitude because it is like a drunk person sobering up. The space and silence enables a victim to find some clarity and find the courage to leave. It’s why my ex-husband never let me spend time alone and why my parents kept trying so hard to give me opportunities of solitude.

“Just tell me what I can do to convince you to come over tomorrow?” he asked before I said I was busy and would follow up once I’ve been given the time to make sense of my internal chaos. The next day I drove to Los Angeles on purpose, ensuring I was nowhere near South Orange County so that 1) I wouldn’t be lying when I texted him that I’m too far and busy and 2) he couldn’t find me.

He was not satisfied and his texts turned into essays of further sugar coated, GIF infused, smile sprinkled pushy messages. And this is the key. Looking at those texts, anyone would say, “Aww, but he’s being so sweet and friendly and cute and funny, just wanting to see you and help you,” but an experienced survivor knows otherwise. His words continued about what HIS soul and intuition were saying, that we shouldn’t press the brakes and that he will not speak to any other woman on the app, and that I shouldn’t be dealing with this emotional processing on my own. I stopped replying and took a walk through Santa Monica.

I woke up the next morning to a smile filled greeting from him, asking if we were still on for our beach date. My palm slapped my forehead with a loud smack and aloud I muttered an Arabic phrase of frustration. How dense could he be? By Friday morning, I had replayed every single minute of our picnic date and I concluded that my uneasiness stemmed from my subconscious registering all the red flags before I consciously did and suddenly everything made sense.

Survivors can read between the lines vividly. We are not paranoid or dramatic or psychotic or crazy or overreacting. We are the ones you should be listening to because we polished the pathways to our intuitions, which I swear to you, are ALWAYS correct. I survived psychological manipulation, financial abuse, verbal attacks, sexual assault, and stalking. My intuition has a Ph.D. in threat recognition.

I replied, trying to be courteous in my rejection, but he wouldn’t have it. Instead he was further insisting that I at least meet him in person to offer him a face to face explanation after our jog. It was incredible, the level of insanity and entitlement possessed by this narcissist who was seriously starting to sound like my ex-husband’s protégé. After a few hours of silence, assuming he finally grasped the concept, I received an “Oh how I’ve missed you” text followed by a request to talk via phone if I wouldn’t offer him a face to face meeting.

I ended it with a block—on my phone, on the dating app (where I also reported him), on Facebook, and on LinkedIn where I received a notification that he was searching for me there. So when my publisher called about this mysterious package, scribbled with large red letters that read FOR DANIA ONLY, my heart dropped. What the hell could it be and why?!?!

Believe it or not, he sent back my book, hoping it would reach me, with a typed disturbing letter. Each of my poems was vandalized with his critiques, analyses, and opinions—some passive aggressive, some pathetic. The letter was a whole other level of crazy and I thought about how many “crazy” women I know vs. “crazy” men and the score is still zero to thirty-one. The fact that men find it so easy to label a woman they hurt or destroy or manipulate crazy but refuse to acknowledge their abusive nature, narcissism, incel-like tendencies, and more, is further a reflection of male entitlement and privilege that we’ve grown so damn tired of!

It hurt most to see (photos of) my book so disfigured by someone who genuinely believes he’s a good man offering some bright intellectual enhancement to my words, my story, my poetry. When Eric, my publisher, told me he wanted to publish my book in 2019, I was floored. It is like pulling teeth to have our voices and stories heard, and here I was, being heard by a man who believed in my story. And then there it was, a copy of my baby, in his palms, ugly lines and words in Arabic, English, and Chinese (the three languages that narcissist speaks) overlapping my vulnerable words that took three years to birth.

Whenever I share these stories about men, I get a flurry of responses from angry men and ridiculously naive women who seem so confused about where I find these men. I can’t believe I still have to break the news to humanity, but this is the patriarchy manifesting. Even “good men” possess some of these problematic qualities and if they are not actively working on combating them and the system, there will be no change.

The real good men are ones who hear these stories and actually listen 1) without interrupting and 2) admit that at one point in their life they were part of the problem but are constantly growing. The men who get angry and defensive, well, that is pretty much a reflection of the truth and I will not apologize for being a speaker of truth. And to answer the question of where I find these men (as if that’s the case), the reality is they find me.

Women who are courageous, outspoken, survivors, will always be targets of insecure individuals—male or female. Our mere existence is a threat to their toxic behaviors. We rise up and they want to extinguish our flames, but they are called to that flame like a moth first. But before you exert that whole “you attract what you seek” bull shit, let me tell you, women like myself seek nothing but the dignity and justice we deserve. If that includes holding up a mirror to the ugly faces of abusers, rapists, predators, and any other toxic person, so be it. I will gladly take on this role for the more than 30 women who have private messaged me over the years telling me they could never be as outspoken about what they went through but are grateful someone else is.

It took me four nights before I was able to sleep again. All day I’ve been at home worrying about whether or not this would be the last I heard from this guy and it was a resurfacing of the PTSD I lived following my divorce. Then I hear the echoes of “not all men” and “have faith in men” and I laugh. Tonight, I am only holding faith in the block button and the locks on my windows and doors. I hold faith in my publisher and his support. And I hold faith in God and His plan, however it is set to unfold.

Abnormal Growth

“Siri, how do you turn off the iPhone 11 Pro Max?” I found myself asking my sexy Australian (male) Siri this question last week, when I realized my iPhone doesn’t power off the way my old one did. When that OFF slide bar finally appeared, it hit me that I haven’t seen that in a long time, probably since before my dad got sick. In 41 days, it will be exactly one year since they found the tumor, since my entire life changed forever.

Before COVID-19 took a turn for the worst in SoCal (or was recognized for what it really was by the government and people alike), I had intended on taking a hiatus from the world after my book launch. When my book launch party was forced into cancellation, I genuinely was heartbroken. It was the one thing I was excited about after the multiple loads of trauma that hit me since May of 2019. After the social distancing and quarantine took a stricter role, I started to wonder if maybe this was God’s way of telling us all to slow down and examine our growth, and whether it’s been healthy or toxic. Growth, as tumors can show us, is not always the right kind.

After my dad died, I think my family and I threw ourselves deeper into our passions and work. Maybe it was our form of healing. Maybe it was a mechanism to readjust. Maybe it was us trying to keep going and make him proud of our survival and gratitude. I don’t know. To be quarantined though, forced into isolation, was being forced to face a lot of realities that maybe none of us were ready for. Atop my dad’s death and visible absence, I had to deal with the death of a partnership and friendship from someone who took advantage of me. I called him out, and as would be expected, male privilege and entitlement kicked in, and it just made everything worse. The hardest part was that he knew how much of a significant role his friendship and support played in my keeping it together during my father’s illness and passing. Then came my own health changes. Then came the hit we artists have taken of paid performances and opportunities to sell books or host workshops. Then came the halts that nonprofits had to take and we scramble to know what will be of our future.

The first three days of quarantine, I was a mess, and to be honest, as absolutely beautiful as it was to see the art community rise up to the virtual stage, I felt overwhelmed. There was a virtual poetry something on the daily and it’s so hard when some take it personally if you accept one invite but cannot make the other.

Poetry spaces have become overly subliminally competitive these days, and by that I mean too many new spaces are popping up on the same days/times or as close to as others, in neighboring locations and it really is impacting those long-standing open mic spaces and events that have not only built rapport, but a community for years, even decades. As artists, we should be fortifying the already existing platforms, not building new ones.

It reminds me of the mosques in SoCal, maybe even the country. The way that instead of building a stronger base at the ones that already exist, they literally go fundraise to physically build another empty mosque that harasses women, doesn’t empower children, and remains in constant debt. Y’all, khalas, for the love of Allah, get it together! Same to poets. Our communities need each other, and before all that, we need ourselves.

Siri answered me. Sometimes he’s good like that. I swiped off that phone and it was beautiful. For the first time in too long, I slept like a log (which is an expression I never understood because do logs even sleep?). There was something serene about my mind knowing I was expecting no calls, no texts, no emails, and no notifications, and could sleep till my body felt ready to rise. My mom and brother were home and knew where to find me. My other brother could call either of them for anything. Painfully, my father will never be able to call me again. Everyone else could wait.

I started to see the value behind quarantine that I wholeheartedly know is not a privilege everyone can enjoy—both those in forced quarantine and those who cannot stay home due to their line of work. But it really is God’s way of slowing us down. Making us question our lives and livelihoods. Our growths and our intentions. It has also been a way of reminding me that healing, as mentioned before, is not always an individual journey, but a group one, and my family and I are taking it together now. Eating meals together more often. Cooking together too! This week we made one heck of a parmesan crusted fish with a strawberry vinaigrette salad and a garlic basil pasta and really, I wanted to cry with pride. Where have we been hiding our cooking souls all this time? I’ll tell you where, coffee shops and laptops working on edits and grants.

The other day I thought about how much time we spend on commutes. How much money we spend going to events—between parking, cover charges, and refreshments. How much energy we exhaust on things that may or may not be useful (like social media). How much distance “living” has put between us and the people who really matter. How much distance it has put between us and knowing ourselves. Self-care is still a buzzword but how many of us really know what it is or requires?

What the world is enduring right now is heartbreaking and I wouldn’t wish it on any generation or era, but everything has its lessons, the little things to recognize. Governments, I hope, learned the big things to recognize after seeing how destructive lack of preparedness can be. But those of us given the privilege and opportunity to protect ourselves and our communities, we can take this time to reassess our growths. A long time ago, I was talking to my dad. He was going through something difficult and he got emotional. I think it was the only time in my life I saw him get super sensitive, that was until he got sick, then it just became a sensitive and emotional time for us all. It still is. But midway through that old conversation he said, “It’s too late, Dania,” and I remember looking him straight in the eyes and confidently saying, “You’re wrong, dad. It’s never too late for a person, until they die.”

Kind of surreal remembering that now, but my advice hasn’t changed, and there’s no better time than forced isolation to let the many thoughts in our minds unravel.

Sexuality, Skinny Jeans, and Spirituality

Policing women has been an ancient art, ever evolving and always mastered, by men and women alike. There must be something incredibly arousing about this power play, especially when those officers come across enigmatic women such as myself.

The first time a man called me an enigma, I thought he was throwing a line to light the flame of my curiosity, especially when he decided quoting Khalil Gibran would seal the deal. I burned him back on many well-deserved levels. “There’s nothing mysterious about me,” I said, but I am learning the enigma is not in me, rather in the nature of how men decipher me. The disconnect they find between what their eyes see and what their minds process because they are socialized to swallow women in binary terms—this or that.

Being a Muslim woman in the headscarf, I’ve experienced policing on multiple levels for decades. Non-Muslim folks tell me my liberty is void with the presence of extra fabric. Muslim men tell me their attraction is averted because of extra fabric. Then, my favorite, other Muslims tell me my existence is oxymoronic and demand I choose a side—headscarf or lifestyle, as if God does not know the spectrum of human life.

My attire comes into question often and this is where the enigma peaks. How does someone who looks like me live like I do? Talks about sex, sexual assault, women’s rights, performs sensual and open poetry, gives liberal talks, writes about men, wears skinny jeans, and claims to still believe in God? How? It’s pretty easy. God gave me rights, my parents gave me education, and I am an adult capable of making my own choices. A Muslim can never be stripped of their religious identity by anyone but themselves and this is one label I will not undress from.

The second time a man branded me an enigma, he acted upon it instead of simply telling me. Proceeded to get drunk and try to force his way on me, telling me that a woman like me shouldn’t wear the scarf, should welcome his advances. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re absolutely attractive,” he began, “so it [the hijab] just doesn’t make sense.” And there it was, a deeper glimpse into the way men compartmentalize women into pieces they can devour on their own terms. The binary menu we are unknowingly inked into.

Ever since my divorce, the binoculars with which men use to look at me changed—non-Muslim men included. While who I am and what I wear and do has shifted from where it was pre-marriage, it’s not that drastic, but there is this element of exoticism men craft on women who are strong but have been broken. It’s like the cracks of our past become seductions they want to play with but never keep, and it’s all I’ve been hearing for the past six years. “You’re attractive enough to sleep with but you’re not someone I’d be with long-term.” I almost questioned myself until I chose not to reduce myself to myself. I know my worth, men do not.

In a time where men can (and do) sleep with any woman on a simple swipe, it gives them absolute pleasure to chase women like me. It’s an exciting challenge to take on, a new land to conquer above the readily available Tinder database. I’m not the swipe, the drunk desperate girl at the bar. I’m the one on stage in her stilettos and well-curated ensemble, spitting feminist poetry with confidence, and it turns them on but intimidates them all at once, so it becomes such an enticing game we women should never have to play. A Muslim man once told me, when I asked him how he could have such a superficial desire for me, “Because you’re intelligent and accomplished, unlike the other women I’ve become bored of hooking up with.” You’d think these are qualities men are seeking for a lifetime partner, no?

A few years ago, I was conversing with a man I thought had some real potential, about this very subject. After talking for three months, I asked where this was going and his response was, “I usually go for the more feminine types, but I guess I can learn to broaden my horizons with you.” Without flinching I told him to shove that sunset (in more eloquently poetic terms) and thanked him for the time of mine he wasted.

He showed me how “unfeminine” women like myself are in the male dictionary. The stereotypical definition of feminine is the cliche: docile, submissive, pink, floral, quiet, unchallenging, and minimally ambitious. To avoid looking sexist though, these days men will pursue a semi-ambitious woman and hope she won’t act upon them. It levels the playing field for them. Women like me are “too much” women for them. We are not feminine. We are sexy, desirable, attractive, all things that (in their opinion) don’t last very (like men themselves, #sorrynotsorry) and so they want to lavish in the temporariness of it, just long enough before it becomes the commitment they fear. God forbid men enjoy the company of established and confident women beyond one night stands.

I write this because I have grown tired of seeing women being forced between a rock and a hard place. Objectified by men who walk through our communities with immunity. If I could reveal names, I so would, it’s overdue and deserved but it’s not my nature. But here I am, coming across this in the realms of religious spaces, cultural spaces, and poetry spaces, wondering how long men keep up these fronts? Parading as good ones in society, but revealing their true colors to women who have to remain silent because of the backlash we will face for speaking out. I’m still harassed for my work on domestic violence awareness and sexual assault.

How many more women have to live in fear? In paralysis? How many more women have to feel torn between embracing their faiths and spaces safely or being stripped of everything, sometimes even literally?

Recently, someone sent me a private message inquiring about my connection with another Muslim artist renowned for her ultra-liberal and often criticized “inappropriate” behaviors. I replied simply with, “However we differ on our religious practices as Muslims, they are still Muslim to me and I appreciate the work they do regardless.” This is the spectrum I choose to view all of humanity. I understand that they are parts of a whole and not some faceless dichotomy. It’s not a hard perspective to implement because I know not to objectify people. Maybe in 2020, men can try doing the same?

Traversing Grief

It's been a while since I've written and posted and that's probably because I've been marginalizing the processing of grief, while suddenly being thrown two new packages of grief to carry. Life is like that, isn't it?

My publisher called me yesterday morning and I could hear the smile in his voice. "Guess what I'm looking at right now?" he asks me. I assumed it was the payment receipt for the money I sent him to pre-order author copies of my newest book. "Nope!" he said. "I'm looking at a live link online of Contortionist Tongue. It's official. You're published." A let out a tiny squeal, did my small penguin dance, and told myself I was allowed to relish in small (or large) moments of joy.

What makes it difficult to fully immerse in the joy of this coming third baby of mine is obviously my dad's absence. Who will be the first man to hold my book when it used to always be him? Who will thumb through its pages and nod his head in impressive approval? Who will wish me good luck on its growth and success? I'm sure there are multiple answers to these questions, but they will all be different than dad. However, I will appreciate them no less, and I am abundantly grateful to the supporters who have shown their pride, love, and enthusiasm for my upcoming book and for my work as a whole. Thank you!

I invite those who are available or interested to join my family and I at the official launch and signing of my newest book, Contortionist Tongue, from Moon Tide Press. This collection is a vulnerable but fierce illustration of what it's like to be a Syrian woman, navigating the roads of love, home, and hope, in today's turbulent socio-political climate.

The event will be on Saturday, March 14th 2020 at 6 p.m. at one of my absolute favorite coffee shops in Downtown Orange called Contra Coffee & Tea - 115 N Orange St. 92866.

Tickets are $20 and include a copy of Contortionist Tongue and can be purchased here: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/contortionist-tongue-book-launch-signing-tickets-91177824327?aff=ebdssbdestsearch

Further details are available in the flyer attached. It would be so wonderful to share this new chapter of my life with you all and celebrate the blessing that is possible only with the foundation my father built for me!