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?
