We were sitting at my once upon a time favorite cafe. I had found it right before the pandemic, on my global hunt for the BEST latte (still have yet to visit Italy where I assume it awaits me). This place, however, had the closet thing: The Churro Oat Milk Latte—better served hot than iced. He criticized this, claiming because he hadn’t seen me at the shop during his recent visits, I can’t call it my favorite cafe. We were meeting because after a year of hitting on me, he decided it was time for him to get married…and that I would be the one he’d recruit to help him find a wife.
I had two choices: impolitely decline (my kindness dam had run dry this year) or somehow find a way to be a bigger person, recognizing how excruciatingly difficult it is for Muslim Americans to find a spouse, and offer my unbeknownst matchmaking services. I quickly learned option number two would be a mistake but a necessary lesson to add to the destructive lessons of 2022.
“Can you just open up your social media and scroll through to pick out some girls for me?” I was taken aback by how easily he requested this but at the same time, I wasn’t. I returned to online dating in March of 2022, after a year of recovering from my last relationship with a supposedly good man. However, four months of sexual assault and harassment later, I deleted all the apps and finally buried the last of my faith in men. [More on these encounters in a bit.]
Taking the road regrettably traveled, I asked coffee shop boy what he was looking for in a wife and he gave me all the cliches. I reiterated to him the importance of being honest with me if he really wanted me to find him the right partner, all while he continued the flirting, which didn’t help the cause (bro was trying to have his cake and eat it too: using me to try and fulfill both his flirty and his matchmaking needs). He pulled out his phone and began showing me hoarded photos of his exes and other women he recently connected with, who sent him photos of themselves without a scarf to seduce him. (This is a whole other level of disturbing that requires another series.) “I want someone who looks like these girls. This is my type, not that first girl you considered for me who isn’t that attractive.” It suddenly became clear that nothing mattered beyond the looks for this guy.
Of course, he was oblivious to the problematic nature of his behavior, from the objectification of women to his stubborn refusal to even try despite his consistent pleas of desperation. As if this wasn’t enough of a degradation, he decided to begin interrogating me about my dating life. Am I seeing anyone? Talking to someone? I brushed him off with a simple, “No,” and it only fueled his toxic masculinity further. “Let me offer you some dating advice,” he began. “It’s no surprise that you are single. You’re quite frankly too much and scare off guys. I suggest you be less of yourself when you meet guys. You know, say less, and don’t be too intense. Also, your social media is a lot. I definitely think you shouldn’t let the guys you’re dating see that stuff. Actually, I say you should make it a private and women’s only account where you can all vent your feminism alone and away from us. Men don’t want to see that crap.”
Stunned, I sat there trying to process the immense level of stupidity. Was this dude seriously insulting, to my face, the woman he was begging to help find him a wife? I should have snapped and unleashed my 33 years of sexist oppression and ripped him to pieces. Instead, I smiled and said, “So is that what happened to you? Spent a year flirting with me inappropriately but was too scared and not man enough to make a move? And so instead you’re here begging me to find you a wife?” Before he could start disagreeing with me (I heard him begin stuttering), I continued. “And thank you for proving precisely why my “feminist crap” is absolutely necessary, and needed on a public platform where males such as yourself, who require severe knowledge, can see it. Repeatedly. Because trust me, bro, I’m not wasting my time preaching to the choir. We women already know this shit. I do what I do to educate and create change.” He went quiet, and I wish I could say he learned something, because even after that day he continued asking me whether or not I found him a date, as well as sliding in my DMs with more immature flirtatious jokes that I ignored until I deleted him. Obviously, I withdrew my willingness to matchmake; there’s no way I’d subject myself (or any of my peers) to that level of disrespect.
But was I really surprised by any of this? Not at all. Even before my divorce men have worked tirelessly at tearing me down. And in the last few years, men have not at all shied away from showing (and telling) me that women are nothing more than objects to them. No matter how many years of therapy they’ve been in, how many times they are talked to about it, or how many women they’ve destroyed, the lesson is not being learned. Online dating only reinforced this truth.
I trusted Muzz (formerly known as MuzMatch), Salaams (formerly known as Minder), and Baklava to, at the very least, connect me with some decent people, even if no relationships came to fruition. What I got instead is the following abridged set of fiascos.
The Lebanese surgeon in New York who kept up his charade until he realized I wouldn’t be sleeping with him, and simply said, “Yeah, I think I’ll pass on hanging out,” when I was already in New York.
The Syrian Italian kid (six years younger than I) who decided, after bonding with me for 15 minutes on our Syrian heritage and his upcoming move to SoCal, he could sexting, me descriptively, and then blocking me after he let it all out.
The Palestinian doctor in Arizona who right off the bat asked me what my sexual fetishes are and if I’m open to a three-way with another man, as well as giving blow jobs while wearing my scarf. because porn made that “so hot!” When I asked why this was his top priority ten seconds after matching with a woman who made it clear on her profile she’s looking for something clean and serious, he replied, “I want to make sure I don’t have a boring sex life.” I told him I wasn’t interested in engaging in this kind of conversation early on, to which he replied, “Okay, can I show you a picture of my dick?”
The Palestinian (whose location and profession are still a mystery) who decided to clarify that he was just looking to make friends. When I said I was not looking for friendships on the app, he insisted on knowing why. I said I know what kind of “friendships” men are seeking today and that’s not what I want. He tried to argue that he wasn’t referring to sex but then began describing where he wants to put his tongue.
The ethnically ambiguous Arab dude who claimed he was a doctor in Dearborn but turned out to be a catfish who sent me a video of his dick getting hard the instant we matched because “my face is such a turn on.” As I was blocking, he sent me a photo of my app profile picture with his ejaculation all over it, thanking me. Post blocking, he tried to find me on multiple social media apps to reconnect.
The Lebanese Syrian vape shop owner (his profile said business owner, which yeah, is true, I guess) who seemed to think calling me “baby” after every sentence was appropriate. “So what you doing now, baby?” “How’s your dinner, baby?” “Can I join you on your summer break, baby?” I asked him to stop because (1) it’s disgusting and (2) my biggest pet peeve is when males get way too comfortable with me too quickly, and so he got angry and said, “So what am I supposed to call you, huh? Dania? Fine, what’s up, DANIA?!?!”
The cream of the rotten crop? The Syrian Palestinian HR associate who talked to me for three weeks, emphasizing religion, spirituality, and Godliness (while judging me for my lifestyle,) who visited me in SoCal and pulled out his penis in a public setting, during Ramadan, to proclaim his love and readiness to marry me.
To be fair, not all of them were dicks (total insulting pun intended). Here are the three who didn’t get sexual:
The Syrian med student who flaked on his three video dates in between heart filled texts and faux cuteness.
The Jordanian divorced dad who “really really loves” my energy but then ghosted.
The Egyptian field engineer who gave me a misogynic lecture on our first (and last) FaceTime. He had started the chats complimenting my “vibe” but then criticized the same vibe once we got on FaceTime and began picking apart my outlook and asked me why I’m not enthusiastic about the dating app. I asked him if he was genuinely interested in understanding the women’s experience, especially as a Muslim and Arab one, or if he was just asking for sheer small talk. He insisted he really wanted to know and I briefly began recounting a bit of what had been done to me and how it left me feeling a little defeated. However, instead of listening and sympathizing, he said, “A word of advice, never ever tell men these things. When you talk about them, it makes you look really bad. And also, no guy wants to hear that his wife was exposed to other penises or sexuality.”
There it was, coffee shop boy’s echo reverberating around me and assuring me that with man it will forever be one step forward and two steps back. Meaning? We’re probably not likely to move forward and it is exhaustingly defeating. Why is feminism—the mere idea that we, women, are f***ing human—still such a problem in 2022? How is educating about human rights, domestic violence awareness, sexual assault, and human decency seen as a threat? Why is an unafraid, educated, and intelligent woman “scary” and intimidating? The answer to these questions is actually a question: Why are men still such insecure beings?
In all my years, I have not yet met one truly genuine male ally who is straight. The only real male allies I have ever come across are my gay friends. Every other guy who bought my book, shared my posts, retweeted my articles, offered me verbal support, or showed up to my events always had an ulterior motive (i.e., seeking a hookup/relationship/sex). Actually, every guy friend I turned to about my experiences this year either laughed or scoffed. Laughed! And you want us to have faith? To be quiet? To censor our normal selves for your easier consumption?
I was sexually assaulted early 2020, shortly after my dad passed away, and I remember his laugh when I confronted him afterwards. I also remember how he threatened me with single hood because of my social media, claiming the feminism is scaring men so I should consider more make up posts, or videos of my cats, or modeling shots that would make me look “cuter and more approachable” (his words).
This month marks eight years since leaving my marriage, meaning eight years of advocacy and outreach, but also eight years of chronic harassment. I needed to (unfortunately) start this year’s Domestic Violence Awareness Series with this disclaimer piece. Everything I laid out in this article happened this year, proving we have not come very far. Women are still unsafe, physically, sexually, and emotionally, and until that changes, until men change, I hope every loud, scary, intimidating women keeps her horror blasting. Because speaking for myself, I have never felt more hopeless and tired than this year, and if you’ve been an avid reader, you know life has been a roller coaster. Nonetheless, I decided I would continue with this series and uphold my annual tradition for the sake of myself and survivors worldwide.
