On the obstruction of the lineage of female scholarship as a tool of disempowerment

A few years after the Prophet’s death, a daring woman was forbidden from ever marrying any free man. The order came from Caliph Umar. After the woman had disclosed to him that she had taken one of her young male slaves to bed with her (outside of a marriage), the Caliph, incredulous, sought to punish her. When he had demanded to know her rationalization, she’d responded, “I believe that ownership by the right hand made lawful to me what it makes lawful to men.”

Milk al-yamin, or “property of the right hand” appears in multiple Qur’anic verses that describe enslaved lawful sexual partners alongside spouses. It is typically interpreted by both classical and contemporary scholars (or the few contemporary scholars willing to discuss its existence) as pertaining only to male slave-owners in conduct toward their female slaves. The Qur’an, however, makes no assignment of gender. Umar was stunned and distressed by the woman’s actions and her assertion to have God’s authorization for it. When Umar brought the incident to the Companions, they responded that “She [the woman] has applied to the Qur’an an interpretation that is not its interpretation.”

I don’t necessarily disagree with apologists—a term I mistrust, though I will use it here—who argue that misogynistic interpretations of Quranic verses do not originate with the most classical scholars, that these interpretations are deviations from their original analyses, but I accept this conclusion on vastly different grounds. Apologists who claim that misogynistic interpretations have no foundation in Islam, even though these interpretations might have a precedent, simultaneously accept and discard potential female scholarship: the “adulterous” woman who bedded her male slave, who was of the Prophet’s time (practicing Islam only a few years after his death), spoke classical Arabic, understood the culture in which she lived and in which the Prophet had lived, arrived at an egalitarian interpretation of the Quranic euphemism that was understood by male Companions to apply only to themselves as men. The woman herself and her interpretation was denied validation by the male authority of the Companions. She cannot, to this day, be considered a scholar, but only her conclusion, viewed as incorrect, deprives her of the title. Her methodology, comprising the linguistic and cultural insight of the people who lived during the Prophet’s time, can not be brought into question by most contemporary Islamic scholars, who often claim that the Quran should be read according to its time as justification for misogynist readings, since this woman was a woman of her time.

If we want to claim that misogynist readings do not originate from classical scholarship, we should be forced to expand the scope of that scholarship. Because, in order to substantiate this claim, our understanding of “original scholarship” must include women whose agencies and authorities were and are not recognized. In order to claim misogynist readings do not originate from classical scholarship, we must admit that non-misogynist classical scholarship involves the understanding of women who were misogynistic-ly denied validation by existing classical scholars. We are forced to recognize this if we want to make this claim of origins, because male classical scholarship was in fact demonstrably misogynistic, as in this case. This, of course, involves structural rearranging, and raises a number of questions.

What it means for contemporary women is this: there is no scholarly lineage, because it has been deliberately obstructed by classical male scholarship. And lineage matters on a structural level: when potential male scholars are born into a legacy that their forefathers have established for them, their scholarly ventures are anchored by this legacy and their interactions with it. Any potential female scholarship, denied the stability of an acknowledge legacy, is either lagan or a spectacle—a lone ranger, detached.

The manifestation of this arises in nearly every conversation pertaining to any kind of feminist interpretation of the Qur’an. When describing to a man the problems in the interpretations of 5:38, which most scholars identify as permitting the removal of the hands of thieves, I was confronted by the man’s adamant refusal to accept my methodology, which consisted of peeling away at the layers of the word itself and in its grammatical context. He insisted that because I lacked (male-approved) credentials—my “credentials” came into question often during this conversation—I must have had no right to speak on the matter, although he believed it was appropriate to interrogate me regardless. But what was most astounding about this conversation is that another male contributor to the discussion linked to an article by Hadia Mubarak, in which she destabilizes and ultimately discredits misogynist interpretations of 4:34, the verse believed to permit domestic violence against women—an article which I’d already read long ago. Hadia Mubarak uses the same methodology I’d applied, but because her credentials were approved by the male audience and her scholarship was not perceived as independently noteworthy, our methodologies could not be linked.

Men are asked to defer to scholars when their methodologies differ from those scholars; I have yet to have ever asked a man for his credentials when he arrives at a different conclusion using the same methodology (though maybe I should start.) I won’t claim that Hadia Mubarak is a feminist—a violent interpretation of 4:34 is so backwards that one needn’t even be a feminist to disagree with it—but she is a woman, and this incident of asking women to be like established scholars on the assumption that these female scholars would disapprove of these women and not of the men citing them this way is comparable to several others that involve feminist scholars. In a discussion where a friend of mine voiced her distress about the number of women the Prophet married, she was told by a man to be more like Kecia Ali in the disposition of her argument, although I doubt Kecia Ali would have found any issue with her expression of dissatisfaction. When commenters rushed to defend the now-infamous short shorts article, amina wadud was cited by misogynistic men as a woman whose scholarship was valid because “even she” dressed “properly” (and not in short skirts.) I can assure anyone that amina wadud would have found this laughable.

But feminist critics (who are not scholars) are separated from feminist scholarship because female scholarship in itself has been denied lineage. Because the recognition of female authority by Muslim men in the community is too frequently based not on the insightful, groundbreaking, hard work of these scholars or what they are actually saying but on how they are presenting it (Kecia Ali) or on how they dress (amina wadud), their arguments and scholarly voices are fallaciously pivoted on whether they visually or sensorally appeal to a male audience, regardless of the atrocity the scholars themselves would find in this. That atrocity—and the vocalization of it—is silenced by the assumption that it does not exist and by male insistence on refocusing the conversation on what amina wadud is wearing instead of what she is saying or how scholarly and detached Kecia Ali sounds instead of the actual implications of her provocative questions. When the arguments themselves are denied validity, male members of the community become incapable of identifying in female inquirers congruity with these scholars except on superficial terms, and they are able to fashion feminist scholarship to suit their patriarchal viewpoints instead of conceding to the scholarly argument-based lineage from which male scholarship benefits.

Having bedded her male slave, the woman who interpreted Quranic verses referring to “property of the right hand” as applicable to herself (which at least once in the Qur’an it explicitly is) as it is to any free man, was prevented from marrying, but the grounds on which her interpretation was deemed “incorrect” without justification—her femaleness—is evidence of a thread of bias in classical scholarship. The impact of this bias, and the patriarchal order that was established from it, serves as a perpetual blockade to female scholarship by rendering the quality of femaleness as unlawfully exceptional to Quranic commands and authorizations and of female behavior as regulated by male expectations.

I don’t expect classical female scholarship to be retroactively declared (though I would support that it should be) but artificially separating feminist scholars from unrecognized predecessors and potential successors is problematic to intellectual honesty, because it privileges a male lineage of scholarship. And a male lineage [of scholarship] is the definition of patriarchy—and that is an ideological bias.

Posted in feminism, herstory, Islam | 6 Comments

Nahida is 24.

Tomorrow is International [Working] Women’s Day, and, less importantly, my 24th birthday. I think the last time I wrote a birthday post is when I turned 21.

The amount of time it takes Nahida to respond to your messages.

The amount of time it takes Nahida to respond to your messages.

In any case, I’m quite relieved with 24. It feels different, kind of fuller. I don’t think I’ve ever felt “different” about a birthday before. (Of course, that may be because it hasn’t passed yet and tomorrow at 10:10PM I’ll find I feel exactly the same after all.) One of my friends has suggested that since it’s been some time since I wrote a post listing things about me, I should do it here. So I will. Here are three things.

1. My favorite words (in this order) are jaan, habibi, and harlot. You’ve got to love the word harlot. Because it’s funny and ridiculous, and it sounds like a vegetable.

2. Speaking of words, I was once “advised” to italicize all foreign words in my writing, because it’s “proper format.” The next day, I turned in an essay with all the English words italicized. I was never asked again.

3. Sometimes I blame myself for things I shouldn’t because, if an unfortunate turn of events can be my fault, it must mean I have control over the outcome.

For those who remember my last birthday post three years ago, thanks for reading for all these years. As my friend Orbala says, I laaaaa you!

P.S. The best birthday gift to me would be if someone swiftly kicked Abu Eesa in the crotch. Khoda hafiz.

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In (Feminist) Retrospect: A Prom Story

friendship corsages

When I was in high school, I had (and still have) a friend who is very dear to me. We’ll call her T, the first initial of my affectionate nickname for her. T and I attended the same middle school, where we excelled in physics as an undefeated dynamic duo. In high school we grew closer among other friends, but for now they are not the focus of the story. Because T was perceived as rather cynical and short-tempered, she was often the subject of baffled speculation, and her weight was the object of a few jokes. These characteristics only drew me closer to her side. T, who struggled to live under the shadow of her successful older sister, had diagnosed herself with depression, and to this day I believe she might have come very close. To balance T’s unrelenting pessimism, I exaggerated my inclination to outward idealism to the brink of fatigue. T found this greatly amusing, and she referred to us as quite a foil. I was rather unsettled with the popular misconception of my insufferable demonstration of happiness–I felt obligated to be this way so that, since I was frequently accompanied by her, T’s storm clouds didn’t drown the room, but while my emotional range was clipped in public, I knew our peers didn’t know T either.

They didn’t see the softer side of her, the lovely woman who was more than the cynic, who cared for the birds caught in her chimney and fought for all things that live, who tried to cheer me up when she caught glimpses of private moments of my distress. (Incidentally, while the widely held belief was that T was cynical and depressed, no one saw that I, a ray of unstoppable sunshine, was the one slowly sinking into indifference.) Neither T nor I were much for school spirit, and we never cared for parties or events unless they fit the agenda of our academic ambitions.

And then we were seniors, and there was prom. Anxious to see T enjoying herself outside of her quiet books and video games, I encouraged her to attend. And to emphasize that we would be unstoppable partners in crime, I made a proposition: that we would attend the senior prom together, and we would both attend in tuxedos. Even as I tailored the idea to our revolutionary sprits, I believed T would resist, but to my surprise, she agreed at once, with the same quiet happiness that lit her when she looked at birds or lent me books on Buddhism. She was rather fond of the idea, in her light sort of way, and for the first time I witnessed her looking forward to a social event. And, well, you can probably guess what happened next.

I was asked to the prom.

Admittedly, I should have seen this coming, but somehow then, I hadn’t. To this day I cringe at the decision I made. I told T that I’d been asked, mistakenly believing (again!) that she wouldn’t care and might have even been relieved. T didn’t say anything to me except that she understood, but I recall being shocked at the slight shadow of disappointment in her expression. Without me, T airily resigned to not attending the prom. I wore a burgundy dress. T said nothing else of the matter in the coming weeks, possibly out of a consideration for me that I evidently hadn’t had for her, until two days after the event, when she responded rather bitterly to what was, frankly, my abandonment of her. (It was in this moment that I realized how much this had really meant to her.) Still, it was the kindness in her character to bring it up only once, and for the past–how long ago was high school? five years?–she’s never mentioned it again, and our friendship resumed as usual.

I’m certain that she’d forgiven me, and quickly–but to this day when I remember this incident, it eats my heart alive.

When, five years later, I recounted this story to my coworker, she said, compassionately, “Well, no one can really blame you. I mean if you’d done it now it would be different. But you were young then. You were 18 and you’d just been asked out by a guy you had feelings for–,”

“Oh no,” I corrected her, “I didn’t have romantic feelings for him then. In fact, I’d made it clear to him we were going as friends.”

My coworker furrowed her eyebrows. “Wait, your date was just a friend?”


“So… if he was just a friend, why didn’t the three of you just go together?”

When she said this, it was as though something had collapsed in me and released an infinite (and obvious) flood of wisdom. Of course. Of course! Why hadn’t the three of us just gone together? I had, even at the age of 18, been a self-declared feminist–but I had been so instilled with the heterosexist archetype of two people of the opposite sex attending the prom together as the ideal vision that I’d crumbled at its calling. At the opportunity to present the archetype, I’d neglected about every other possibility, especially the one signifying a meaningful friendship. I’d been stripped of my identity and forgotten who I was. And because everyone referred to the man who’d asked me as my date even though it was widely known we were just friends, when they wouldn’t have referred to T as my date, my frame of reference was further dictated by the language to which I responded: I didn’t make the connection that this man wasn’t my “date” in a definitive sense of the word any more than T had been. With that schema, it hadn’t occurred to me that the three of us could have gone together.

If I could do this over, though, we wouldn’t have attended together. I would have turned down the “date.” There would be plenty of time for that. Instead I would have just gone with T, one of my best friends. Because I’d told her so. And that was the most important thing.

Be good to your friends, and keep them close. Because sometimes, it is more feminist than we even realize.

Posted in feminism | 4 Comments

Why is Hamas considered a terrorist organization?


Posted in uncategorized | 6 Comments

On the Deaths We Choose to Mourn… And the Ones We Choose to Forget

On February 10th, 2015, Yusor Abu Salha, 21, was shot execution-style alongside her husband of six weeks, Deah Barakat, 23, and her sister Razan Abu-Salha, 19, by a man who resembles a potato. The potato-terrorist’s name is Craig Stephen Hicks, a 46-year-old while male who, according to the malestream media, shot the three innocent students over a “parking dispute” while chanting the infinite wisdom of Richard Dawkins and Sam Harris, renowned leaders in the progressive Islamophobic new atheists movement. Like all white men with grievances and guns, Hicks had harassed the three Palestinian-American students for their religious beliefs incessantly before finally killing them in a pre-meditated “fit of rage,” while their cars were not parked at an empty parking space.

I apologize for waiting to write about this story. As you can tell, I’m still rather upset.

However, I cannot describe the atrocious murder of these three in a clear act of terrorism without mentioning the February 6th assault of a 9-year-old Muslim boy in Sweden, whose head was smashed into the pavement by security as the 9-year-old struggled to breathe whilst reciting the shahada; or the vicious assault on a Muslim family inside of a grocery store on February 12th during which the father of a 10-year-old boy was physically beaten to the ground by a group of white men while his son was held back by bystanders from assisting his father, and while his young daughter was sexually harassed as the men demanded that she remove her hijab; or the 28-year-old Mustafa Mattan who was shot and killed through the door of his apartment on February 9th after he rose to answer a knock. Mattan was a Somali Muslim, a university graduate student who’d found work as a security guard to save for a wedding, and a humble and soft-spoken man whose funeral expenses were covered by donations that his family struggled to raise. And these are only the most prominent of countless hate-crimes motivated by growing Islamophobia. Surrounding these attacks on living, breathing people, most of whom have been made to stop living and breathing, are the February 13th burning of the Islamic Center in Huston, the February 14th vandalism (happy day of love everyone) of an Islamic school in Rhode Island, and the windows shot out of a Muslim secondary school in Montreal on February 10th.

Although the malestream media neglected to report the shooting on Chapel Hill accurately without the criticism of Twitter and independent journalists (that’s embarrassing) the Muslim community was overflowing with enough pain and outrage (and rightfully so) that eventually, reporters from CNN and MSNBC had the sense to realize their mistakes, though not without parading the “parking dispute” proposition for a few more days, checked with the words “police claim” to frame the favored excuse. Unfortunately, some expression of that pain and outrage from the Muslim community involved appropriation of the hashtag #BlackLivesMatter–#MuslimLivesMatter—which was also embarrassing, and telling to say the least, considering the death of the Somali grad student had, comparatively, inspired nothing from us but the sound of crickets.

It is inarguable that Yusor, Razan, and Deah had been upstanding citizens, who built homes for those without homes, who raised money to donate to Syrian refugees, who were devoted and kind, who impacted their communities so profoundly that their efforts continued even after their deaths. It is inarguable that this world was better while they lived in it, that the loss of their lives is mourned by those loved best by God, that they were stellar Muslims and stellar human beings. But what if they hadn’t been? What if they hadn’t been the epitome of everything we uphold as ideal? What if they hadn’t been newly weds? What if they hadn’t been accepted into a university, hadn’t been planning to attend next fall? What if they hadn’t been hijabis? What if they hadn’t raised money for refugees, but had been impoverished themselves? What if they had been 16 and pregnant, or LGB or T, or… not Palestinian? —what if they, like the Somali man, shot in his apartment, whom we neglected, had actually fit the profile of the victims in #BlackLivesMatter?

Would Muslim lives matter then?

Before we “borrow” (read: appropriate) from the black community, whose struggles and movements benefit us all, it is crucial to evaluate whether those from whom we are “borrowing” are valued in our own. The relative silence in the death of Mattan, 16 hours before the deaths of Yusor, Razan, and Deah, speaks as many volumes about the racism in the Muslim community as the silence surrounding the deaths of Yusor, Razan, and Deah speaks about the American media. The Muslim community exists in a state of Arab supremacy, in which the devastation to Arab American lives—or Arab lives in a global context—is met with all the heartbreak that embraces an ideal victim, and destruction to all other lives, especially Black lives, is greeted with a shuffle of discomfort. Non-Arab lives are considerably devalued, and consequently, the narrative of their deaths neglected. As hard as it might be to face, our collective sorrow has a color.

The victims of the Chapel Hill shooting garnered this much attention in the Muslim community because the victims were upstanding. And no one should have to be upstanding for their lives to matter. There’s a really horrible sense that some who aren’t directly connected to the victims is publicly indulging themselves in the excuse to behave righteously about how good–and they were good–the victims were… and to credit the entire Muslim community through the good deeds of the respected dead. So that the Muslim American community can itself be depicted as the ideal victim.

But we are not an ideal victim. We are not all Arabs, and we are not all straight, and we are not all young and beautiful and excellent, and we are not all in positions to give rather than receive. And my heart is breaking, for Yusor, and Razan, and Deah, and for Mustafa too, and—forgive me—but especially for him. Because no one but his family is mourning him like they are mourning the victims of Hicks. And it is shattering me to the core.

.إِنَّا لِلّهِ وَإِنَّـا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعونَ‎


Posted in color, culture, feminism, Muslims, privilege | 16 Comments

The Unprincessed

(For the valentine’s post, click here.)

Once, there was a prince, whose father had decided it was time retire his crown and search for a queen fitted to rule alongside his son. So the king sent for his advisor to bring him a selection of the most eligible women in the kingdom. The advisor returned with several beautiful women of marriageable age, an assembly the king narrowed to two, named Azeena and Nasira. To test the women so that he may see which was best suited for the crown and his son’s hand in marriage, the king gifted each a number of significant riches. When a fortnight had passed, he called the two women to inquire how they had spent their wealth.

On sight, the first woman, Azeena, outshone her rival. She glowed with good health, her eyes were bright, skin radiant, and her hair glimmered with diamonds. The king frowned, seeing the woman had squandered the wealth on herself. When Azeena confirmed this assessment, the king turned to Nasira, who explained she had saved the riches for her future children, and for the prosperity of the kingdom. The king concluded in his conventional wisdom that the second should be the woman his son would marry.

But the prince, who had been present during this trial, had fallen in love with Azeena on sight. When he related this to his father, the king scoffed, believing the prince to be shallow and unfit to make this judgment. He knew the prince must have been gravely mistaken; it was clear the woman who had saved her wealth for the prosperity of the kingdom had the foresight to sit beside a future ruler. The king attempted to reason with his son, but the prince could not be brought to see reason. With a heavy heart, the king arranged a marriage to the parsimonious of the two women without the consent of his son.

The night before the wedding to Nasira was to take place, the prince sought out the whereabouts of Azeena, and followed her to an open space. The moon reflected on a lake, and she sat beside it. She said to the reflected moon, “I have escaped the prince.” She laughed, “I have escaped the prince and this wealth is mine.”
Shocked and heartbroken, the prince cried, “You could have had more, if you’d saved it and married me!” His voice betrayed his presence.

Azeena shrugged, as though she had known he was there. “What was I to do? Save the riches, like my rival, only to surrender them back to you, and to your kingdom, and to this—this place—that treats me so unfairly as to rip me from my home to compete for your hand without asking what I wish? I have my freedom now.”

“Your freedom—” the prince began, for what woman could be freer than the queen?

“The wealth I’d supposedly been gifted was never truly mine. I could not command it at my ease—no woman in this kingdom could. The king knows nothing of gifts, and neither do you. He rewarded the woman who rejected them, who sacrificed to him what should have been rightfully hers! Your father thinks I am simple, and I am content that he believes it.”

“He was wrong. You’re not simple.” The prince looked forlorn. “I knew I loved you for good reason.”

“You love me because I am more beautiful.”

This was untrue, and the prince was ready to say that at least he was capable of love, but he stopped. It proved to be a wise decision. He had learned from the mistakes of his father not to judge too quickly. For then Azeena said, “The truth is I had come to love you. The truth is I do not mind the feeling of sinking when I look into your eyes.”

“Then why have you done all of this?” asked the prince, when his speech had been restored. “You knew how to win.”

“I will not be a prisoner to your father’s rules. Or the easy convention of his morals. Or yours. This kingdom is unjust, and now, I will not be married to it.”

The prince sat beside her. He knew he could not marry her, and he knew it was because the manifestation of century-long injustices had interfered with the course of love. He mourned the loss of her.

“When you wed tomorrow,” began the woman, who looked at him and smiled, “Remember that nothing is as it appears. And, like me, neither is your wife as simple as you believe.”

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Snake in the Grass

It seems the women’s-only mosque in LA has brought out quite a bit of male panic—and brought out the white knights alike. Most of you have undoubtedly seen what Yasir Qadhi, Abu Eesa’s BFF, has had to say about it:

When our sisters are deprived from the right to come to the mosques, or given sub-standard accommodations and treated disrespectfully, it is only natural that some of them will take matters into their own hands and counter-react.

Some of that counter-reaction will be legitimate, and some illegitimate.

Oh please, Yasir. Do let us know that some of our “counter-reactions” are illegitimate. I presume that you, of course, are the one who gets to decide which “counter-reactions” (because that’s all this mosque is–just a bunch of women throwing a tantrum) are illegitimate? Unsurprisingly enough, Yasir Qadhi and his like don’t seem to believe that rape jokes are illegitimate.

But it gets better.

Rather than worry about what various counter-reactions have been and how legal they are, I believe we need to concentrate on the root cause of the problem.

What interesting timing to be struck by this enlightenment.

You see, men are incapable of addressing the “root of the problem” until women take a drastic “illegitimate counter-reactions”—like creating a mosque for themselves in which men are neither expected, nor made explicitly welcome. And then, suddenly confronted with the possibility of a complementary space in which they do not control women (just wait, that’s coming up next in his little speech) and in which women in fact govern themselves from positions of leadership in their religious practices, without giving a toss about what men think or have to say, well—come on now, girls—maybe we can work something out after all.

In a day and age where our sisters are going everywhere, visible everywhere, active everywhere, the BEST place for them to be is in the masjid, praying to Allah, and being with fellow Muslims, and learning about their faith. Rather than believe that they should stay home, we need to contextualize our environment and ENCOURAGE our sisters to come to the most blessed places in their cities: their mosques.

Visible everywhere? Visible everywhere? It’s bad enough that we’re “going everywhere” and are—gasp!—“active everywhere,” but to top it off we’re visible everywhere! Can you believe us? Can you believe the nerve of us?

Obviously this is why we need masjids so much. For taming purposes and such.

We need to make sister’s facilities as neat and clean and well-lit and accessible as the brothers. We either put them in the same hall as the men (as was the case in the time of the Prophet (SAW), behind the men), or provide state of the art AV access to the lectures/khutbah. We need separate rooms (also with AV) for sisters with young infants so that others can also pray and listen in peace. And most importantly, we need to tell our men that it is not THEIR business (unless a family man is dealing with his own wife/daughter) how other women dress. Let the people in charge of the masjid deal with dress codes.

We need to “put” them. Because it’s we and them and my audience is still we—the men—even while I’m supposedly discussing inclusiveness. This is what every single one of my khutbas is like, so no need to go see them from the other side of the barrier. Also, it’s totally okay to bully your own wife and daughter, because you own them. And by no means are we getting rid of the dress code police in the masjid.

Frankly, in this day and age, if a sister actually comes to the masjid (rather than going shopping or watching a movie or doing any other activity), we should WELCOME her, have the sisters get to know her, and make her feel special. Her priority is not the scarf on her head but her attachment to Allah. Once she feels that attachment, the rest will follow.

Oh no. Not shopping. Not women and shopping.

Unless they’re shopping for the headscarfs after feeling The Attachment Only I Can Judge to Be Sufficient. (TM)

Our sisters in faith are our mothers, wives, and daughters.

Sure, just not their own individual people. But what else can you expect from someone who defended Abu Eesa and his atrocious sexism and racism?

These men are in positions of power and yet they’re so easily threatened by any kind of criticism, or any woman separating herself from their holy sheikhness to form her own mosque. They cannot stand to hear about it, or to be confronted about their problematic views.

He blocked me after that.

He blocked me after that.

Amusing isn’t it? For someone who wasn’t fired, he sure is still on the edge of his seat. Of course, the reason he isn’t fired–safe in his patriarchal ulema, where he is protected by men who refuse to hold him accountable and he never has to confront criticism against him, ever–is the very reason he felt smug enough to securely rub salt into the wound in the creepiest possible way.

It’s telling that oppressive, patriarchal men will stoop down to backpedal as hard as they can without losing their main oppressive, patriarchal audience as soon as a woman makes any successful attempt of forming a place without them. Luckily, they fail so transparently that it’s clear where their real interests lie: in celebrity status, catering to malestream mediocrity on matters of justice. With a touch of casual sexism masquerading as benevolence.

[click to enlarge] Did I say rape apologist? I meant rape enabler. In fact, I might have even meant rapist.

[click to enlarge] Did I say rape apologist? I meant rape enabler. In fact, I might have even meant rapist.


Posted in feminism, Muslims | Tagged | 7 Comments