My body and mind traveled through time faster than they should have. My body developed quickly, a progression that left me feeling like a stranger in my flesh. My tank tops were quickly replaced with sports bras, and I’d look at my white peers with their small frames and innocence still attached, worn as a badge of honor; pink and soft. Yet for me, this was stripped, ripped from my chest, with only a gaping hole left.

School days in my Texas school were spent as the teacher’s pet, quiet and obedient. Evenings were spent attempting to do my homework; the rumblings of that day’s lessons were drowned out by the noise of screaming, dishes breaking, and threats flying over my head. I would hope they’d miss me, but somehow they’d always hit, and it was like there was a gong in my head, ringing, and ringing, and ringing

as I tried to count on my fingers what 7+14 was. My ears would echo proclamations of my incompetence, my confusion, while the rhythmic slamming of a pencil crushed my worksheet.

14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21.

Even now, I still use my fingers.

When the first sign of blood trickled down into my Powerpuff Girl underwear, it felt as though it came too late. There it made its appearance, looking up at me sheepishly as if it was something to be embarrassed of, but my womanly body and silver mind had already been living, growing, and grieving.

Anger and sadness are two sides of the same coin; of course, I did not know that. Self-loathing came in the form of a safety pin. The pins I used to clip my pashmina hijab together right at my neck were taken into the bathroom with me. Some days, I could barely see my punishment over the droplets hanging from my lashes. Other days, it was out of mere habit, a comforting fixation of touch and feeling.

The blade from my pink shaving razor gawked at me from the tub. It seemed too tricky to get out, and well, I didn’t want to cut myself accidentally.

So I used the pin, dragging its point across my wrist, the scratching sound of needle to skin humming in my ear. I waited for the pain to be just enough, for it to hurt as much as it hurt to be.

“So you have to wear long-sleeved clothes? Because of your religion?”

“Doesn’t it get hot?”

I didn’t mind.

But at some point, I didn’t like how hidden my pain was. No, I didn’t like hiding my suffering. I didn’t like to hide that Baba hit Mama, and then Mama would hit me, and then I would hit my head against the wall, hoping the sounds would bring Mama to comfort me, not yell at me to go to sleep.

I didn’t like it.

So in 7th grade, when we all waited to get back into class after lunch, I’d make a spectacle of myself, as I always did. But this time, I lifted my sleeves and showed my friends how I got cut. The slashes slapped across my wrist didn’t look accidental, but they weren’t from razors. They looked odd, some parts still red, other parts scabbed over. It was grotesque, and not in the right way. My friend’s eyes met mine with confusion but not pity, never pity. Suddenly feeling afraid someone would tell an adult, I blurted out the blame on my cats. I thought I’d be whisked away into the counselor’s office, and I’d tell them nothing was wrong, but only after the 10th time of being pressed on it would I finally tell them that yes, I’m hurting, and I just want to be normal and ok and,

no one ever told an adult. Of course. Care was reserved for the tortured beauties, whose lives were hard because their parents were merely getting a divorce, and they had to live in not one but two four-bedroom homes and get twice the love, twice the care, twice the amount of attention that I so desperately wanted.

When my classmates saw the marks spread across my thighs during gym class, they looked away.

“It’s from my cats.” I’d say. I didn’t really need to come up with an excuse. They’d still pick me last on their team.

Making everyone laugh came easily. Making them care when I cried never worked.

“Do you wear a black hijab because you’re like, depressed?”

I am the third child and the eldest daughter. I am the daughter whom my father wished for, believing I would finally be the child to love him just as my brothers loved my mother. And indeed, I did. I loved my father even after he hit my mother. I loved my father even after he hit me. I loved him even after he’d hurt my mother so much that she’d have to hurt me. I loved him as we watched the movie “The Last of the Mohicans,” and he told me, “That’s like what you are to me. The last person to love me.”

I loved him because I didn’t realize that he was the reason why I’d hurt myself. I loved him because I believed this pain was something destined for me, and I couldn’t escape it, because fate had decreed this for me. I loved him because I thought he still loved us; he just showed it in his own way.

Pain is synonymous with care; sacrifice is a precursor to love.

I no longer take safety pins into the bathroom; I simply lie awake every night believing that my suffering is inevitable, and this torment is eventual. I hurt myself when I let my family continue to hurt me, because I cannot bring myself to abandon them. I hurt myself knowing I am meant for greatness, yet refusing to acknowledge all that I’ve accomplished, because it’s simply what’s expected of me. And when it’s all said and done, I attempt to find solace in my gluttony for punishment.

“God does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear.”

These words I’ve read countless times and have always received them with hope and conviction. A conviction, a desperate belief that this suffering, this torment would end.

In middle school, I believed God wanted me to suffer because my suffering only existed because I did not worship Him, and instead prayed to not have to sit through my Quran lessons.

In college, I believed God wanted me to suffer because I so badly wanted to be loved and adored by the boys in the Midwest, most of whom had never seen a hijabi before, except for when they saw one on PornHub when they were thirteen.

Now, as twenty-four begins to creep up on me, safety pins sit on my dresser, and I only sometimes remember them as weapons of punishment. I no longer see my God as One who punishes. I, myself, am the executioner, and I punish myself more than God punishes me, because all suffering is mine, and mine alone to bear.

A Note From the Author

Hi, my dear reader. This article ended on a somber note, and that’s because it’s my reality, struggling with trauma, CPTSD, abuse, and depression.

May is Mental Health Awareness Month, and I believe one of the larger issues in our Ummah is the lack of mental health resources for our youth. For many young Muslims, the only thing stopping them from taking their life is the fact that suicide is haram. Still, for many, many individuals, the suffering presented in this world is too much, and so they let themselves slip away.

Suffering should not be kept in silence, yet we’ve created a culture that silences struggles. We place an importance on the feelings, egos, and status of others than we do an importance on the brothers and sisters who are actually hurting.

Many Muslims come from cultures and families that hold deep generational trauma, a trauma that’s etched into our veins, carried on in blood. Yet we believe this can simply be prayed away as if it never existed. This ignorance of mental health and negligence of advocating for healing has cursed families, and we cannot continue to ignore it.

As a young girl who was living in an abusive household for most of her life, I constantly fought feelings of depression and actively tried not to fall prey to suicidal thoughts. If the only advice we have for Muslims struggling with the consequences created by our toxic cultures is to simply “ask God for help,” then we are doing a complete disservice to our Ummah as both humans and Muslims.

God does not want us to suffer, yet we deem this suffering as a rite of passage. Misery is not a pillar of Islam, and we should not only tell our brothers and sisters to pray away their pain. Because the reality is that many people struggling will not make it out, and they will take their lives instead.

Advocate for your brothers and sisters who are struggling. Introduce classes and resources at your Masjid. And most of all, be empathetic to someone who is suffering in a way you cannot understand.

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She stretched her legs, pointing her toes to the wall, then raised her arms and reached for the ceiling. Each morning, she awoke and stretched her body, prepping it for the long day ahead. She used these first moments of the morning’s peace to clear her mind from the stresses of the night and the day before, knowing that her one moment of quiet would be the one to ground her. She finally pulled her body upwards, sitting up and looking to the right of her, a small smile slowly warming up her face.

Her baby boy, Aarnav, still fast asleep, was the one who reminded her that life could be as sweet as her dreams. She caressed his skin, feeling his flesh and thanking God for his meaty little arms that always made her smile. She slid her body back down, lying on her side and resting her head in her hand as she watched her baby boy take his breaths. Each exhale was met with a prayer, thanking God for blessing her with this child. Chandini’s pregnancy was rough and had many complications, which her in-laws had no problem blaming on her. “She eats too much oily food,” her sister-in-law would say, while her mother-in-law would chime in and complain about how God was punishing her for being a poor wife. But God was not One who punished, not to Chandni. After nine months of aches, pains, and countless snarky remarks from her in-laws, the twelve hours of labor were revered as bliss because she finally gave birth to a healthy baby boy. When her eyes met his for the very first time, her eyes welled up with tears, but she did not allow a single one to fall. Chandni kissed her baby boy all over and said that she would never let her eyes leave his for as long as she lived.

The housewife tore herself away from her son and got up out of bed, feeling the cold tile against her feet, and wrapped a dupatta across her chest before sliding one arm under Aarnav’s back and the other under his neck and scooping him up. She kissed him on his cheek and head, whispering in his ear, “Wake up, my baby boy, the day is here,” to which he would always open his eyes.

She then carried him down the stairs and into the open courtyard, where her sister-in-law sat having tea. “Look who finally decided to get up,” she said and pursed her lips, eyeing Chandini as she sat Aarnav down on a mat with all his toys.

“I had a late night,” Chandini said, taking her long, dark brown hair and bringing it to the front of her, braiding it as she watched Aarnav grab for his toys. “Aarnav was restless and wouldn’t sleep,’‘ she said quietly, lacking the energy to deal with her in-laws’ remarks. Each remark chipped away at her, though she’d never admit it.

As she adjusted her dupatta over her chest, she walked to the kitchen, her anklets jingling with each step she made.

Chandini murmured a good morning to her mother-in-law, and her eyes winced as she saw the matriarch already flipping rotis on the stove with a whole stack of them on a plate next to her. Her mother-in-law let out a long sigh and wiped her hands with a rag, gesturing for Chandini to take over at the stove. The 20-year-old girl preferred the silent treatment over senseless badgering; that way, Chandini could fill the silence with prayer for strength.

Chandini knew that her mother-in-law was upset with her for oversleeping; it was one of the many things that had caused a big problem in Chandini’s first few months of marriage. Tensions were high because her father-in-law had just passed away, and after a week of mourning and grieving, Chandini made the mistake of resting.

She remembered waking up late on a Saturday and heading downstairs to see the whole family sitting there. Their eyes watched her as she slowly walked towards them. Sneers, glares, and gritted teeth, while her mother-in-law clapped. “Thank you for doing us all a great service by getting up. Do you think you got married so you can sleep all day? You’re living in our house! My son is hungry every morning because you don’t do your duties.” The older woman’s voice had echoed throughout the courtyard while Chandini’s husband, Varun, calmed his mother down.

“She’ll wake up earlier, ammi. Please don’t stress,” he said softly, while all Chandini could do was keep her voice from shaking and pray her tears would not flood her sight. She fiddled with her dupatta and apologized, promising to wake up early from then on.

“If you can’t even take this much as a wife, you will never be a good mother.”

Chandini grabbed a roti with her fingers and placed it on the stove, recalling this memory but not looking back at it sadly. She knew there was no place for self-pity. That was a privilege, one not afforded to her. Instead, she viewed it as just another memory, one that shaped her into the obedient daughter-in-law she always knew she’d be. Day after day, she felt more and more numb, succumbing to the life that she had fought so desperately for. With every remark and taunt, she buried her feelings of anger and despair and replaced them with love for her son. And though she took these words in silently, each remark that was meant to suffocate her dropped into a reservoir, and she never knew which word would make her drown.

She remembered Varun approaching her after his mother had berated her. Chandini wept silently, reaching her hand out to her husband. He looked at her hand shaking as it grabbed for him, opened his mouth to say something, but instead closed it and walked away, going off to work. She didn’t see him till he joined her in bed that night. No words could fill the space between them, nor did her husband attempt to do so.

Their marriage wasn’t arranged, but what they call a “love marriage.” Chandini fought for their love, asking her parents why it was such a crime, such a sin to love. “Shouldn’t every marriage be a love one?” she’d ask, while her love for Varun clouded everything in sight. Their romance was all-consuming, riddled with promises and tales of a new life. She was 18 years old, and she believed Varun would be the man to pluck her away from immaturity and make a real woman, one who was proud to be a wife and was adored simply because she was his. Her parents attended her wedding but were never truly happy for her. They smiled for the photos and kissed her head before she left, but she knew that they were no longer her family. Her neighbors would whisper about her and say that as long as she didn’t have her parents’ blessings, her marriage wouldn’t prosper. Of course, she didn’t believe them… at first. She and Varun’s love was fast and passionate. It was as bright as the sun as it rose every morning, and it was as colorful as the sunset, but also just as fleeting. Once they got married, the promises of romance and passion were only whispers of the past, and the sun rising and setting became a reminder of the dull days and nights that filled her marriage.

Chandini served breakfast to her in-laws and sat with them, watching Aarnav play and babble.

“Chandini, I need you to go into town today to pick up some things for me. My sweet Varun will be receviging his promotion today.” she beamed. “I’ll give you the list for everything,” her mother-in-law said with a mouthful of roti and daal.

Chandini glanced at her inherited mother, watching as the lentils spilled from her mouth. The sloshing of the food echoed in the courtyard, filling the space with sounds of consumption.

Chandini nodded at her mother-in-law’s request, her eyes stuck on Aarnav as he played with a toy ship.

After breakfast, Chandini got herself and Aarnav ready, took the list from her in-laws, and headed out into town. Aarnav laid on her back, wrapped up, his eyes wide, watching everything around him. The town was small, hours away from any big cities, but it was close to the sea. Its size did not take away from its bustling environment, loud with people talking with friends, families, and strangers. From the old men sitting and drinking tea while discussing politics, to the girls grabbing a snack after school, it was always filled with the voices of people and their different lives. Chandini murmured the details of the list to herself, spending an hour grabbing everything from the market and haggling with each stall owner. In the town she grew up in, she was known by everyone for being loud and outspoken, a force to be reckoned with, a woman who was “just as bright as the moon’s light.” But living with her in-laws had broken her spirit, and she learned quickly not to speak to survive. After all, this was her home now. Her best friend from her town came to visit her and Aarnav when he was first born, and when she saw Chandini again after just a year, she knew the girl she had grown up with had fallen prey to reality. Her friend was much less of a romantic than Chandini; she herself had gotten married to a man her parents had chosen, but she thought Chandini was destined to get what she wanted. The girl who told everyone in school she’d be whisked away by her knight would have surely gotten her fairy tale ending. But fate is not that kind.

On her way back home, Chandini stopped by the local sweet shop, and walking in, she saw a very familiar face, a man she had known for as long as she had been married to Varun.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” the man said, a cheeky smile on his face.

Mohan, the owner of the sweet shop, a family-owned business, one passed down from generation to generation. For two years, she had come by this shop, grabbing sweets for every occasion, exchanging looks and small conversations with this man who always greeted her with a smile and never let her leave without showing him one.

Chandini smiled in response to Mohan; she couldn’t help but smile sheepishly, feeling a heat rise to her cheeks by mere pleasantries. She was sure Mohan was like this with all of his customers, smiley and bubbly, though a part of her wished it was only her he’d sell his sweets to. “Varun got a promotion at work, but other than that, there’s no need for sweets these days,” she shrugged, “Nothing to celebrate.”

“Nothing to celebrate?” Mohan shook his head, “Every day is a new day, and that’s a celebration.” He packed the different sweets into a box and placed the lid on top. He knew what her favorites were by now, and though he memorized many of his frequent returning customers’ orders, he always took special care in knowing exactly what Chandini liked. He peeked behind Chandini to see Aarnav. “He’s getting big, huh?”

Chandini nodded excitedly but whined, “Too big! I wish he could stay small forever. You know, a few days ago he started to try to walk.” Her face lit up as she went on about Aarnav and how she could’ve sworn he was going to say “ammi” one day. Mohan rested his head on his hand, smiling and nodding, listening to her as she spoke. When she finally noticed how intently he looked at her, she stopped and let out a nervous laugh, “Are you making fun of me?”

Mohan quickly shook his head and stood straight, clearing his throat. “Not at all. I just– Well, it’s nice to hear you talk about Aarnav. Your face, it becomes different.” He handed her the box of sweets, their hands touching just for a moment as she grabbed it, and then tucked it into the bag that hung on her shoulder.

Chandini couldn’t stop smiling on her walk home. She felt like a schoolgirl again, with her heart skipping a beat and her mind running wild, going back and forth between what Mohan said and what he meant. It wasn’t until she met the gates of her home that her mind reminded her whose life she was actually living, and it wasn’t the one playing in her thoughts. The wind chimes that hung at the doorway moved ever so slightly, welcoming her back, but it was as if they meant to taunt her. It was as if they laughed at her, waking her up from the silly story that filled her head and bringing her back to reality.

That night, Chandini laid in bed, her hand tucked under her head, looking at Varun. “How was work?” She whispered to him. His eyes were closed, but she wished that for just a moment, he would open them. She believed that maybe he would see hers and finally remember his Chandini, his moon.

“You are my moon, and I’m the stars that surround you in the night sky. Admiring your beauty from afar.” Varun told Chandini one night, only months before he had asked her to marry him.

“From afar?” She questioned. “Why can’t you love me closely?” Chandini tilted her head, her hair falling to the side.

Varun smiled softly, looking into her deep brown eyes, and shook his head. “I don’t think I have the strength to love you so closely.”

“Work was fine,” Varun murmured before turning over so his back was facing her. “Can you make sure Aarnav sleeps through the night? The crying is just…” he yawned and let out a long sigh, “too much.”

Chandini turned over on her side and looked at the moon through her bedroom window while Varun began to snore. The moon always captured her eyes, and she thought of the weight of being named after such a thing. “You know the moon controls the sea,” her father told Chandini when she was seven years old. “You were named after the moon because it’s so powerful and special, just like you. You will do great things in your life, Chandini. Trust me.”

Chandini looked up at the moon, saying softly, “But you are free to bend the sea to your will; that is the difference between you and me.”

The next morning, Chandini awoke to Varun frantically shaking her and yelling, “Aarnav can’t breathe! Please, please get up, Chandini!”

Chandini jumped out of bed, searching frantically for Aarnav, screaming at Varun, “What did you do!? What did you do to him?!”

She grabbed Aarnav and saw as he struggled to breathe as if something was lodged in his throat. Her hands were shaking, unsure of what to do or how to help, but she knew she had to do something. So she placed him over her thigh and hit his back repeatedly, praying it wasn’t too hard but hard enough to dislodge whatever was in his throat. Varun watched helplessly, murmuring to himself about how he looked away for just a second, how he thought whatever he fed him was just small enough. She could barely hear her husband; her mind was running wild with all of the possibilities of what could happen in the next minute. Chandini’s eyes flickered back and forth from Aarnav’s mouth to his eyes. She wanted to scream and cry. She felt her child’s pain, and she could feel it closing in on her throat, suffocating her just as much as it was suffocating him.

After a few hits, Aarnav choked out a piece of a grape and began to start wailing. “Oh my poor baby, my poor, poor baby.” Chandini hugged him tight, rocking him back and forth. Her entire body was shaking and she looked up at the ceiling, closing her eyes and whispering a quiet prayer, thanking God for saving her son’s life.

Varun let out a sigh of relief and sat down next to her, his hand reaching out to caress Aarnav’s head until Chandini quickly moved away from him. “How could you let this happen?!” Her voice was heavy, and her face felt hot with anger. She could feel a fire in the pit of her stomach, one that was burning in her throat to come out.

“I-I, well, this is your fault, you weren’t up early enough,” He stammered, quickly getting up and standing over her. She watched as he tried to tower over her, but she saw who he was, a man who wouldn’t dare get close to the moon. “I was getting ready for work, and he was in the room, awake, and he looked hungry, so I thought a grape would be okay. It was so tiny.”

Chandini continued to soothe Aarnav, staring at Varun as he came up with his sick excuses. A million thoughts were running through her mind. She felt her face getting hot as these words that had settled in her stomach for over 2 years bubbled up into her throat. It felt like fire, clawing to get out, to rain on her husband, to finally say exactly what she had been feeling. But instead of letting it pour out, she swallowed it down and stood up, steadying herself and croaking out, “I’m going out for a walk.”

She walked down the stairs with Aarnav as her in-laws finally made their way up to figure out what all the commotion was.

Chandini walked out of the house with just a t-shirt and her shalwar, which she wore to bed. Her heart was beating so hard it felt like it was knocking on her chest, begging to come out, to breathe, to rest. Her breath quickened as she felt tears filling her eyes, wondering what would’ve happened if she hadn’t gotten to Aarnav in time. Her one reason to live, to endure, to exist, was him. The tears that welled up in her eyes felt too overwhelming for her eyes to hold any longer, and they soon began flowing down her cheeks. She could feel herself suffocating, drowning.

She held onto Aarnav tightly, afraid to let him go, and that if she didn’t hold on, he’d be lost forever. As she walked with no destination in sight, she saw a familiar face coming towards her on a bike. Mohan waved at her with a big smile on his face, but as he got closer, that bright smile quickly disappeared. He quickly braked on the bike and got off, stopping Chandini in her tracks. Chandini’s tear-stained cheeks confused Mohan, his eyes flickering from her furrowed eyebrows to her hands tightly wrapped around Aarnav.

“Chandini, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” His eyes were riddled with a look of distress, a genuine care that she had not seen in a long time. She tried not to stare at him, but couldn’t help but notice how his deep brown eyes looked as he stared into her soul. For a moment, she thought of breaking down, just so he could pick her up.

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In Guangzhou, China, you can hear the call to prayer, the Arabic words you and I have heard countless times, are sung melodically and uniquely.

In Houston, you can listen to the khutbah in Spanish at the Islam in Spanish Masjid, home to a large population of Latino Muslims, who have begun a new generation of Muslims. They’re the first in their bloodline to take the shahadah, to fast in Ramadan, to be proud Muslims, and proud Latinos.

In Hawaii, Russia, Sri Lanka, and Montenegro, you can find Islam. 5 daily prayers, a month of fasting, and the belief that there’s only one God and Prophet Muhammad PBUH is His messenger, the only difference is how they’ve retained their culture to coexist with their unwavering faith.

Islam started in the Middle East with the Arabs, but Islam did not end there. Since the conception of Islam, cultures around the world have tastefully intertwined the beauty of their faith with the beauty of their culture.

49:13 O people! We created you from a male and a female, and made you races and tribes, that you may know one another. The best among you in the sight of God is the most righteous. God is All-Knowing, Well-Experienced.

Though our divine book has celebrated the differences in our origins, we seem to insist on stripping away our culture in the name of Islam, through our clothes, celebrations, and overall way of life.

Toxic culture is oftentimes conflated with Islam, which can cause harm, but there is a way for the essence of a culture to coexist with Islam, and my dear reader, it’s been done for centuries.

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One is All, and All is One

Only about 20% of Muslim lives in the Arab world, yet to many it’s known as the only true representation of the Muslim world. Islam is not an ethno-religion, yet we’ve made Arab culture synonymous with Islam.

In 1993, the historian Richard Eaton claimed that “Islam was history’s first truly global civilization.” From Arab traders bringing Islam to Indonesia to Sufi dawah bringing Islam to Kashmir. There’s historical evidence that Islam reached people all around the world as early as the year 711, and from that point on, pockets of Islam began to intertwine with the cultures of the world.

These new Muslims were introduced to Islam and accepted a new way of life, which included leaving behind toxic indulgences such as drinking, gambling, or more serious ideologies like female infanticide — but they were never admonished for retaining the beauty in their culture. In fact, there are reported instances where the Prophet PBUH himself did not prohibit cultural practices by a community.

Aisha r.a. reported: “The Messenger of Allah s.a.w. came to my house when two girls were beside me singing songs of Bu’ath (a tribal song about the battles between Aws and Khazraj). The Prophet laid down and turned his face to the other side. Then, Abu Bakr r.a. came in and spoke to me harshly, saying, “Musical instruments of Satan near the Prophet?” The Prophet turned his face toward him and he said, “Leave them alone.” (Sahih Al-Bukhari)

Another instance, also reported by Aisha r.a: “It was the day of Eid and the Abyssinians were playing with shields and spears (a cultural performance). Either I asked the Prophet or he asked me whether I would like to watch and I said yes. Then, the Prophet made me stand behind him while my cheek was touching his cheek and the Prophet was saying, “Carry on, O tribe of Arfidah.” (Sahih Al-Bukhari).

Throughout history, we can find examples of new Muslim’s bridging the gap between Islam and their existing ways of life. Wayang Golek, a traditional Indonesian puppet theatre, and the gamelan, a piece of traditional ensemble music, were both used to share stories about pillars of Islam.

In Mexico, Islam was introduced in the 90s, and now in the state of Chiapas you can find a large community of Muslims. You can find a young woman wearing her traditional tzotzil skirt with her hijab.

“I want to speak my language, I want to put on the indigenous dress, but I also want to believe in Allah,”

Islam is submission, but not submission to a people; it’s submission to God. Instead of submitting to another culture, these Muslims are solely submitting to spreading Islam with their community, in a way that resonates with them the most.

I don’t see differences between the Prophet Muhammand PBUH and these tribes who celebrated Eid with a performance. I see one ummah, one faith, and a singular devotion to follow Allah SWT.

The Myth of the Black Abaya

Clothing carries ancestral meaning. Prints and fabrics, colors and threads, these things tie us back to the people before us. The hijab and a guide of modest dress are unifiers within this, signalling that our commitment to Allah SWT transcends blood and lineage.

Still, the hijab and the wardrobe of a believing woman have not always looked the same for every Muslim. Yet for Muslim women, the color black and Middle Eastern garb seem to be the only acceptable form of modest wear.

Black burqas, niqabs, hijabs, abayas — these are the markers of a Muslim woman, but only according to one culture.

The color black, as a religious marker in Islamic clothing, is actually a cultural practice, not one rooted in Islamic law.

Black clothing has culturally been used for women’s clothing because it “doesn’t draw attention,” but is modesty synonymous with invisibility? We lose the plot and fall into the clutches of Western propaganda of Islam when we conflate the two. A core tenet of a believing woman is not invisibility; it is dignity in character. And I feel there’s nothing more dignified than dressing as a believing woman while still holding onto your lineage and ancestry, which is what the Quran and the Sunnah of our dear Prophet encourage us to do.

So, why is this version of modesty the only correct way, when other Islamic cultures have also practiced modesty without strictly wearing the color black? When Muslims have always adapted modesty within their culture, not despite it?

Narrated by Aisha bint Abi Bakr:

“May Allah have mercy on the early emigrant women. When Allah revealed: ‘Let them draw their veils over their chests’, they tore their waist sheets (murūṭ) and covered themselves with them.” — Sahih al-Bukhari,

Ibn Hajar al-Asqalani, a classical scholar, explained in his commentary of this hadith that these cloths were normal garments women already owned, and historically, in that time period, garments were often woven with stripes due to the textile styles of that region.

Furthermore, many scholars have said that you should dress in the garments that are the norm amongst Muslim women in your land.

So centuries ago, women weren’t wearing plain black jilbabs or khimars; they wore patterned clothing that was aligned with the culture and trends of the time.

The concept of only wearing a black abaya, jilbab, or burqa isn’t Islamic, but rather in line with Arab culture. And historically, Muslims have conflated Arab culture with Muslim culture.

Going past the color of the abaya, the abaya itself is deemed the epitome of religious clothing. When we want to be more modest and attuned with our faith, we don an abaya. We copy the trends of the Emirati women who “just get” the intersection of fashion and modesty.

But why? We continue to conflate Arab culture with Islam and lose out on the unique individuality of what makes us, who we are, and truly, what makes Islam so beautiful.

Muslims are meant to look different.

A kurta, qi pao, kebaya, dirac, can all be just as modest as an abaya.

So I go back to an earlier point made, which is that if other cultures wore modest dresses in line with their culture, and also in line with their Islamic faith, why have we recently, in the past two decades, demonized any retention of culture?

Gripping to Faith in a Non-Muslim Country

Muslims in the West, particularly in the United States, are notoriously known to be much more strict in practice than their Muslim counterparts who live in predominantly Muslim countries.

Why? Because when you’re in a country that goes against your faith’s morals and ethos and instead brands capitalism, sex, and arrogance as its pillars, you become hyper-focused on the one thing that grounds you: your faith in God.

In doing so, these Muslims feel it’s important to stray away from anything that may not align with what they believe is peak religiosity. And who is the greatest example of religiousness? The Arabs in the Middle East.

So, they denounce their culture, but not the aspects of their culture that are actually harmful. As a South Asian, I’ve witnessed countless South Asian Muslims refuse to wear their cultural garb but still fall prey to cultural propaganda that goes against Islam.

A nikkah not considered valid until there’s a rukhsati. Culture.

Believing their daughter’s are a burden. Culture.

Stopping their children from marrying outside of their ethnicity. Culture.

And truly, a plethora of other things.

They won’t denounce these aspects of their culture, but they’ll learn Arabic to be seen as superior, while their mother tongue is forgotten. They’ll wear thobes and abayas to Eid prayer, but deem their cultural wear as “too much” or “not enough.” They’ll forgo words like “namaz,” “janamaz,” and “khuda hafiz” because these are not what the “true Muslims” use.

But no singular race or ethnicity is a “true Muslim.”

Worship God and Honor Where You Came From

There’s nothing wrong with celebrating your culture as long as it’s within the parameters Islam has set forth for us. Additionally, there’s nothing wrong with wearing an abaya or wanting to learn Arabic because there is a beauty in expanding your knowledge and understanding those who are different than you.

Contrary to common belief, a belief set forth by the online Ummah, things are not always so black and white, and there is nuance to this.

But one thing that is firm is that God did not tell us to worship a people and their ways. Yet for decades, Muslims believed the Middle East and countries such as Saudi Arabia to be the only accurate representation of Islam. So their rulings on clothing, their laws on women, and their entire approach to being a Muslim country were what people believed to be the true Islam.

I’m not here to say wearing a black abaya or burqa is extreme or regressive, nor am I saying Arab culture should be demonized, but I am pointing out an issue with Imams and leaders in the West using Saudi (and the Middle East in general) as a marker of faith when this country has historically conflated Arab culture with Islam (and done deplorable things as we know were recently released but that’s a conversation for another day.)

The beauty of Islam is that we as people are so different, yet when we come together as Muslims, we are all the same. So worship Allah SWT, but do not forget where you came from, because He created us all differently for a reason, and it’s our Islamic duty to honor that.

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Not even the hijab is saving us from lookism and beauty standards.

The “hijabi beauty standard” is, to put it very simply, a plague that has infiltrated the Ummah. This plague is a result of capitalism and the generally superficial standards of beauty that our society ascribes to.

Modern lecturers lack the tact and respect for women to address the hijab and how it’s seen in a modern hyper-consumerist society without simultaneously spewing misogynistc rhetoric; so I, am speaking to you with love, my dear reader. The hijab has transitioned from a statement of modesty to a statement of overconsumption, wrapped around our necks with a mirage of color and patterned fabrics; modesty reduced to trends and sales.

But is there a healthy medium between tasteful individual expression and practicing this aspect of our faith?

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The Hijabi It-Girl

The hijab, contrary to common belief, is not a fabric meant to take away our beauty or curb men’s desires. In fact, the hijab is more than just mere fabric; it can help guide us in our character and reach a spiritual enlightenment that surpasses things like arbitrary beauty standards.

But the women who wear hijab are not perfect beings who are incapable of falling prey to societal influences. Hijabi or not, societal norms still influence Muslim communities. We see this with Muslim men following red pill ideologies and conflating them with Islam. Young Muslims growing up in the United States yearn to belong, especially those who don’t have a strong Muslim community around them.

Women who wear hijab are not immune to the insecurities that also plague their non-Muslim female peers. We, too, want to be seen as beautiful.

Thin, fresh, glowing, effortless perfection.

Just as Western society places an overt importance on looks, a hijabi’s worth and importance are measured by her beauty. And so the very thing meant to free us from the prison of these standards, instead, becomes a tool to help succumb to them.

So, we’ve created our own standard among hijabi women, and popular brands have leeched off what has already existed: the desire to be seen.

Thus, the “hijabi it-girl” was born. A standard of beauty that changes month to month, trend to trend, and makes Muslim women feel inadequate if they are not wearing the right hijab or accessorizing in the right way. But it goes past hijab style, it breaches into mindsets, language, character, and your overall persona.

Clear skin, thin body, fresh look, perfectly pinned hijab, and a version of beauty we only believe exists outward.

We can easily blame brands or a greater societal influence for enforcing these rules, but the truth is more often than not it’s also other hijabi’s who deem a style of hijab, a fabric, a color as “not on par” with these strict rules. A community of support is lost and has been permanently replaced with a community of competition and jealousy.

And brands perpetuate these standards on a mass scale; setting trends, pushing you to buy, enforcing a scarcity mindset, and conning you into becoming the next “it-girl.”

Capitalism and consumerism are not exclusive to Western brands; Muslim brands adhere to these same toxicities.

My dear reader, I’m sure you think I’m talking about one very popular brand and them alone, but it’s more than just being a “vela-girly” because these standards have existed for at least a decade now, and so it doesn’t start with one single brand; every brand is guilty.

Identity has been lost and replaced by trend. Faith has been conflated with purchase. Culture has been diminished to profit.

The Hijabi Representation

As it pertains to representation, many Muslim fashion brands focus on Eurocentric beauty standards. Nothing exists inside a vacuum. The Ummah believes Arabs are the representatives of Islam, which is why modest fashion brands primarily cast white-passing or white non-Muslim women to model their products.

But I urge us to dig deeper than just representation. Representation need not just be exhibited by brands; the representation we beg for is presented by mere photos and visuals. But true representation, true inclusion, to equity, is uplifting communities and telling their stories. And we as a community should be uplifting our sisters, their stories, and their culture.

Islam is not a religion reserved for one race or ethnicity. It’s a religion for all. What’s the point of representation displayed by brands looking to profit when your own community spaces and groups lack true diversity and inclusion?

Answering the Question

“Is there a healthy medium between tasteful individual expression and practicing this aspect of our faith?”

I posed this question earlier in this article, and I believe it’s important to directly address. Trends and influences are part of our greater societal context, and they’re hard to escape, especially if you’re a young woman.

I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with wearing the patterned hijab, and I’m the last person to push the belief that Muslims can’t have fun and must only simply worship without indulging in things like fashion and self-expression; but I do believe the issue lies in a lack of intention and loss of identity.

Who are you without the influence of others? What thoughts do you hold? What kind of character do you have? What thoughts are you left with at the end of the night when you’re alone?

This issue goes deeper than just our community, but it’s our community who should be fighting it the least, because our faith teaches us better. Islam isn’t a black and white rulebook that we follow and don’t think outside of anything else. We are required and obligated to think deeper, critically analyze, and creatively live life in ways that include our faith.

The question of responsibility exits to attempt to pinpoint who we can be outraged with, but the truth it, it lies with both the people and the brands. We all have our own personal responsibility to look inward and ask ourselves why we continue to place our worth on our looks and further perpetuate these backwards ideals, whether we do it intentionally or not.

We focus so much on our outward beauty that we neglect our soul and our character. It doesn’t matter how thin you are, how flat your hijab looks pinned against your head if that head is empty and the words you spew are laced with the rancid smell of jealousy and arrogance.

This standard of beauty is more than just superficial, it’s a plague, and it runs deep in the mindsets of the people of this Ummah.

But, there are pockets of true beauty in every community. And that pocket of beauty includes sisterhood and intention. So I implore us all to dig deep in our community, uplift your fellow sisters in Islam, and focus on beautifying your character and soul.

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Why would God give our bodies multiple ways to experience pleasure if it wasn’t our right to experience it?

My first introduction to the idea of intimacy in Muslim marriages was with the hadith, “There is not a man who calls his wife to bed, and she refuses to accept, that Allah becomes angry with her until her husband is pleased with her.”

I lived in a h…

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Those who were born into Muslim families must actively choose to relearn and love Islam through their own lens.

Our family shapes us in many ways, and how our family presents Islam to us will stick with us for the rest of our lives.

Growing up, God was spoken of, but not felt. I lived in a state of constant fear and anxiety, with a generational depression that still looms over me on dark days. At 10, I feared for my mother’s life every night when my father’s voice shook my bedroom walls. At 13, I looked back into the mirror and saw someone I could only despise, and never understand. At 18, I wondered if my soul would finally feel at ease the moment I took my last breath, and when that moment would finally come.

God and faith were things that were preached, but never to heal. They were thoughtless lectures, not said in empathy but spewed in arrogance.

“Ask God for help.”

“Be more grateful that your life isn’t worse.”

“You’re like this because you don’t pray enough.”

“Maybe if you put more effort into your deen, then God would care about you.”

These words filled my heart with a heaviness, one weighted with guilt, frustration, and sadness. I learned that God’s love was conditional, that the problems that were out of my control were all my fault, and that I was living in a state of perpetual punishment.

In my teen years, I couldn’t understand how, at the age of 12, I chose to wear hijab because of this deep spiritual connection, but it was something that I couldn’t feel for other parts of my faith. Because the hijab had always been easy for me, but everything else was a constant battle. Why was I never jumping to pray? Why didn’t my eyes well up with tears when I heard the Quran? Why wasn’t God connecting with me?

It felt as though I had been forsaken, that this life wasn’t just a test, but a punishment for not following my faith most simply.

I was working hard to make it through life without letting my misery and sorrow completely overcome me, and though I always wanted to get closer to Islam, I didn’t know how, because every part of life overwhelmed me. I felt like a fraud, wearing hijab but feeling like I wasn’t able to connect with my faith in the way I saw others do. And in the back of my mind, words from the misled echoed in my mind,

“Maybe if you put more effort into your deen, then God would care about you.”

It wasn’t until this last year that I realized how much the presence of God has been in my life and how He has been with me, holding me together, in a way I wasn’t able to see until now.

Twenty-Twenty Five

“Indeed, with hardship comes ease. Indeed, with hardship comes ease.”
— Qur’an 94:5–6

I entered this year with feelings of confusion about the trajectory of my life. I worked at a job that was eating away at my soul, I lived at home feeling emotionally drained, and I didn’t know what God’s plan was for me.

A trip I took with Muslim women ignited a small flame within me. I saw women from diverse life stories come together with the same hope: to become closer to Allah. Being in the remembrance of Allah showed me how He is truly everywhere, but I didn’t come back from that trip with a complete life change. In fact, I still struggled.

Months went by, and there were ups and downs in my iman. In every moment of distress, I looked around for a sign, some sort of divine intervention, but it didn’t come. I wished to see how He cared for me by making my dreams come true, by making my life change in a week. I knew He could move mountains, so why not for me? Why, as I tried to become closer to Him, did I not get everything I wanted? Were my efforts for naught? Was I even being rewarded if I could not see the fruits of my labor? I tried and tried, but each time I di,d and I didn’t see my life changed or my heart soothed monumentally, I gave up.

Transactional; this is how I saw my relationship with God. He punished me and I accepted His wrath, and the thoughts of His love were felt but always pushed down; because why would He love someone who never tried hard enough for Him?

Moments of faith and some spiritual presence made me feel that perhaps I could start to breathe again. Was this life, that had so often hurt me, actually rewarding me? I could feel myself opening up to gratitude and not feeling scared that everything would be snatched away from me, except what I feared came true, and something was taken.

God tested me. He forced me to leave the job I had been with for the last 2 years. Being told I was being let go from this company, which had provided me with my main source of income and I had been holding onto tightly, was something that knocked the wind out of me.

Yet, my dear reader, it was something I also felt a deep contentment with. I somehow knew that this would not be something that would break me, but mend me. This was a job I wasn’t happy with, one in which I felt consistently disrespected me, and that I saw no future in. I knew that I had felt too comfortable in my situation without the courage to change it for myself, so God changed it for me.

Still, I was unsure of His plan for me. The question remained, “What did this mean?”

I’m not like my peers who have little responsibilities; I had the weight of family on my shoulders along with my own responsibilities, so what would be my plan?

The night I was let go, I prayed Isha amidst thunder and rain that hit my window. I turned to God, as I always did during times of stress. I never turned to Him in times of happiness, only in my desperation. I cried to him as His humble servant, as His creation — imperfect, flawed, and inconsistent. And each time I did, I didn’t think He heard me, I thought He looked down in fury that I’d dare to come to Him selfishly, except this time, I finally saw how He heard me, and how He has always heard me.

I picked up a copy of the English translation of the Quran and began reading it. Though I’ve read parts of the Quran in Arabic, I’d never made a dedicated effort to read what was actually being said. So, I began at the beginning with Surah Baqarah. I read a page.

And then I stopped. I took a deep breath. I needed more. I didn’t just crave it; this moment became my lifeline. My heart pleaded, my soul yearned.

“Please, give me a sign, please show me everything will be okay, please just give me a sign.”

It was as if being thrust into the ocean and begging for anything to help keep me afloat.

And so I turned to a random page in the Quran and opened it to Surah Ar-Rad, Thunder.

“These are the signs of the Scripture. What is revealed to you from your Lord is the truth, but most people do not believe.”

My eyes scanned the page, hearing thunder boom outside as I read this Surah. These words weren’t just written; they were being sewn into my heart.

The entire Surah was dedicated to speaking about how everything around us is a sign, but it is up to us to recognize it.

“It is He who shows you the lightning, causing fear and hope. And He produces the heavy clouds.

The thunder praises His glory, and so do the angels, in awe of Him. And He sends the thunderbolts, striking with them whomever He wills.”

For my whole life, I knew God to be there, but it felt like He was not with me. I didn’t understand Him, yet I understood him to be punishing. Then in an instant, truly, it all changed. This moment rewired my entire brain and how I viewed God, Islam, spirituality, and faith as a whole.

It was that night that I truly understood what it meant to have tawakkul. It was that night that I felt like I understood all of my life, all of my trauma and pain, and how it has shaped me.

The Thread That Tightened

He is the One who can move mountains and make the impossible possible, and let this be a testament to that. Because after that day, slowly things fell into place. But it wasn’t just something that happened in that mere moment, though it felt that way; these were things He was setting up in all His wisdom.

I did not have to worry about rent or bills because He had made sure the months prior, I had extra sources of income that would be able to supplement me. He had made sure that I had made connections throughout the year for other opportunities that would finally pull through for me. He had made sure that my heart didn’t feel uneasy but rather beat with excitement for the last day of that job, because finally I could breathe. Finally, I saw my worth and talents, and so did others.

My trip in January with other Muslim women, my dedication during Ramadan, and every single salah I prayed and dua I made of getting closer to Him were preparing me. And this final blessing was the catalyst for me to finally be consistent with my salah, something I was never able to be consistent with. And the beauty of it is that this is something I’m still working towards improving. I did not merely become the most devout Muslim overnight, but instead, I’ve made intentional promises and commitments to Him every day.

So finally, the thread that roped through these days, hours, minutes of the year finally tightened and pulled me through to this exact moment in time.

For everything is according to His plan, and this new sense of tawakkul is something that I live my life by. I still have uncertainties, but I do not see these uncertainties as punishments or intentional roadblocks placed because He does not wish for me to have the life I want; I see it as Him working His plan for me as He sees, not as I wish it to be.

I feel my Lord on the good days and the bad days. I no longer see Him as The One Filled With Wrath, I see Him as The One Filled With Love.

He did not abandon me, I was villainizing Him. He does not want to see me struggle, and everything thrown at me is a blessing, no matter the hardship, for with it comes ease.

So, my dear reader, I’ve shared with you my pain, sorrow, and truth. I come to you, not in arrogance or pride, but with an overwhelming sense of faith and hope. When people hear of my life, they look at me with sadness; they see my suffering, and this will always be part of my life, and I’m absolutely certain this is what shaped me. But I no longer let it shape me with anger and hurt, but with resilience and perseverance. Because I know that He is with me. And it takes an open heart to see how He is with you, He is near, and He does not forsake the one that believes in Him.

May this new year bring us so much success, so much happiness, and so much love for life and for Allah.

Ameen.

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As we near the end of the year, our minds begin to reflect deeply on all we’ve done and whether these months were everything we hoped they would be.

Every year, I attempt to reflect on how my life has unfolded in the last 12 months. Every year, I call this “reflection,” but it somehow turns into a barrage of criticism and sullen recounting of everything I didn’t accomplish.

I entered 2025 with delusions of grandeur, yet simultaneously felt hopeless and lost. With previous years filled with expectations of greatness and then ending the year feeling bitten by reality, I entered the new year with no expectations.

But this year became one filled with spiritual enlightenment and rewired how I live life itself. Divine intervention, love affairs, and countless delusional thoughts, but also immense pride in who I am.

I entered the new year wanting change, and my 2024 self set me up for success with a spiritual retreat. I spent 4 days in the Texas hill country air, surrounded by the remembrance of Allah, and Muslim women who were also on their journey of connection. I was on my period during this retreat, so I wasn’t able to pray with everyone, but as I watched all the women pray together, I felt a deep connection in this sisterhood of practice. Far too often, Islam is male-centered, and this trip was a catalyst for strengthening my relationship with God.

Needless to say, I came back from the trip feeling revitalized spiritually, but I also made friendships along the way, ones that carried me throughout the rest of the year.

Then came February, and this month, which is themed the month of love, stayed true to its core.

I came face-to-face with my father, whom I hadn’t seen in almost a decade. I faced the beast that I romanticized yet also shunned, and that twisted contradiction was very apparent during our dinner together. I sat next to a man who should’ve been the closest to my heart, and yet, he had no idea who I was. My face and his had both changed, and we were nearly unrecognizable to each other, physically and mentally.

Some ask me why I would even bother meeting with him, but this is something no one has the right to ask. After nearly a decade of pain, I was able to close that chapter of my life with my father, and that’s the only thing that man has ever given me: the opportunity to give myself closure.

As I said, the theme of love stayed consistent throughout this month. As Ramadan crept up on the last few days of the month, I decided to end a friendship with a man whom I felt deeply for, but knew we could no longer be in each other’s lives for that very reason. It was a decision motivated by love, loss, and self-respect, and one that I felt stronger in making. This was one of the first big decisions I made for Allah SWT, a surrendering of my nafs, desires, to Him.

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Facials, you either love them, hate them, or are extremely skeptical of them. The esthetics industry feels foreign to many individuals. There was a barrier to entry for facials; treatments like the “vampire facial” were seen as exclusive facials only celebrities could receive. Now, these “exclusive” facials are actually offered on a wide scale, and many see facials as necessary to their skin regimen as sunscreen is.

I see my skin as an investment. I’d rather spend time and money caring for my skin than wearing makeup. It’s a skin health philosophy as much as it is a philosophical view of how we indulge in the beauty space (read this to understand what I mean). I’ve been getting facials for a few years on and off and also for a period of time, very regularly.

But, there’s an art to getting facials, and for how expensive many treatments are, it’s important to indulge intentionally according to your skin needs and goals.

The Facials that Ruined my Skin

For about a year, I went to a spa to get facials done almost every month to help treat my acne. Each month, I went in, ready for extractions, humbled by the redness afterwards, but feeling rewarded knowing I was investing in my skin.

Each month, I told myself I saw slow improvements to my skin but honestly, my skin wasn’t really getting better. I remember my sister told me after a few months, “it doesn’t really seem like these facials are helping you.”

It was an admission I was mortified to hear because who wants to be told the money and trust they’ve put into this one thing wasn’t helping? And honestly, what she said was something I was refusing to admit.

I would get a particular “nano-oxygen facial” every month, a facial my esthetician said she recommended for my skin type and concerns. Between then, I was also getting chemical peels done.

To be honest, the peels were great. I saw amazing improvements in my skin but after about 2 weeks post-peel, my skin would slowly start reverting back to what it was and I was stuck in a sinister cycle of the highs and lows of my skin.

It wasn’t until I heard my esthetician tell me the facial I was religiously getting was technically drying out my skin that I realized I wasn’t seeing someone who actually understood skin. Why? Because my skin was actually extremely dehydrated and it was over-producing oils to overcompensate for the dehydration that was caused by a damaged barrier.

After a very rough session of extractions, I decided it was time for me to part ways from that spa and go back to the drawing board when it came to my skin and how I invest in it.

What I learned?

1. My skin barrier was ******

2. Facials are great, but only if you see the right provider and you yourself know exactly what’s going on during the facial itself.

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Now, I get regular facials but I’m extremely intentional with what I get done and what type of treatment I’m investing in. I ask questions, I push back, and I put my skin’s health first. If you want to get any sort of facial or treatment done, you have to truly understand your skin first.

My Skin Type:

• Combo (dry/normal)

• Sensitive

• Acne-prone

My Skin Concerns:

• Congestion

• Texture

• Hyperpigmentation

• Redness

• Inflammation

Treatments I Recommend:

1. Hydracial: $120-$200

   1. This is the facial for the ultimate glow. It’s perfect right before an event or for a skin reset. Some say this is a waste of money, but that depends on your skin goals. I think it’s a great pick-me-up for your skin. My skin always feels very hydrated and glows like it never has before. Hydrafacials include cleansing, exfoliating, and extracting. It cleanses the skin by sucking/sweeping away dead skin with the suction device. Then a mild peel is applied to the skin to help break down congestion and exfoliate. There’s also extractions that are basically vacuuming out blackheads and other areas of congestion from the pores. The final step is to flood the skin with hydrating serums that are usually personalized to your skin concerns.

   2. NOT GOOD FOR: Active acne or inflamed breakouts

2. Procell Microchanneling $275-$300

   

   1. If you’ve heard of microneedling, this is the superior choice to it. Microchanneling uses a stamping method to stamp tiny needles into the skin while a stem cell serum is being applied over the microinjuries in your skin. The results? Collagen production, a brighter complexion, and an improvement to your skin’s texture. I’ve only gotten 1 session done so far but that session was truly transformative and seeing as how my skin reacted so nicely to one session, it’s definitely worth the investment and I’ll be returning for monthly microchanneling sessions.

3. Chemical Peel: $150-$175

   1. I love chemical peels for many reasons. I’ve gotten 4 of them over the past year and a half and the most recent was because my beach trip left me with some hyperpigmentation and a gnarly hijab tan line. If you’re looking to lift pigmentation, treat acne, and texture all in one go with a pretty quick turnaround, this is the treatment for you. However, just know that a chemical peel won’t rid every ounce of pigmentation from your skin in one go. It depends on your skin, the type of peel you get, and also how many passes (or layers of the peel) your skin can handle. I think of a peel as a good skin reset, one that is great every few months, but particularly great during the winter months.

   2. A word of caution? This treatment is a trust the process type of treatment. You must be gentle with your skin, refrain from picking at the dead skin, and trust the process to the very end.

   3. The peels I’ve gotten: IMAGE Perfection Peel & PCA Sensi Peel

4. The Basic Facial: $75-$125

   1. What is the basic facial? It’s usually a 45min-1hour treatment which includes a deep cleanse, extractions, some sort of exfoliating mask, followed by a moisturizing mask, and sealed with some nice skincare. The exact products and flow varies according to each provider but this is usually standard for a basic facial. I like the basic facial because it’s a great entry for anyone who wants to get to know their provider more and how they understand + treat your skin. It’s also usually the lowest price point and is a nice self-care splurge.

So, To Spend or Not?

If you have the disposable income and want to invest in your skin past skincare, absolutely. It’s not necessary but if you take your skin routine as seriously as I do, then I recommend going for it, if not monthly, then every other month or so. Like I said, my skin is an investment I splurge on because I don’t indulge in other things. I also am more acne-prone so seeing a professional helps in maintaining healthy skin.

If you still want to care for your skin but can’t afford facials, a good consistent skincare routine will more than suffice. Because at the end of the day, if you’re getting monthly facials but your homecare routine is lacking, you’re absolutely pouring money down the drain.

Figure out your skin goals, try out a facial or two, see how you like it, and go from there. The most important thing: consistency. Whether that’s in your homecare or professional-care.

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Want me to talk more skincare, skin/beauty philosophies, or just have some questions? Drop them below :)

“Tonight we are a country awakened to danger and called to defend freedom. Our grief has turned to anger, and anger to resolution. Whether we bring our enemies to justice, or bring justice to our enemies, justice will be done.

Our war on terror begins with al Qaeda, but it does not end there. It will not end until every terrorist group of global reach has been found, stopped and defeated. (Applause.)

Americans are asking, why do they hate us? They hate what we see right here in this chamber -- a democratically elected government. Their leaders are self-appointed. They hate our freedoms -- our freedom of religion, our freedom of speech, our freedom to vote and assemble and disagree with each other.

They want to overthrow existing governments in many Muslim countries, such as Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and Jordan. They want to drive Israel out of the Middle East. They want to drive Christians and Jews out of vast regions of Asia and Africa.

These terrorists kill not merely to end lives, but to disrupt and end a way of life. With every atrocity, they hope that America grows fearful, retreating from the world and forsaking our friends. They stand against us, because we stand in their way.

Americans are asking: How will we fight and win this war? We will direct every resource at our command -- every means of diplomacy, every tool of intelligence, every instrument of law enforcement, every financial influence, and every necessary weapon of war -- to the disruption and to the defeat of the global terror network.

We will starve terrorists of funding, turn them one against another, drive them from place to place, until there is no refuge or no rest. And we will pursue nations that provide aid or safe haven to terrorism. Every nation, in every region, now has a decision to make.

Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists.”

- excerpt from George W. Bush’s 2001 address

After 9/11, Americans were in a state of fear, and from that fear came George W. Bush’s infamous declaration of war on terror.

“Every nation, in every region, now has a decision to make. Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists.”

This fear came from the existence of Muslims, and for many Americans, this fear felt very real. The Middle East was now the new enemy. Arabs and Muslims were a threat to their freedom; these terrorists lived only to eventually come and take that freedom away, to strip Americans of their rights, to slaughter us.

And George W. Bush only ignited the fire of Islamophobia by declaring the war on terror. A declaration that was there to instill deep nationalism in the people of this country, a sense of nationalism that would make the United States the “good guy” and the winner, no matter the cost or circumstance.

The Beginning

After the end of the Cold War, the U.S. government began to focus on Muslims as a new “enemy,” and events like the first Gulf War in the 90s helped to solidify this shift. Before 9/11, Americans were already being fed Islamophobic propaganda and being groomed to believe that the barbaric Arab Muslims were the enemy of freedom.

Then, the 9/11 attacks provided a new catalyst to push this agenda forward. According to the FBI, there was a 1,600% increase in anti-Muslim hate crime incidents from 2000 to 2001 in the US. But hate crimes weren’t the extent of it, because this festering disease of ignorance had been bubbling, and anti-Muslim sentiment became sewn further into our government.

“After 9/11, there was a major shift at international level which led to the distortion of the image of Islam. Islamophobia as racism against Muslims is not only in the field of education, public sphere, labor market, global war against terrorism or the international economy, but also in the rationality of belief about the definition of priorities in the world today” (Grosfoguel and Mielants, 2006)

Bush’s declaration of war on countries in the Middle East began with Afghanistan on October 7th, 2001, with thousands of American men and women flocking to the “land of terror” to murder men, women, and children in cold blood, while their American families back home praised them for keeping our country safe.

One of the biggest lies we were told was that these invasions existed from a defensive standpoint. The US justified their terrorist acts of war on innocent Muslims by scaring its own citizens with a false threat and claiming they’re simultaneously saving the third-world victims. The US entered Iraq with a “shock and awe” bombing campaign that preceded a ground invasion. They called it Operation Iraqi Freedom, swooping in to save American lives from a threat they had been grooming their citizens to believe was coming for them, and “saving” Iraqi’s from their own demise.

American soldiers went into “battle” and many came out with disdain for their country, haunted by the innocents that they murdered.

While others, like the soldiers that were stationed at Abu Ghraib, a prison of torture, rejoiced in making innocent Iraqi’s suffer.

Islamophobia has been systemically bred in the United States. This hateful rhetoric plagues the media, it exists within the folds of our education system, and is reinforced in homes across the United States.

The fear of Islam being implemented as a system of oppression in our country is a very ”real” fear that many Americans have. The people running this country count on this fear to be real so that it leads to an obligation of responsibility for Americans to keep their family, children, and country safe from the “Islamic jihadists” who oppress their women with burqas and teach men to be angry and hateful of the Western world.

“General media coverage trends on the topics of “Muslim” and “Terrorism” are garnered from Google News Trends of the United States from January 2008 to September 2020. The similar “Muslim” and “Terrorism” search interest trends over a 12-year period display a clear association that reflects the American held association of Muslims and terrorism. When searches of news coverage on terrorism increase, so too do searches of news coverage on Muslims. This result reflects that internet users searching for news on Google in the United States actively search for both in tandem. This conclusion may come as a result of the searcher’s own perceptions of Islam and terrorism as related. It may also be a result of news coverage mentioning both topics, which further directs searchers to news coverage that presents terrorism as linked to Islam”. (Ramadan, 2021)

This obligation manifests in hate crimes and generational Islamophobic rhetoric being taught by American families. This seed was planted in the minds of American families, but these families nurture and grow it all on their own.

I can tell you what it was like growing up in a rural part of Texas, being the only hijabi girl at my middle school and feeling not just ostracized but completely othered. I was called the taliban, a terrorist, and looked at like a monster. But, how much fault can I place on these children for their ignorance?

Every year on 9/11, we weren’t instructed just to remember the lives lost, but also to never forget that it was Muslims who were the ones who were so close to taking our freedom away.

The Present

What did it mean to be looked at as an enemy of your country? It looked like more than just sneers and glares; it was active attacks, the systemic oppression and othering of an entire religious group that was ingrained in communities across this country.

It took decades to bridge that gap between non-Muslim and Muslim Americans, an active fight that many communities are still valiantly trying to wrangle.

But it seems as though we are closer to 2001 than we are to any hope of ending this system division. After October 3rd 2023, Americans have become even more divisive in how they view Arabs and Muslims. American zionists refuse to see Palestinians as anything but Arab Muslims who are an enemy, not just to Israel’s “freedom”, but ours as well.

And so for the older generation, President Bush’s 2001 address echoes in their minds.

And my generation, young and impressionable, thinks they’re immune to propaganda, while they consume every biased and uninformed piece of propaganda from their phones.

For if you are not with your fellow Americans, then you are with the Muslims, and what’s more treacherous than that?

But do not be fooled, dear reader, these attacks aren’t just from the conservatives in the small towns in the South. For, on the other side, we have liberals who do not believe in Muslims as a threat to their country’s freedom, but they see them as a threat to their own personal freedom and autonomy. So in the same breath that they applaud a woman for her choice, they tell Muslim women that their choices are inherently flawed.

Islam became synonymous with oppression for liberals just as it did for the conservatives. So though liberals believe they are more intelligent than their conservative counterparts, they still consume the same propaganda that conservatives do, and they both come to the same conclusion, believing their Islamophobia is justified.

George W. Bush said, “Americans are asking, why do they hate us? They hate what we see right here in this chamber -- a democratically elected government. Their leaders are self-appointed. They hate our freedoms -- our freedom of religion, our freedom of speech, our freedom to vote and assemble and disagree with each other.”

But Muslims ask themselves every day: why do they hate us? Why do Americans hate us? Why do they spit on us while we pray, assault us, harm us, kill us?

They hate what they’re reminded of when they see us, a group of people who are unwavering in who they are and what they stand for. They hate that we follow our faith with pride and respect. They hate that our faith guides us. They hate that we use our free will not to submit to this world but to submit our faith instead.

A recent Islamophobic attack at the University of Florida^

They intentionally target us, looking for a reaction, searching for any hint of negativity to claim victimhood. Because most Americans, especially white Americans, feel that they are the victims of America’s loss of identity. And America’s identity means white, conservative, and Christian.

Islam, the religion of peace? This claim is nothing but a facade and a farce to Islamophobes. Muslims practising their faith, aligned with their First Amendment right, is actually a threat to America’s freedom.

Islamophobia is more than just ignorance; it’s a hateful phenomenon that has been learned and encouraged.

Religion of Peace

“And the servants of the Most Merciful are those who walk on the earth in humility, and when the ignorant address them, they say [words of] peace”

Why am I writing any of this? A pity party? Is it me attempting to sew more seeds of discord? Perhaps some may think I’m saying non-Muslims are our enemy.

And if you believe any of this, I fear you are just like the majority of confused individuals in this country. My audience has spoken to me about being fearful of wearing hijab, feeling this hate creeping up on them and are fearful of what angry, bitter, misinformed soul may finally feel it’s time to act on their right to “make America great again.”

I write to empower them with knowledge. Understanding the past and present will help us move forward. Yes, Islamophobia and the hate from the ignorant are both very real, but these things do not define us. As Muslim Americans, we are not defined by the atrocities the ignorant commit against us.

We are defined by our faith and how it tells us to treat these people.

“Do not let the hatred of a people lead you to be unjust. Be just; that is nearer to righteousness.” Surah Al-Ma’idah 5:8

“Those who restrain their anger and pardon others — Allah loves the doers of good.” Surah Ali ‘Imran 3:134

“Invite to the way of your Lord with wisdom and good instruction, and argue with them in the best manner.” Surah An-Nahl 16:125

These are words of wisdom that are applied with great difficulty in times of oppression. But surely, being faced with words of oppression and applying these practices are part of our test as Muslims. This is our jihad. And we do not offer such grace for the ignorant; we do so for our Lord.

May Allah SWT keep us all safe and may He open up the hearts of our oppressors.

“The best jihad is to speak a word of truth to a tyrant ruler.”
— Sunan al-Nasa’i

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Gone is the culture of yearning.

Where are the souls who are addicted to this feeling, the ones who love unrequited, who yearn so much that it hurts?

I feel my stomach twist, a sunken feeling, an appetite that cannot be satiated. Yet, it’s one I welcome, once that brings me a sense of euphoric desire, for this love and yearning make me, me.

I’ll wear th…

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Are you pooping every morning? If not, that’s why you’re breaking out. Stop eating sugar, that’s also probably why you’re breaking out. Make sure you have a probiotic-rich diet but don’t just take the pills, that’s not enough. Don’t eat dairy but also don’t drink oat milk, it’s too inflammatory, and yes, that leads to acne.

Gut health, probiotics, vegetables, bone broth, coconut cult, vitamin A, kefir, kimchi, prebiotics, green juice, nature’s botox, grass-fed collagen, antioxidant-rich

If you’re not ingesting those things on a daily, you just aren’t taking your skin game seriously.

I believe nothing, and yet everything is always taken too far in the beauty world.

In a world of spending thousands of dollars every year on our favorite skincare potions to attain the best skin of your life, that money is simply not well-spent if you’re not “eating your skincare”.

The essence of our beauty culture is the remembrance that you can always be more beautiful and elevate your beauty ritual more and more. The rise of people discovering and intensely focusing on their gut health this last year came with the new subsequent trend of “eating your skincare”, a trend that shares recipes with all of the health and wellness buzzwords to help you achieve the skin of your dreams.

Though research states that diet and skin are more of a personal correlation, not something that affects everyone, we have been told continuously throughout our lives that oily junk food = gross acne.

As with every trend, I believe it had humble beneficial beginnings of teaching people the world of nourishing your body and caring for your gut (which has been a huge cultural shift that I for one, do appreciate) and in return, your skin. However also, as with every trend, I couldn’t help but notice that it had shifted from harmless little recipes to now a constant alert of if you’re eating the “right” foods for your skin (and body) and restricting what’s deemed as not “clean”. Dare I say, this trend has turned from innocent collagen gummies to orthorexic eating patterns all in the name of beauty.

Orthorexia is an obsession with eating healthy food. It comes from the Greek words ortho, meaning 'correct' and orexis, meaning 'appetite'. Attaining beauty is an obsession, one this industry is absolutely no stranger to so it doesn’t shock me that this obsessive industry has taken on an obsessive disorder.

Here’s the thing though - I do love wellness. I love eating and engaging in wellness trends that make my body feel good, whether that’s buying my Coconut Cult, learning about how carrots are rich in vitamin A, or taking different supplements. I also love beauty and am (usually) willing to try anything at least once. But as I always say, we must be critical of the spaces we indulge in.

In this desire to attain perfect skin, are we reflecting orthorexic eating habits in being too afraid to eat anything outside of what’s deemed as “good for you”? Where is the line between creating healthy habits and taking on restrictive eating habits?

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You Are What You Eat!

When I was posting on Twitter like it was my full-time job (shoutout to that era of my life) I FOUGHT people who swore clear skin came simply from drinking water. I never thought my diet affected my skin until I stopped taking my birth control and I had a long road to re-learning my skin, which included my new correlation between how my body and skin reacted to certain foods. However, one thing has always remained consistent in my opinion, which is that there’s not any conclusive consistent research that states everyone’s diet affects their skin.

“The issues of accurately quantifying the skin improvement effect of each nutrient intake, and the negative effects of smoking, drinking, grilling, etc., on skin still need to be addressed”

Though the experiences with diet and skin are more anecdotal than anything, the skincare gospel preaches that you simply must be “eating your skincare” to obtain that glow from the inside look.

In addition to that, it’s the push to buy supplements like pantothenic acid, pre/postbiotics, sea moss, debloat pills, digestive enzymes, etc. Some supplements are lifechanging but it can be pretty dangerous influencing/encouraging people to buy a supplement with the promise that it WILL cure everything wrong with your life (including your acne that really might just be from you overwhelming your skin with random impulse buys but whatever…)

Now I know how to have fun and again, I love indulging in the wellness space. So, I wouldn’t have much of an issue with this trend if it was just the act of eating foods that are good for you, but you see, it’s also the restriction of eating foods that aren’t “clean”. That can mean food that’s too processed, too high in sugar, too inflammatory, and… too much to list.

There was a moment, as if there was a crack in the hashtag #eatyourskincare, when the harmless advice of eating better and nourishing your body instead turned into a fear-mongering orthorexic gospel that scares people into never eating anything other than those gut-healthy foods in fear of breaking out, aging poorly, or looking like anything other than the TikTok blurring filter.

And in this, I can’t help but think that people are fearing their skin and their food far more than they enjoy the ritual of taking care of their skin.

Skincare is supposed to be fun, right? Not just a bunch of rules or overcomplicated “musts” or even a strict diet that’s supposed to help you glow from within.

I think there’s simply a very fine line between eating something “healthy” because it makes you feel good and abstaining from different foods in fear of it not being “clean enough.” With the general rise of disordered eating habits becoming a lot more acceptable and masked by the concept of “wellness”, it’s pretty clear to me what’s happening here. And as someone who has an eating disorder, I’m painfully aware of how easy it is to be sucked into disordered eating habits without knowing, until it’s too late.

Our lives are supposed to be led in moderation. But, is anything ever tame in the beauty world?

Liberty in Eating Soft Serve

If you have or had acne, you know that each day is living in fear of waking up with a new breakout. You would do anything to prevent a breakout, and I know for many people (including myself), that includes saying no to the foods we know and love, especially if others are saying restricting said foods was the cure to their acne.

Trust me when I say, I have been there. And some days, I’m still there. It can feel like everything is breaking you out and it’s a debilitating feeling. To look at my favorite matcha ice cream and be afraid to eat it in fear of what it would do to my skin (IF anything), was such a low point for me. And that’s the thing with acne, it brings you to those low points because you feel like nothing will ever work.

With this new push to cater to your gut health and with your diet now apparently being the key indicator of your skin health, you can (no pun intended) get lost in the sauce.

I will say now and forever that,

1. Your diet and skin is a personal relationship. Eating a clove of garlic everyday may cure someone else’s acne but may just only be a form of self-torture for you.

2. Tbh, you should just eat the ice cream. Don’t skip out on eating the high glycemic foods only because of your fear of breaking out and don’t just blindly buy supplements because someone said it’s a must for your skin.

3. Be intentional and not fearful of your skin.

Personally, wellness and healthy sustainable eating habits are a large part of my life and that will never change. If you feel like certain diet changes have improved your skin and overall quality of life, I’d hope you’d continue to do what makes you feel good.

Because I’ll continue to eat my probiotic-rich food, take my supplements, have my cake, and eat it too.

Flashing blue and red lights frequently shadowed my home. I took pride in lying to the police, telling them it was I who called them as a mistake, not my older brother, who furiously stared at my father. I’d put on a smile and laugh, convincing the officers there was nothing to worry about, as if my mother wasn’t just battered before me, screams weren’t echoing throughout our home, and the stench of tyranny didn’t reek from our walls.

Growing up, I feared more than just math or poor grades. I feared coming home to another fight between my parents, one that would end in my mother’s life being taken from her.

I am not simply an “advocate for women;” I was born advocating for my mother, attempting to protect her in my own ways, and feeling utterly useless in my helplessness. So, when we were able to free ourselves of my father, the instinct to protect other women was ingrained in me. Domestic violence plagues Muslim communities in the US. It’s not a private matter; it’s an awful system of oppression that’s killing our Muslim sisters.

Cultural Norms and “Brushing Things Under the Rug”

For many South Asian and Arab men, women are placed in their lives to be emotional and physical punching bags. The sanctity of marriage and the rights of Muslim women within Islam are often tossed aside and viewed as a mere “feminist agenda.”

My mother grew up seeing her father beating her mother; she saw her uncles do the same to their wives, and she knew love shouldn’t be like this. She knew love shouldn’t hurt, so she sought out a different love, but unfortunately, she married my Persian father, who grew up watching his father hit his mother, and ended up doing the same to my mother.

Abusive husbands, like my father, are viewed as just another trial of marriage. It’s been normalised culturally, though many know it’s wrong; it’s shrugged off and brushed under the rug.

However, this “brushing under the rug” promotes a culture of silence and a “holding out until things get better” mentality. And, the fact is, things will never get better.

Abuse is not some petty marital problem. Abuse kills, and you cannot pray your husband’s violent and abusive behaviours away.

Studies conducted by the Peaceful Families project found that in the Muslim community, the acceptance of family violence amongst immigrant families was quite striking. A study of 162 women and 40 men in 202 Arab-American homes with 98 percent of them being Muslim revealed that a man slapping his wife was acceptable if:

• She insults him when they are home alone – 34% of women and 33% of men

• She insults him in public – 17% of women, 43% of men

• She hits him first – 59% both men and women (Kulwicki and Miller 1999)

Culturally, women believe that their husband is equal to God in his wants and asks. They believe that they must bend to their husband’s will and that failing to please him is a grave sin. So, when their husbands lash out at them physically or verbally, they feel it’s justice.

They think their abuse is divine retribution for their tyrannical husbands.

Aisha RA said “The Messenger of Allah ﷺ never struck anything with his hand, neither a woman nor a servant, except when he was fighting in the cause of Allah.”
— Sahih Muslim (2328)

The best of men, our Prophet Muhammad PBUH, never hit a woman. So what makes you think someone’s vile husband may ever lay his hands on a creation of Allah SWT? Who has given man this authority? Allah SWT has told us what our husbands’ rights are, and nowhere is it mentioned that they may inflict harm upon us.

There are dozens of quotes that share how men should care for women, and that’s with love, care, and respect. Still, Muslims and non-Muslims alike use parts of the Quran like 4:34 as a way to justify abuse.

“As for those women from whom you fear arrogance (nushūz), then advise them, then forsake them in bed, then [darabahunna]”

The Arabic word daraba is multivalent and has over 17 meanings in the Qur’an alone:

• to separate (2:273),

• to travel (3:156),

• to set forth an example (14:24),

• and yes, to strike (2:60)

Many modern scholars believe daraba should be interpreted as “to separate.” If we know our Prophet never used violence, if we know the Quran to preach love and care between spouses, why would hitting be allowed? Furthermore, that entire quote in 4:34 is shared as a process of de-escalating marital conflicts. Hitting your wife or striking her is by no means de-escalating. It’s contradictory and frankly, only interpreted in this way as a means to push an agenda by, yes, both Muslims and non-Muslims.

The best of you are those who are best to their wives.”
— Sunan al-Tirmidhi (3895)

“Do not harm your wives.”
— Sunan Ibn Majah (1924)

My dear reader, many intentionally misinterpret the word of God as a way to oppress us, but who’s more truthful: man or God?

Islam does not teach abuse, but toxic culture does. It is culture that allows men to commit these atrocious acts against women. It is a cowardly man who harms his wife, and it is a man who will answer to his Creator about his actions.

A study of 57 closed-case files from an American Muslim women’s shelter revealed that,

• 37% had experienced multiple types of abuse

• 23% experienced physical abuse

It is culture that tells us to hear of women in our community or family being abused and turn the other way.

Public Lashings

When Prophet Muhammad PBUH heard of men beating their wives, he publicly condemned it. “Many women have come to Muhammad’s family complaining about their husbands. Those men are not the best among you.”
— Sunan Abu Dawood (2148)

Yet, we as a community are simply not doing enough to reprimand this behavior. In fact, I know many communities make active efforts not to discuss this. Why aren’t our khateeb’s reprimanding their brothers’ behavior? Why aren’t we doing more in our community to protect our sisters? Why is this level of abuse normalised, and even when a woman is killed by it, the outrage is silenced?

The Asiyah’s Women Center in New York dedicates its time to housing, protecting, and advocating for Muslim women who are victims of domestic abuse.

I see masjids raising millions of dollars for expansion projects to make a basketball court or a wedding hall, but I rarely see any form of community or monetary dedication advocating for raising awareness about abuse that’s extremely prevalent in the overarching Muslim community.

In my masjid community growing up, I knew of multiple women whose abusive husbands were widely revered as “great pious brothers” in the community. My brothers were constantly told by older men in the community that our father was “a very pious and religious man”, but I’m not quite sure what religion they were speaking of. For if you knew our faith, you would know that a man abandoning his children, speaking ill of them in the masjid, and tormenting them is nowhere near what Islam condones.

But there’s a culture built around shunning women for their experiences and offering sympathy to the male abusers.

My dear reader, we must do better. I hear stories of our sisters being murdered at the hands of their husbands, and still, this isn’t taken seriously. In fact, many still choose to blame the deceased, the victim, the soul that’s gone from this Earth.

If a woman’s death, her children’s death, aren’t taken seriously, then when will we start taking abuse seriously?

Supporting Victims

My mother did not leave my father earlier in their marriage because she knew she had no support. She was, in fact, told by her father that he would not support her. When my mother found the will and courage to divorce my father, my uncle, my mother’s brother, told her he could “only help her so much” and left her with messy divorce proceedings. My aunts condemned my mother after she attempted to pick up the pieces of her life, thinking the years of trauma would simply switch off when the divorce papers were signed.

My mother was left trying to raise my sister and me by herself as we entered high school. My older brothers came back from college to fill the role of the “man of our house.” At 22 and 20, my brothers had to navigate being thrust into the real world while my mother’s family offered no support, only condemnation. All while my sister and I attempted to go through our adolescence with trauma our peers could never understand.

I tell you these things because, though they are horrendous, they are the truth for many women. The abuse doesn’t end for the abused. Their minds are tormented, and still, they are forced to re-enter society and act as though they weren’t just fighting for their lives. And many women also have children to support, which is why many end up re-marrying another abuser, because they can’t fathom surviving on their own.

My family did not have family support. We were blessed with small acts from strangers and friends, and we were pulled through the roughest points of our lives by the grace of God. Even now, I still continue to act as the parentified daughter, because my childhood ended long before everyone else’s did.

If my mom knew she had the unconditional support of her family, support that is her right as a Muslim daughter and sister, she would’ve left my father years before.

You can be that support. Do not let the culture of silence plague you; do not let it make you think it’s okay to close your eyes to what you’re hearing or seeing. Indeed, some abused women do not want the help, but one day they will find the courage to leave, and they will hold onto your promise of support.

Support organizations like Asiyah’s Women’s Center, NISA, and other local organizations. Ask your masjid community to talk about these issues, and find emapthy in your heart to truly put yourself where these women are. Abuse is not easy to get away from, and I pray you, my dear reader, never have to experience that level of harm.

May Allah SWT grant all of these women ease, may He give them the courage and support to leave their abusers, and may the oppressors and abusers be punished on the day of judgement for their injustices.

Ameen.

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This is an industry of quick fixes and instant gratification. Serums that claim to reduce 70% of redness after one use, exfoliants that are touted to improve texture overnight, and we buy product after product in hopes that it may reverse any damage and rid us of our skin sins.

I will boldly hypothesize that the overconsumption of skincare and drowning our skin in random products are what’s giving many people acne—and I’m being so serious too…

There’s a lost art of truly understanding your skin because we’re in an era of unintentionally and blindly participating in our skincare routines. Forget the unintentional spending itself, I fear that many people’s skincare routines are filled with haphazardly chosen products.

When I tell people to get to know your skin, I say it because that is something no product will ever give you. That is a weapon in your skin arsenal and a piece of wisdom that will elevate and forever change your understanding of how you indulge in the skincare world.

Intentional Indulgence

As someone who, out of all of the subsets of beauty, absolutely loves everything skincare, I can say that I passionately indulge in this space. Which of course also means I’m hyperaware of its nuances and trends. Social media has made spending habits skyrocket and it’s become relatively easy to get your hands on anything and everything.

There’s nothing wrong with indulging in beauty, but are you intentionally indulgent?

Start with your current skincare routine and ask yourself what place each product has in your routine. Then look at all of the unopened, half-used products that are collecting dust because you bought them on a whim and no longer or never used them.

And ask yourself what was your thought process when you bought those products.

Was it the hope of an instant fix, a promise that this product would transform your skin? Trust me when I say I TOO fall victim to the world of skincare over-indulgence and as a beauty creator it took literal years to realize that this constant introduction of new products was

1. Ruining my skin

2. Taking the joy out of skincare

3. Numbing me from being connected with what’s important - my SKIN!

That New Product Won’t Fix You

Your skin’s worst enemy is you and your overspending.

It’s easy to believe that the serum a girl in Korea uses for perfect skin is something that can also give you the skin perfection we all seek. It’s easy to scroll through videos, read Reddit posts, and add to cart over and over again. But it’s hard to realize that not every single new product you buy will be the one to transform your skin. Because after the initial high and excitement of that purchase fade away, you’re stuck with products you bought that couldn’t even address your skin concerns.

We seriously have to talk about how this overconsumption of skincare is harming your skin far more than helping it. When people say “I stopped using skincare and my skin looks AMAZING” it’s a tell-tale sign that they were either over-exfoliating or overcomplicating their routine which resulted in irritation, a damaged barrier, or just pissed off skin.

But instead of taking time to understand our skin, we reach for our wallets and the next product to buy.

I won’t say that you can’t ever buy a new product to try, but be intentional and discerning. When I was having an acne flare-up (from a broken barrier I didn’t know I had) my immediate reaction was to try out new products. A new exfoliant, a new moisturizer, a new everything. The anxiety of WTF was going on with my skin got to me (which I have much to say about your skin and anxiety btw), and I scoured every corner of the skincare world to find something, anything to fix what was going on.

Which in return, only hurt my skin more. It wasn’t until my realization that I had a damaged barrier that I could make intentional purchases for my skin. But even more than that, I got to know my skin more. I understood what certain signs meant and it honestly unlocked something in my mind. Ever had a skin epiphany? It’s life-changing.

I learned how to take a step back and instead of immediately thinking “Well that’s it my entire routine sucks and I need a new everything”, I used the learned knowledge of my skin to make informed decisions about what to do next.

I fear we are thoughtlessly engaging in the health of our skin and I can promise you that’s why we’re now in an era of everyone feeling like they need barrier repair products (that’s also a post for another day).

So What Do You Want From Us, Hajar?

I’d never just complain without giving tangible advice.

I hope this year you’re able to indulge in your skincare routine thoughtfully and intentionally. I urge you to try to read up on a product before buying it, see if you are the target skin audience, and analyze if that’s really what your skin needs. Also, please introduce ONE product at a time into your routine…

Again, I love buying skincare and being part of this space. And the reason why I love it so much is because I know what my skin needs. It’s because I truly love skin, my skin, and learning about it brings me joy.

My skin is far from perfect, but I can confidently say that this knowledge of understanding my skin is an art. And that’s something to be perfected.

Romanticism is something that Muslim women yearn for but are told is far out of reach for them. Muslim marriages aren’t meant to be romantic; they’re meant to be a means to an end. “Marriage is for God, it’s an act of worship,” but people don’t realize romantic acts are an act of worship, and marriage was never merely a means to an end.

Growing up, I loved love. I watched Bollywood movies with my mom, injected kdrama storylines into my veins, and longingly yearned for a man to love me the way I saw love in media. However, I was always brought down to Earth by my mother, because she saw herself in me, and she was afraid I’d fall for the lies of a happy ending. She would tell me that “real life isn’t like that” and that love in the movies doesn’t exist in real life. Unfortunately, I was not the only one who was told this, but many, many other Muslim women.

Some Muslim women, though, ignored the warnings from their mothers. They’ve held onto their romantic stories. They over-romanticize love and marriage, as an act of defiance, and as an escape. Marriage and love became the answers to their problems.

And while the romantics continue to seek out love, the self-proclaimed “religious realists” see love as childish, naive, and not within the parameters of Islam.

So these two opposite ends of the spectrum became the truth, with no room for nuance or conversation.

But why is love so shunned? Why do we treat love as inherently haram, acting as though love is only pure after marriage, but if found before, it’s scorned?

Islam is a faith of spirituality and love, but modern Muslims have detached from the idea of what it means to be human and have a soul. We as Muslims must equally lead with our hearts as we do with our minds.

And that’s something that many have forgotten. So these Muslims have lost out on the true love and beauty that is Islam, which in turn has taken away love from things like marriage and reduced them to obligation and status.

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Romance as a Sin, Marriage as an Obligation

In Islam, marriage completes half of your deen. We, as a culture, have taken this statement to focus much of our communal efforts on getting our sons and daughters married. But marriage is not an obligation, as it’s not something that’s even divinely guaranteed to us. Yet, we treat it as such.

Marriage in Islam is a pure and intentional act. We, as a Muslim culture (primarily South Asian and Arab cultures), have made it into a determinant of status, a success to flaunt, and the ultimate goal.

We have taken the love and romance out of marriage, which means we have taken part of the worship out of marriage. When you love, you love for the sake of Allah SWT. Being romantic is sunnah, and yes, it is an act of worship when you’re doing it within this holy bond.

“In the sexual act of each one of you there is charity.”
The companions asked: “O Messenger of Allah, is there reward for one of us when he satisfies his desire?”
He replied: “Do you not see that if he were to do it unlawfully, he would bear a sin? Likewise, if he does it lawfully, he will have a reward.”
— Sahih Muslim (1006)

The Prophet PBUH would put his mouth on the same spot of a cup where Aisha RA’s lips were. He loved wholeheartedly because this love was an act of worship. The act of romance is not naivety or mere tales; it’s ingrained in our faith, it’s what makes a marriage.

But culturally, we’re told “love comes after marriage”

Why?

Why is it seen as wrong to love and actively want to be with the person you’re about to marry? Is it naive because our parents and grandparents were forced or coerced into their own marriages?

“There is no love before marriage” completely refutes what Prophet Muhammad PBUH believes about love and marriage. If he himself says, “There is nothing better for two who love each other than marriage.” Sunan Ibn Majah (1847), then surely that must mean that the idea of loving the person before marriage is normal and healthy, and that the natural progression from love is marriage.

Falling in love isn’t haram. In fact, I feel we reprimand our daughters for loving far more than we reprimand our sons. Is it haram when a woman falls for the man she wants to marry, but romantic when a man does it with the woman he loves?

We believe women to be creatures without sense, driven by love and nonsensical fairy tales. But in telling women not to expect the love they yearn for, we only lower standards for men to marry and disappoint not just their wives, but also our faith, our God.

“And among His signs is that He created for you from yourselves spouses that you may find tranquility in them; and He placed between you affection (mawaddah) and mercy (rahmah). Indeed, in that are signs for a people who reflect.”
— Surah Ar-Rum (30:21)

Love and lust are conflated with one another. Not all love that begins before marriage is only lust-filled, and to claim it is is to completely refute all acts of love. Why must love and marriage be difficult for it to be real? These beliefs do not come from Islam; they come from generational trauma. Our elders often lack the ability to be in touch with their own feelings, which is why they struggle to understand what it means to love so passionately and deeply.

They say passion is fleeting; they claim it’s a farce, something that comes from the devil himself. But to be passionately in love is a beautiful thing; it’s what makes us human. Passion is not lust, though lust can be passionate.

Sure, passion burns out. It’s a flame that grows and weakens, but shouldn’t we trust our sons and daughters to differentiate between lustful passion and a passionate love for who they wish to be with?

That’s what our parents are here for, to help guide, but not to ridicule and condemn love because they believe it’s not real.

Love is real, my dear reader, though one type of love isn’t promised to everyone; the idea of love is very much alive just as we are.

For the Romantic Muslim Woman

I briefly mentioned earlier that I have always loved love. Romance for me was more than just tiny butterflies that fill my stomach. It was a core part of becoming who I am. I do not remember a time when I didn’t love love.

I think we as Muslim women do have to find ourselves and who we are without the idea of romance. As marriage isn’t promised to us, neither is love. At least, not the way many of us have wanted. So, I’ll never encourage women seeking marriage as an escape or as their main goal.

But, I also won’t scoff at the woman who still believes she’ll find her prince, her knight, her love, her naseeb.

But don’t let that love define you. Don’t attach it to your worth. Rejoice and feel immense pride in your ability to love so deeply. And trust in Allah SWT, for what He has planned for you is surely the best.

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I believe the biggest lie we tell ourselves as women is that our indulgence in certain beauty practices was born out of our own decisions. We believe this industry is backed by our individual minds, when in fact, every thought we have was groomed into our minds from our earliest memories.

There’s an illusion of choice in beauty. We’re told our purchases are there to empower, excite, and transform. We flock to the Medicube devices and buy the new skin tint that looks like skin but isn’t. These purchases aren’t just made in the intention of having fun but rather to correct something flawed.

You may say I’m overthinking, not letting women have fun, or maybe you feel what I’m saying is obvious. The larger beauty space reborn in 2020 was built on the agenda of choice feminism. Every choice a woman makes for herself is inherently feminist. Thus began the belief that everything a woman does is also inherently okay, so long as it’s done for herself.

But are these actions truly done for yourself or others? Are we deluding ourselves into believing beauty is personal?

A Face Without “Beauty”

To have a face synonymous with beauty today is to have a face unrecognizable from who you are. We look at TV from a decade ago and see that faces deemed as beautiful then are now too plain, too basic, and too far off from what beauty is today.

The nose job you want, the filler you desire, the “facial balancing” videos you save on TikTok all come from insecurities that society has thrust onto you. It does not come from your own mind or your own web of thoughts. It comes from the need to look a certain way, and that look is reflected in our standards today.

For some, this may come as no shock; for others, you may still have a hard time digesting.

What is building confidence and what is actually stripping it down? Is it building confidence if we’re hiding who we are, always attempting to enhance, refine, and change? This lack of confidence comes from the crude beauty standards that have been forced down our throats.

I have recently limited my makeup application. I probably do my makeup a handful of times a year now. One reason is for skin health, to be honest, but the other part is simply because I do not like having to rely on makeup to build my confidence. I do not like hiding who I am. I want to become fully accustomed to my bare face, to my bare skin, to everything that makes me, me.

We would not be wearing foundation to cover up blemishes and imperfections if we were not told from birth that looking like who we are is improper.

We sit in front of the mirror, staring at each imperfection, the fine line that seemingly popped up overnight, the textured skin, the short eyelashes. We simply look at ourselves far too much. We think about ourselves far too much. Every day, we micro-dose on hating ourselves.

Uncovering the Wool

“Are you placing the blame on women instead of the system?”

Are we at fault? Are you in the wrong for wanting to wear makeup before work, for feeling good about how you look after you reverse an insecurity? No. I don’t believe you’re in the wrong for indulging in one of the earliest beliefs you were taught. I will never discourage you from doing these things because it’s not my place, not my body, not my face. But I do implore you to remove the wool from your eyes and deeply reflect on the why behind these actions.

As hard as it is to believe, these actions have never and will never be independent or individualistic. We engage in a collective; we are primed to believe these ideals, which in turn influence our actions.

As a creator in this space, a consumer, a woman, I question everything. I wonder if I think too much or not enough. Because I do engage in this space. I become excited by skincare, love the packaging of the Rhode blushes, and think makeup can be a creative art. I wonder what the fine line is between skin health and skin obsession.

I question myself.

I wonder if I’m limiting my own fun or just fatigued by the constant messaging of needing to look better. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not as though these things do not come with a societal benefit. The “pretty privilege”, the opportunities, and the general basic human kindness. I fully understand it.

We live in a society that places looks above everything else. As a hijabi woman, this is something I’m fully aware of. But I believe in continuing to believe we are empowered by not accepting our face, we will continue to sit there inches from the mirror, hating who we are.

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Growing up, I was surrounded by injustices and inequalities towards women. I saw it in the Masjid when there were blatant double standards towards how my community revered an abuser but shunned the abused. I saw it when older women told me I…

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Making roti with my Nani (grandmother) was always something that I took pride in. Looking up at her and seeing her face filled with approval and appreciation for what I had made was something that had filled my tiny heart with feelings of joy and happiness as a young child. The days when the kitchen counters were cleaned and atta (flour) was thinly sprinkled on the marble were my absolute favorite. It didn’t matter how round my rotis were or how thin or thick I made them, because each time I looked up at Nani, and her eyes met mine, a smile would spread across her face, showing that she appreciated all that my tiny hands made.

Some of my fondest memories are the ones that took place in the kitchen of my grandparents’ house. Food didn’t have calories when I was there. Whatever I ate was never enough for my Nani, “kalo, kalo” , eat, eat, she would say. I know that every grandmother loves to feed their grandchild, but to me, it meant so much more. That tiny kitchen became a space where, instead of being told I should eat less, I was encouraged to fill my belly with all of my Nani’s cooking. The whispers of ridicule no longer filled my ears, and all I could focus on were the platters of food that would be laid out before me, the huge servings of chawal (rice), and the salen (curry) that would be dumped onto my plate. And even when I thought I had eaten enough, when my stomach felt like it was about to explode and my belly button touched the rim of the table, my tummy found itself making room once dessert was brought out.

It didn’t matter how much my mother looked at me and gestured for me to put my spoon down, because Nani knew all of her intimidation tactics, which were much less threatening and intimidating to the woman who taught my mother these looks and gestures. Her tiny kitchen, with its quirks and flaws and smell of spices that never left the air, allowed me to rid myself of all of the insecurities and inhibitions that a little girl, who only wanted to love and eat to her heart's content, should have never had.

My Nani’s love language was food, and even as she got older and her eyesight dwindled, she wouldn’t ever dare to step out of the kitchen. From the first hour of her day to her last, she would spend her time with her feet snug in her slippers and planted on the kitchen floor. I remember my mother and aunts begging her to stay out of the kitchen, especially as things in her old home began to break and easily fall apart. However, no one could take away her love for cooking and feeding others; it was ingrained in her. As a young child, I didn’t understand why she loved to cook so much, to slave away in the kitchen for hours as smoke and spices filled her lungs. She’d burn or cut herself often, but a wince and a Band-Aid made it as though the wound never happened in the first place. As long as my cousins and I ate a full plate of whatever she made, it was all worth it to her.

دینا or “dena” is Urdu for “give”. I remember my Nani using this word often as she gave my cousins and me food, gifts, and money. Giving has always been part of my culture and religion for as long as I can remember. I remember going to my neighbor’s house to give them plates of food we cooked, my mother emphasizing the importance of sharing with others. I remember sitting in the car, my face red with anger as I noticed a man spewing slurs at my mother and me from his car, while my mother only reminded me to give grace. From an early age, I was taught to give and give, just as my mother was taught by hers.

It feels as though every South Asian woman is cursed with the gift of giving parts of herself away without ever receiving anything in return. Growing up, I never saw Nani receive anything. Her hands, which were riddled with wrinkles and the occasional scar or burn, seemed to only know how to give. If someone was in need, she would be there to give herself to them. It didn’t matter if they were as young as the fog in the morning or as old as the wrinkles around her eyes; her hands were always extended out to them. Selfless would be a word to describe her, but I can’t help but wonder if this was an attribute she was born with or if it was one she was forced to learn. Was her selflessness admirable, or was it suffocating, as she gave parts of herself away?

Dena, give. Lena, take. Give and take. Words I learned to describe my grandparents' relationship. As I grew up, I noticed how my Nani would give and give, but only because my grandfather had much to take. I saw how my grandfather would tease Nani, make fun of her, and belittle her in the form of cruel jokes to get me and my young cousins to laugh. I would see Nani whine and begin to cry, telling him how hurt and upset she was, verbalizing how she was tired of him. I thought it was funny to see her cry like this, because I only ever saw children get so riled up over what I thought was petty teasing. Little did I know that the emotions my Nani felt were ones of humiliation and embarrassment from being belittled in front of her grandchildren. Still, she gave most of herself to my grandfather and continued to do so up until her soul left this earth.

Nani passed away when I was in middle school. Her death was sudden, and her pain was drawn out. My family and I spent over a month going back and forth to the hospital to see her as she received surgeries and we awaited good news with bated breath. I didn’t realize that the last time I had seen Nani in my home for Thanksgiving dinner, talking and being part of our family, would be the last time I would ever speak to her. The Thanksgiving dinner that took place every year was my Nani’s last, and as a 13-year-old girl who often had a language barrier when speaking to my Nani, I was far too involved in my own life and playing with my cousins to sit and talk to my grandmother.

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The days that come every year, and the people we see so often, are always taken for granted, and had I known I would never see my Nani alive again, that day would’ve gone much differently. But, how are we to ever know when someone will go? It’s easy to sit on a pedestal of self-righteousness and tell others to hug your loved ones close and tight, for you’ll never know if it’ll be your last moment with them, but we as humans are made to take things for granted. Our lives are spent reliving moments in our heads, wishing that we could go back and talk to a certain person or feel their embrace again. It feels that no matter how often we’re reminded to sit and take in something or someone, we’re still left wanting more of said person or moment.

Tired eyes would look back at mine very often when I would speak to Nani. She would frequently fall asleep in a chair in front of the TV or would sit with her head in her hands at the dinner table. But those tired eyes were not just the effect of physical exhaustion, but rather, they showed how tired Nani was of existing in this purgatory of pain. The autopsy would show that she passed away after being taken off life support, but I know my Nani was ready to be free and finally rest after decades of pain. The day she was taken to the hospital, with no haste, she had three heart attacks. She had her first one in the morning, but didn’t realize it, or perhaps just pushed through because my grandfather wanted her to cook for him. She cooked, had tea, took a bath, and then had another heart attack. The final major one she had was in the car on the way to the hospital. That day, she continued to give herself to her husband while she watched him put his needs over hers. Dena and lena.

My mother told me that before Nani had her triple bypass surgery, she was surrounded by her children and husband and spoke to each and every one of them, asking for forgiveness from her children, offering forgiveness to my grandfather, and giving her final words of advice on staying together as a family. I’ll never know what she was thinking at that moment, but somehow deep in my heart, I know how ready she was to go. She had so much love to give, and yet so little was returned to her. My Nani’s final words were right before her surgery, and after that, she was gone.

Dena, dena, dena, dena. Give, give, give, give.

She went into cardiac arrest, and all of her organs began to shut down one by one. There are dozens of medical explanations for what happened, but I know that she had just given up. Allah brought her soul back to Him, something she had been longing for years. For a woman who spent most of her life with tired eyes and a heart that was constantly being chipped away at, she was finally able to find some relief.

My Nani’s name was Khadija. Named after Prophet Muhammad’s (peace be upon him) first wife. Khadija was a strong woman who was revered by many for her brilliance, intelligence, courage, and grace. But growing up, I wasn’t able to appreciate Nani for who she was. I thought she was weak, emotional, and sensitive. I was a child, and I had much to learn about myself before I could learn about who Nani was. But by the time I was ready, my Nani was long gone. The woman I saw when I was younger was constantly stumbling all over the place, being belittled by her husband, and oftentimes scolded by her children. Given that my mother was being abused at the time Nani was alive, I should’ve known better than to assume anything about how strong or weak she was. And yet, I did. It’s embarrassing and disheartening to admit that this is what I perceived my grandmother to be, and it’s not something I’ve ever admitted aloud or truly even to myself, up until this point.

But how could I think such a woman was weak when she had lived and survived despite such adversity? To agree to get married to a man, without seeing or knowing him, is a trauma within itself. And yet, she persisted. To travel from wealth in India to live a poor life in Pakistan and start a family with this stranger is strength. To raise her six children on her own in America, a foreign country, while providing for her family through cleaning and babysitting, is courageous. To give her youth and happiness away to a man who did not care for her is grace. To be married to a man whose name means “generous”, “one who shares”, and “one who gives” while watching him do everything in his power to ensure he would not ever live up to his name, is a fate that she accepted and lived out till her last breath.

The Khadija that I knew had always been fit for her name and deserved far more than to be taken for granted by everyone in her life, even by her grandchild, who still struggles to bring justice to her name.

South Asian women are born with a curse the moment they lay their eyes upon the world. From a young age, we are taught to give and sacrifice, give and sacrifice. Our hearts have never belonged to us, but instead to our siblings, parents, and husbands. Our body has never been ours, but instead belongs to our culture and men who do not understand how to love. Our mind, though, our mind is ours. And perhaps that’s what makes it the worst thing to have. Because our mind runs free, dreaming and wishing of all that could be, while our heart knows it’s too tired to give itself to yet another false hope. When I imagine the women in my family, such as my mother and Nani, I see young women filled with hopes and dreams.

When I see Nani I imagine her running around her home in India, each step making a jingle from her payal (anklet). I imagine her echoing laugh, her dark hair pulled back in a braid, and her brown eyes filled with love and hope. I imagine her thinking of her future and what awaits her, promising herself she’d never sacrifice so much like her mother did. But in the back of her mind, and in the back of mine, our future and its haunting inevitability are waiting in a dark abyss, ready to engulf us. Nani’s tired eyes that would look back at me are reflected in my mother’s face, and so I’d rather hear her voice and pray there’s a glimmer of hope there than to see her eyes and know that her eyes are just like Nani’s, tired and ready to fade. My Nani’s trauma and hopeless inevitability have been passed down to my mother, and though I tell myself that I will never succumb to the same trauma and pain, I find myself withering away with each heart I put before mine and each tear I wipe instead of my own.

People say I’m just like Nani. They say my gift of being able to love and care so deeply for others is just like hers. Yet, I know this gift is nothing more than a curse that has my heart in chains, bending to its every will. People say my light and soul are just like hers, and though I feel my chest swell up with pride to be compared to such a woman, another part of me sees how Nani’s light could not save her from her despair. So when I’m compared to my grandmother, I wonder if I too am sacrificing myself and giving my heart away to people that will never show me a feather's weight of love in return. These compliments and comparisons are blessings I’d never dare to reject, for who would I be to fear my own reflection? Because when my tears overflow in my eyes and my heart can no longer take any pain, I see us both opening ourselves up to let another feel the love that we so desperately wish and hope we will one day be given.

The days of making roti and being in the kitchen with my Nani are impossible, but when I’m back at home, I can still share these moments with my mother, though they slowly become far and few between. I still look to my mother, in hopes of being praised for my abilities, but now my round rotis are not special but rather an expectation. And I still find joy in seeing atta spread on the counter and making rotis with my mom, because food is my love language, just like my Nani’s. But it will never be the same as when I was a small child, looking up at Nani’s face and hearing her say “good, beta” while her eyes still held warmth and love, knowing that if there was one person that would give that same love back to her, it would be her grandchild.

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“Dear Hajar, my husband has full-on sexualised the hijab and more recently the niqab to the extent that he begs me to wear my niqab during intimacy and is always making really vulgar comments about how sexy it is when we’re out. It gives me the ick and makes me want to remove all of it. This fetish is deep-rooted and even the husbands are into it. It’s …

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Call me difficult, a pot-stirrer, or even just problematic. If there’s one thing I’m going to do, it’s address the major issues I have with some of the mindsets many Muslims have.

Muslim men aren’t able to fetishize hijabi women

I had to jump into a juicy one. Did you jump out of your seat in horror or scream in agreement? I’ve written and discussed the fetishization of hijabi women for years, but a perpetrator of this that I haven’t mentioned before is the Muslim man. “But Hajar, is it wrong for a man to want a hijabi wife?” See, preference and fetish are two different things. There’s nothing wrong with having a preference for a hijabi wife, but there are men who have sinister intentions in that preference.

Many Muslim men, particularly those who subscribe to (whether they know it or not) the redpill ideology, believe what their non-muslim male counterparts also believe; hijabi women are submissive, subservient, and ready to be dominated. This fetish is not a preference but comes from deep misogynistic and orientalist ideals. They want a hijabi wife to control, to dominate (sexually, physically, and mentally). This preference does not come from a woman’s religiosity, but rather how she will perform for the animal of a man (and I boldly will call these men animals).

It’s socially acceptable to be arrogant and downright evil to women who take their hijab off.

When a Muslim woman takes her hijab off and also happens to have a large social platform, people are beside themselves in the comment section. I think it’s so unfortunate when we show traits opposite to those of Prophet Muhammad PBUH. Islam, to me, is the most empathetic religion. Our Ummah is supposed to be supportive, kind, and understanding. You don’t have to agree with this woman’s decision to remove her hijab, but I promise you that engaging in such hateful behaviors will only push this woman farther from ever becoming a hijabi again.

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Living with your in-laws (even if you loveee them)

I don’t believe any married couple should be living with their in-laws, ESPECIALLY in the first few years of marriage. There’s a reason why Muslim women have the right to their own home separate from their in-laws and why sheikhs even discourage this living arrangement. Married couples need their space, independence, and time alone with one another. Sorry, but there’s no way I’d feel 100% comfortable being around my husband in my in-laws’ house. The first few years of marriage are absolutely pivotal in building a strong foundation and also getting to know one another deeply. How can that happen when you’re also worried about constantly pleasing your in-laws? There’s a level of privacy that’s needed that I believe every married couple should have.

Letting your extended family’s opinions of you rule your life

Want to hear something crazy? I have an aunt who has a burner account to stalk me. I have an aunt who spread rumors about me having a boyfriend in college (puhlease lmao eye roll). My own mother’s sisters only have negative things to say about me, but they don’t pay my bills, they don’t live my life, and I don’t answer to them. I only answer to Allah SWT. For toxic brown families, you have to realize that no matter what you do, they will speak ill about you. They will run your name into the ground. If you get caught up in catering every decision to please them or not cause controversy, you aren’t living your life for yourself. You’re allowing their negativity and bitterness to rule you.

Having kids simply because that’s “what’s next”

I’ve been pretty firm and unwavering in my opinion on having kids. I don’t believe having children should be a thoughtless decision. It should be an active decision to be parents. If you want kids because that’s part of your life plan, I’m truly cheering you on, and may Allah SWT make that easy for you. We simply need to rid ourselves of the belief that every woman, every couple should have children.

Being married means you’ve peaked in life

Being married doesn’t mean you’ve absolutely peaked in life. This one isn’t groundbreaking, I’ll admit it. But I feel it’s something that still must be emphasized, especially when it comes to the idea that being single means you’re losing at life, God isn’t happy with you, or you’re missing out. Marriage is rizq, it’s something that may or may not be in someone’s fate. When it comes to women and their single status, the concept of “rizq” is suddenly completely lost, and instead, a shame-guilt mindset is pushed. For many, being married means you’ve peaked in life, it’s an accomplishment within itself. You’ve “won”. You got the man. But surely, there’s more to who we are than this? People have been placing their husbands above God, whether they know it or not. The only “peaking” in life should be in association with religious enlightenment, where God is the center, not a man.

Going to college/getting a degree is useless

Have we truly regressed this much? To the point where every time I mention this “take” people act like it’s thee most controversial thing. I’m genuinely disappointed by the lack of critical thinking many Muslims have. Many of us in the West grew up with the understanding that education is a privilege. Going to school is a privilege, it’s something not everyone has access to, especially women. Islam has emphasized seeking knowledge. Some may say that emphasis is on Islamic knowledge only, but then why would Allah SWT allow some of the greatest minds in history to be Muslim? Why would He allow them to have shaped our world today through the Golden Age? We NEED Muslims in fields outside of just Islamic scholarship. We applaud Muslim doctors, but we need more than that. It’s not just “Muslim representation” that’s so looked down upon, it’s more than that. Muslim voices need to be heard, that’s how dawah is given, that’s how minds are changed, and that’s how progress occurs.

Controversial? You Tell Me.

Maybe I’m just “too woke” (lol), but to me, these takes aren’t even that controversial. I feel that a lot of these are opinions that seem too radical, but only because we aren’t able to get out of typical cultural rhetoric. Let me emphasize, cultural rhetoric. Islam is perfect, and if you think I’ll ever critique it, you’re in the wrong place. However, many Muslim cultures have sullied our religion to the point where I have to make this post encouraging girls to get an education, for men to grow the hell up, and for Muslims to look inward at what it means to be Muslim.

And being Muslim to me means to be empathetic, to be intelligent, and to be strong.

What propaganda are you not falling for? Let me know!

Musings & Panchatting is my passion, and I’m so happy to share my words with you. If' you’d like to support my work, you can upgrade to a paid subscription (which is less than a matcha latte ;))

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The older I get, the wiser I become. Each day, I learn more about who I am, I fall back into who I once was, but I push forward with the confidence and belief in who I wish to be.

At 22 going on 23, I may not have the entire world figured out, but this, I do know.

You may know me as the girl who actively speaks out against the overromanticization of marriage, but don’t get things twisted, dear reader. I will and always be a romantic, so hear me when I say this. Hear me, absorb my words, and understand that my view of marriage is something that’s come from a girl who once overromanticized it, to then a girl who believed it to be an unforgiving sacrifice, to now someone who believes in the promise of it being exactly what I choose it to be.

Let’s rip the band-aid off and let me say it plainly; I’m not marrying to be a mother. If I ever get married, it will be for companionship, partnership, and romance.

Oh, the gasps of horror! To be a woman who does not want to be a mother is to be the worst kind of woman. Brand me how you’d like. I’m no stranger to the ridicule in this decision, nor the religious damnation other Muslims impose on me. But the thought of being a parent, a mother, does not awaken my “motherly instincts” but instead fills me with dread.

Being a parentified oldest daughter, burdened with the emotions of my family, and caring for my abused mother, I know that for me, motherhood would not be something that would heal me.

Regarding faith and my religion, I’m well aware that having children is a blessing from God. But before the very extreme Muslims who lack empathy, critical thinking, and the ability to understand other people’s lived experiences start to foam at the mouth, please know I write this with little care for your opinion.

In fact, this piece will not be in defense of my choice not to have children. I write to you, my dear reader, to pour my heart out to you. I write in hopes that my words reach that one person who may know how to express how they similarly feel or even just want to know there’s another damned soul out there. This is something I’ve always done and will always do.

Brand Me Selfish

Call me young or fearful, because yes, I’m both of those things. Marriage and parenthood are not things I’ve taken lightly. The joining of two hearts, for the sake of Allah SWT, has always been a serious decision.

And even more so, the decision to have a child.

More often than not, women are forced to over-explain and defend every little decision. But even Islamically, such a choice is between her and her husband. I won’t deny that having children is a sunnah, but that doesn’t mean choosing not to have children is haram.

The controversy of my unwillingness to blindly enter parenthood simply because that’s the societal expectation of what’s “next” after marriage feels neglectful. Shouldn’t the want to have children be a thoughtful decision rather than merely succumbing to a fate others have laid out for you?

Don’t misunderstand me, I know some see marriage as a means to start a family of their own, and that intentional decision is beautiful. However, that’s not my goal for marriage. I want my partner and I to be the focus. I can spend a lifetime getting to know my husband and him learning who I am, who I was, and who I hope to be.

I’m an open book, and perhaps you see right through me. I won’t deny that my past trauma plays a role in this decision. I won’t deny that seeing the mothers in my family lose themselves in their motherhood haunts me. I won’t deny that I see motherhood as a sacrifice of who I am, my lifestyle, and my future goals. I applaud those superwomen who can do it all: be loving mothers, devoted wives, and fulfilled career women. But I don’t want to spend my life feeling exhausted with all the different hats I have to wear.

I’m consistently asked, “What’s the point of getting married if you won’t have kids?” or told, “You’ll never find a man because that’s too picky”. I feel it’s always very telling how these people see women in marriage.

If the worst thing that can happen is that I never marry, then so be it. I’d accept that fate over settling for someone out of fear of being lonely. I don’t want to marry a man for my fertility, for how many children I’ll have for him. I want to be chosen, to be loved, to be married for me. If I never marry, then so be it. I accept Allah SWT’s plan, and yes, that includes the fate where He may choose for me to be a mother.

Call me what you want, but indifference is not what will make me a mother; it will be my overcoming desire to have a child.

Partnership, Not Romanticized Submission

Call me selfish, an idealist, childish, immature. Say it all. I want to spend my married life loving my husband and him adoring me as we get to know each other, practice our faith, and soak up this world till we may, inshallah, be reunited in Jannah.

If I get married, it’ll be because I’ve married a Muslim man who sees marriage through a much different lens than most Muslim men do. I know my worth, I fully see my value and what I can give to my partner, so I won’t ever lower my standards simply to be picked by a mediocre man. The reality is, many Muslim men do not see the sanctity of marriage and view it as a mere means to an end.

It’s controversial and “liberal” to say I want my partner to view me as his equal. My greatest fear is marrying a man who dims my light and slowly but surely forces me into the role of a submissive wife. I see it happen far too often, and I’d rather be single for the rest of my life than succumb to a fate where I’m a wife but no longer able to recognize the person I am and wanted to be.

In a culture where women are told that men are the prize to be won, for without a man, we’d be nothing, I implore all my sisters to stand UP. What do you want out of your marriage? I want to be more than just loved, I want to be valued. I want to be seen as a blessing in my husband’s life and to be adored. I have more than enough love to give, and I want that love to be ingrained in the foundation of our marriage.

Idealist?

I’ve been told by older women in my life that real marriage isn’t like this, but I believe there’s someone out there for me who will absolutely give me everything I want, and if I’m not meant to meet him in this life, surely we will meet in the next.

Call me what you want, but I will bravely be firm in my choice. I’m marrying for my own happiness, gentle love, a companion, and a lifelong partner. I am not marrying to become a mother.

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