“When the wedding was over, Zarghuna climbed aboard the
bus, leaving the evening’s cool breeze for the pungent, stuffy
air of the women’s section. All in all, there were about forty of
them – men, women and children – returning home from the
celebrations in a neighbouring village. The women sat at the
front, swathed in burqas hiding wedding finery underneath,
their faces made up in carefully hoarded foundation, bright
red lipstick, eyes rimmed with kajal. Earrings and necklaces
clinked as they laughed and talked and gossiped, while
children lay bundled up around them, tired and sleepy in the
dark. Further back, their husbands sat together in the men’s
section, rubbing stomachs full from the six rice dishes served
at the feast.
“It had been Zarghuna’s cousin’s daughter’s wedding; the
other women had teased her cousin, asking if she was ready to
become a grandmother. She was only thirty-five.
‘May you be the grandmother of seven grandsons,’ they
called out to her raucously making her laugh and the bride
cover her face in embarrassment, clearly smiling through her
hennaed fingers. Everyone knew you needed sons for inheritance,
for land, and for feuding. That is to say, for war. Each house had
its own graveyard, at the front of which the bodies of recent
casualties were buried, each grave marked only by a small,
modest stone. The more stones, the more honour for the family.”
This is the first page of my new short story, “A Bird With One Wing”, which appears in the collection of short stories The American Way: Stories of Invasion published by Comma Press. Here’s a snippet from writer Andrew Blackman on what the story is about:
It was a real challenge to write this story. I’ve never been to Waziristan, so I had to do my research and use my imagination. I had read Professor Akbar Ahmad’s excellent The Thistle and the Drone and it helped me understand the intricacies of what was called the Tribal Belt a long time ago. (Professor Ahmad read my short story and provided invaluable feedback).
After the story, in the book, there is an essay by Dr. Ian Shaw, Associate Professor of Global Security Challenges at Leeds University, about drone warfare and its impact in Pakistan. In fact, all the stories in this book are paired with a commentary by an expert on the situation or historical event that form the background of the pieces.
On the 26th of October, there will be a virtual event by Housmans Bookshop in which I’ll be discussing my short story, along with Afghan-American journalist Fariba Nabwa. You can register for the event here.
Review first published in The Conversationalist
I was a first-year student at a prestigious U.S. women’s college, back in 1989, when the college’s alumnae association invited me to speak at a large event about my experience in coming to America. It wasn’t very long into my first semester, and I’d just arrived from Karachi. I was 17 years old.
Karachi had been wracked by ethnic violence for more than a year, with student groups clashing all across the city and the entire province of Sindh. That was a very frightening time, with the media reporting daily death tolls and the military enforcing 24-hour curfews. It is still fresh in my mind.
There were two other speakers at the event, both women: one was a youth organizer and peace activist in her troubled Black urban community; the other had survived a slave camp in Southeast Asia and had been subsequently adopted by an American family. The audience, however, was composed almost exclusively of white American women, many of them rich, older, well-traveled, and educated. Yet for all their worldliness, they seemed unaware that they had propped us up on a stage as though we were exhibits on display…
Read the rest of the review here
Yesterday on Twitter, I wrote an angry tweet. It went like this:
“I just really need to know how Judith Butler’s definition of women applies to Afghan women who are being beaten on the streets by the Taliban. Have you ever considered that your academics really don’t fit the lives of women in the global South?”
I posted the above tweet after reading about the now infamous Guardian interview in which Butler said that TERFs (trans exclusionary radical feminists) align themselves with right wingers and fascists. I don’t identify as a TERF, or much of anything really (cis? that too feels like an imposition upon me) because this debate about trans rights and gender identity seems so far removed from the lived reality that I and millions of women in the South Asian/Central Asian region experience. I certainly don’t align myself with right wingers and fascists in my thinking, which is different and far more independent from the groupthink or pressure that people in, say, an academic environment face as they adapt to new rules and laws about gender.
But it was Judith Butler’s statement that “we need to rethink the category of women” that got me going. It coalesced from quite a lot of thinking I’ve been doing about gender identity theory as it is being adopted in Western countries. And it comes at the same time as I’ve been watching Afghan women getting beaten by the Taliban as they protest for their rights, for safety and security and for inclusion in the government, and for the freedom to work and study.
Afghan woman: Save me from the Taliban
Judith Butler: We’ll redefine womanhood, you’ll be finehttps://twitter.com/BinaShah/status/1435550607914459137
I was asked to clarify my thinking about my statement, because it seemed vague or perhaps obtuse to people for whom gender identity theory is far more familiar and agreeable. It’s good to be challenged because it forces you to think harder about what it is you really believe.
In Afghanistan (extreme example) but also in Pakistan, where I live, in India, in Nepal, Bangladesh, Middle Eastern countries, North Africa, women (or people with female bodies) are being abused, harassed, assaulted and killed not just because they have female bodies, but because they refuse to hand those bodies over to men to do with as they please.
Because this possession and ownership of female bodies is absolutely tied to female biology and the production of children and sexual comfort for those men, separating sex from gender completely negates this form of oppression which is hugely insulting to all of us who are still fighting to end sex-based discrimination in our countries and regions.
At the same time a particularly empowering thing for women is the fact that their bodies are capable of producing life. This is something so innate to women’s identities and sense of themselves in Muslim/global South/non-white countries that to insist it is something that does not belong to them is actually a form of mental and emotional violence on them, a double trauma visited upon them by Western Feminists who wish to impose their ideas of gender and sex on those of us whose understanding and experience of these issues is very different.
Imagine a Muslim woman in the UK who escapes a violent marriage and threats of honor killing. She goes to a shelter where she feels safe because it is a female-only space. Not just because she is away from the realm of immediate male violence, but because as a Muslim woman she does not feel comfortable sharing intimate quarters with a person with a male body. This allows her to reconcile her awful situation as well as her need to feel she is acting in congruence with her identity and principles of modesty as a Muslim woman.
But if a trans woman with a penis is in the same space, then the Muslim woman will be in a terrible conflict about her actions in leaving her home. Suddenly, she is not able to remove her hijab or undress because she cannot do those things in front of a person with a male body who is not a family member. This not a hypothetical, there are Muslim, Sikh, and Hindu women who are now excluded from single sex-only spaces because the definition of woman has changed to include women with penises. To call that Muslim woman a TERF because she expresses discomfort is yet another abuse for her.
All this to say that we have yet to negotiate safety and freedom for women with female bodies and not ignore or override minority women in the West or women from my part of the world out of these negotiations. Afghan girls and women have in fact had to disguise themselves as boys and men in order to move outside the home, earn a living or perform vital chores during the rule of the Taliban. Would this be called “performing gender” as Judith Butler calls it, or a resourceful survival strategy that Afghan women adopted in order to be able to live?
I’m afraid the trans rights activists are acting like Western colonisers and imperialists all over again, imposing their ideas of gender and sexuality on us the same way their Empire was imposed on us for a good part of the 20th century. I don’t really want gender colonialism in the 21st century. Do you?
Thank you for coming to my TERF Talk.
Last night I was part of a fascinating discussion on Twitter Spaces hosted by VOA journalist Nazrana Yusufzai (@nazranayusufzai on Twitter). The title was “Our Culture” and it provided an umbrella for about 70 guests to listen to 8-10 speakers talk freeform for about four hours on many topics, including Pakistani culture, women’s rights, feminism, raising children, and more.
I’m finding that Twitter Spaces is fast developing into an excellent forum for free and open discussion — as long as the moderator is good, and Nazrana is one of the best. Asma Ali Zain (UAE-based journalist for Gulf News, @asmaalizain on Twitter) is another great moderator, and her Spaces are usually popular as well. The women-led forums are relaxed, witty and entertaining, and inclusive. Women and men discuss many topics, and unlike tweets that can get abusive fast, the conversational tone remains respectful and polite. This is because of the power of the moderator’s block button, and of being able to rescind the mic from anyone who gets rude or argumentative or abusive fast.
It’s a pleasure to listen to Pakistani women in Pakistan and in the diaspora talk about culture, feminism, family life, single life, traditions, travel, immigration and life abroad through the lens of academics, professional expertise, and personal experience. Everyone is so articulate, and even the shy ones find their voice and express themselves beautifully. This is how Twitter used to be before the trolls got there.
Last night’s discussion was prompted by model Sadaf Kanwal’s recent television interview in which she said “Our culture is husband” and several other anti-feminist statements. A discussion about her motivations for doing so resulted, with several interesting conclusions: she wants to repair her image as a good Pakistani wife after having gotten involved with her now-husband before he had divorced his previous wife; she’s playing to the anti-feminist crowd; she’s trying to up her popularity, etc. etc. A few days later her husband Shahroze Subzwari (an actor?) appeared on another talk show to speak about feminism, so the anti-feminist backlash will continue, I suppose.
For me the highlight was listening to Syeda Nayab Bukhari (@sbukhari11), a post-doc research at McGill with a truly impressive PhD in women’s studies, give us a breakdown of feminism and the different strains of feminism that exist, including Islamic feminism and development feminism. Islamic feminism is basically Muslim women interpreting Quran and Hadith through a woman’s viewpoint, and highlighting the aspects of Islam that are pro-women and which have been either deliberately misrepresented or ignored by male scholars. This movement, which has been happening since the late 1980s, does away with the hegemony that men have over religious texts and teachings, and brings out the spirit of gender equality that Islam possesses.
She also spoke about development feminism, which I have been reading about in Rafia Zakaria’s excellent new book Against White Feminism. It originated in India also in the 1980s:
In its original iterations, empowerment was understood as something notably different from its relative meaninglessness today. In the early 1980s, an Indian feminist named Gita Sen and a group of feminist researchers, activists, and political leaders from the global south got together to form DAWN (Development Alternatives with Women in a New era). Based in Bangalore, India, this collective sought to push forward women’s voices from the global south. Then and now, the terms of “international development,” or aid disbursements to postcolonial nations, were predominantly dictated by the global north to the global south—and included imposing the goals of white, Western feminists upon women who were neither white nor Western and did not necessarily share their concerns…
Sen was not arguing for doing away with equality as a feminist goal altogether as much as noting how the agenda of feminism, internationally and particularly within aid and development, was being set by what appealed to white and middle-class women in the United States and Europe. So she and the DAWN feminists conceived the “empowerment approach,” guided by the understanding that the existing white-led, top-down paradigms of development had not delivered any real change in the condition of women in the global south. Instead, they argued for a bottom-up approach, that grassroots organizations could be the actual “catalysts of women’s visions and perspectives” and spearhead the structural changes that were necessary within societies. At the center of DAWN’s vision of empowerment was “political mobilization” supported by education, and the promotion of development “free of all forms of oppression based on sex, class, race or nationality.”Against White Feminism, Rafia Zakaria
At any rate, if you want a worthwhile and balanced discussion on feminism led by Pakistani women, I recommend some of these Twitter Spaces, and I also recommend the excellent Web series “Aurat Card” available on YouTube. This is Pakistan’s “first all-women news channel, where four women with opinions speak on matters ranging from politics, sports, culture, law, feminism, and more. The discussants are Reema Omar, Mehmal Sarfraz, Natasha Zai and Benazir Shah; their twitter is @auratcard.
Do NOT go to Pakistani talk shows for feminism awareness. I really feel that there’s a concerted media campaign against feminism, painting it as a foreign/Western agenda to bring LBGTQ and “women walking naked” to Pakistan. Most stupid people will fall for it, but why should you?
A Pakistani designer called Faiza Saqlain has created a collection of Pakistani formal wear, which usually you would wear at an elaborate Pakistani wedding, complete with several days’ festivities, guests arriving from overseas, and tons of money spent on food, decor, and flowers.
The Covid pandemic has put a halt to many of these weddings, although the government has recently allowed outdoor weddings. But who’s going to wear a heavy jora to an outdoor wedding — in June?
Hence, the Faiza Saqlain team got creative and decided to market the clothes with a storyboard on Instagram. The young woman wearing the outfits isn’t at a wedding — she’s an aspiring writer and is getting ready for her first book launch. I totally wear this kind of outfit when I launch a book:
It isn’t the outfits that have me scratching my head about this though: it’s the story line. Some young intern has gone totally crazy with writing a story about the (fictional) book launch. The opening few photos have this caption:
A passionate literature graduate with sight set on her book launch, Sakeena was never a conformist. When women were expected to identify primarily as wives or daughters, she was glad she chose a husband who turned out to be the biggest advocate of her writing and dreams.
Since the couple wasn’t adamant on following strict gender roles complied with society’s expectations, Sakeena was just a few weeks short of her first book launch.http://instagram.com/faizasaqlain
All eyes turn to Sakeena as she makes the grand entrance. Clad in an ethereally elegant choice for the occasion, made after weeks of squabbles with Master Ji, it was finally, absolutely the fit she had always imagined for her book launch.
Sakeena had combined her literary influences and her own lived experiences to write the story of Ismat, through the character she aimed to empower women and expel the deeply rooted patriarchy in society.http://instagram.com/faizasaqlain
But the story doesn’t end there. The contents of the book, called Ismat (a nod to Ismat Chugtai, perhaps? the storyboard is set in post-Partition Pakistan, when Ismat Chugtai was at her prime), cause Sakeena’s in-laws to gossip, and the gossip inflames Lahore society, and before you know it, Sakeena’s father-in-law’s election dreams are at risk of being destroyed. All because Sakeena wrote one lousy book!
I think one of the Instagram photos is actually a short movie — a movie! — about how Sakeena’s novel is supposed to be turned into a play, but the gossip is too much, and the play may never happen, but then Sakeena’s husband says he supports his wife, and she’s a rising star in the Urdu literature world. And so the play is produced and everything turns out okay.
All because she wore Faiza Saqlain clothes. Damn, I need to order some of these outfits and maybe then I’ll win the Pulitzer. Because God knows I want all eyes on me and nobody actually reading my book.
I’m a pop culture buff, but I don’t usually write about television. Recently a television show came along, though, that has made me want to enthuse about it to anyone who will listen. I’m talking about “We Are Lady Parts”, originally aired on Channel 4 in the UK and now on Peacock in the US.
This show is created by British television writer Nida Manzoor, and it’s a six-part comedy musical series that follows the highs and lows of a punk feminist Muslim band in East London.
“Hang on, Bina. Did you say a punk feminist MUSLIM band?”
“Why yes, yes I did.”
“But aren’t all Muslim women oppressed victims who can only breathe if their husbands allow it?”
The premise: Saira, Ayesha, Bisma and their manager Momtaz are looking for a lead guitarist so they can enter the Sound Smash audition and be catapulted into fame and glory. They’re loud, brash, joyously feminine and proudly Muslim. Saira (Sarah Impey) is a butcher by day, bassist by night, a rebellious daughter who’s left home to pursue her own life. Bisma (Faith Omole), who plays rhythm guitar and performs backing vocals, is a married woman with a young daughter and a devilish screaming voice used to great effect onstage. Ayesha (Juliette Motamed) is the drummer, a British-Iraqi goth with magnificent winged eyeliner and a hunky brother — and a secret. Momtaz (Lucie Shorthouse) wears a full niqab behind which she smokes various substances with flair.
Enter Amina (Anjana Vasan), a nerdy PhD microbiology student at Queen Mary University who only teaches guitar because performing induces “nausea and vomiting.” The girls rope her into auditioning, using Ayesha’s handsome brother as a lure. Meanwhile, Amina rolls with a gang of the most judgmental Muslim women you could ever hope to see in Walthamstowe. Therefore she must keep her band life a secret — even though her parents are totally supportive of her musical endeavours.
With hysterically funny original songs written by Manzoor and her siblings, the show aims to take every stereotype of Muslim women and turn them inside out, let alone upside down. Subversive doesn’t even begin to cover it, with songs like “Ain’t No One Gonna Honor Kill My Sister But Me” and “Voldemort Under My Headscarf”.
I’m gonna kill my sister [Go on then!]
This ain’t about you, it’s between her and me
She stole my eyeliner [What a bitch]
And she’s been stretching my shoes out with her fucking big feet
It’s an honour killing, it’s an honour killing
It’s an honour killing, it’s an honour killing
I’m gonna kill my sister [Die, die, die
Do you wanna kill her, mister? [She’s mine, mine, mine]
I’m gonna kill my sister [Die, die, die
Do you wanna kill her, mister? [She’s mine motherfucker]
The show shows the young women using their voices in every way — singing, growling, screaming, whispering, cheering, laughing. (A scene where Amina performs at a spoken word event as a way of getting over her stage fright had my stomach in knots, so palpable was Amina’s terror). These are not quiet, oppressed, timid Muslim ciphers. They’re loud and proud. They argue, fight, express themselves, enjoy themselves. As Muslim women do in real life.
Visually, the show’s a treat too: each woman has her own unique fashion style, from Amina’s play-it-safe pastel hijabs and conservative casuals, to Saira’s Seattle vibe, to Bisma’s African-style turbans and Ayesha’s goth-meets-abaya chic. Momtaz is a stand-out with her black ensemble, cutoff finger gloves, motorcycle boots and jewelry. These women command attention wherever they go, and why not? They’re striking, colorful, beautiful in their own unique way, not the plastic Barbie doll botoxed-to-heaven husband-attracting perfection that so many Muslim girls are influenced by (Huda Beauty, I wasn’t talking about you, okay?).
Amina’s dilemma is every Muslim girl’s dilemma in today’s world: the pull of career and of individualism vs society and family expectations to keep a low profile and find a nice husband. Manzoor milks this for every ounce of comedy it’s got, but never in a cheesy or tired way. The jokes are fresh, the situations awkward, the spirit is bold. The F-word is thrown around liberally by the punks, while the Muslim Mean Girls are portrayed as so uptight they might actually explode under the weight of their own high standards.
Because the episodes are only 25 minutes long, the energy stays high as the show bounces along; there are only a few dull moments or places where the jokes fall flat. But the acting skills of the leads, notably Anjana Vasan and Sarah Impey, keep you mesmerized the whole time. Saira especially carries an intensity and anger that is particularly compelling to watch.
Funny, irreverent and sincere, We Are Lady Parts is a show to treasure. When I was in college (university for you British people), I played keyboards in a band with a couple of friends, but I was the only Muslim and we were really, really bad. I wish Lady Parts had been around back then; I would have played keyboards with them, and we would have completely rocked it. And then we would’ve gone and said our prayers together.
Malala Yousufzai appeared in British Vogue as its cover star this week, causing a stir. Her traditional look on the cover, and in the photographs accompanying the article, however, contrasted with an answer she gave to the interviewer, a journalist called Sirin Kale, about her thoughts on marriage and partnership.
The interview itself is a slice of life type piece, describing her time at university among an increasingly expanding personal life, and posing the all-too-familiar question for so many young people: what will Malala, arguably the world’s most famous university graduate, do next with her life? (She’s a fan of Among Us, a video game I have played a lot this year as well).
Naturally, Malala is considering a lot of options: should she live in the UK, move back to Pakistan, go to another country? Should she stay with her parents? Live independently? And then, there’s the question of marriage, which is on almost every 23 year old single Pakistani girl’s mind.
The interviewer asks her about relationships, if she met someone at Oxford. Here is where Malala has a bit of a meltdown. She grows embarrassed, mumbles something about hoping to find someone who respects her, and about how handsome Brad Pitt is in person. Then toward the end of the interview comes the crucial remarks: she talks about how all her friends are finding partners, but she isn’t sure if she wants to tread the same path.
She isn’t sure if she’ll ever marry herself. “I still don’t understand why people have to get married. If you want to have a person in your life, why do you have to sign marriage papers, why can’t it just be a partnership?” Her mother – like most mothers – disagrees. “My mum is like,” Malala laughs, “‘Don’t you dare say anything like that! You have to get married, marriage is beautiful.’” Meanwhile, Malala’s father occasionally receives emails from prospective suitors in Pakistan. “The boy says that he has many acres of land and many houses and would love to marry me,” she says, amused.British Vogue
Well, shit. Pakistani social media alighted upon this quote as if they were kites in the sky who had spotted a particularly tasty scrap of meat. If they were looking for something with which to bludgeon her to death, they found it: in the musings of a young woman who’s still trying to figure things out, things that confound the best and brightest of us, and the stupidest of us. “Should I get married or not, and why does there have to be marriage in the first place” is a question we’ve all asked ourselves, if we’ve got a single ounce of intelligence in our brains. (at 48, I know I ask myself the same question, and up to date neither have I found an appropriate answer nor a suitable candidate. And yet I still hope to get married some day.)
I don’t want to go into the nasty comments, the Z-list actresses who came out with statements against Malala, or the taunts of “un-Islamic” and “Zionist agent” that were showered upon Pakistan’s only Nobel Peace Prize laureate, one of its few Oxford graduates, and possibly the only girl in Pakistan to have been shot in the head and survived. They called her ugly, and that of course she wants a partnership because she’s too ugly to have a husband (in her interview, Malala said that men propose marriage in e-mails to her father all the time). The usual round of accusations and bizarre conspiracy theories — it’s a drama, she wanted a foreign passport, she was chosen by Jewish overlords to become Prime Minister of Pakistan — came out. In short, we’ve been on this rodeo before.
Also useless is to point out to the Pakistanis howling that Malala’s remarks on marriage are unIslamic that the concept of marriage in Islam, while strong and emphasized as part of Sunnah, has been fairly flexible over the centuries. A valid marriage contract written down on paper is not actually required; just a verbal agreement with witnesses will do (if we want to be very literal about it). In its early years, Islam also allowed sexual relationships with women you are not married to, but are “those whom your right hand posesses” — ie female prisoners of war, and concubines (for men only, not for women who own male slaves). A practice of temporary marriage, i.e mutah, was allowed at one point, which would then be dissolved after an agreed-upon amount of time had elapsed.
Some of these practices were established for reasons of practicality, and some of them have been abused rather than treated as the exceptions or temporary situations meant to give rights to children born out of the traditional marriage scenario. Some of these practices have been abolished, or outlawed in the modern nations where Islam is practiced. Many of these practices continue in secret. The evolution of a written marriage contract is a modern invention made in order to safeguard certain legal rights of the participants, as well as to be able to register marriages in records and databases. But there was once a time when nothing more was required for a binding partnership than two people saying in front of two witnesses that they wanted to be together as spouses.
Marriage is in short not the solid brick house that Pakistanis want to build and entrap two people in forever, regardless of their feelings, their needs, wants and desires. It is exactly what Malala expresses a little clumsily in her interview: a partnership with a door that either partner can open to leave any time she or he wants, with good reason. The Quran is clear that spouses are meant to be a comfort to one another, to have affection for one another, and to guard each others’ privacy and secrets. But it forces no one to marry against their will. If Malala is not ready to marry, and if she is never ready to marry, then she is within her rights not to do so.
Most important, she’s a 23 year old who is still trying to figure out things in life. Note that she says, “I still don’t understand why people have to be married.” Obviously, she understands that in Islam, you have to be married if you want to have sexual intercourse in a halal way. Here is a girl who still wears a dupatta on her head, even though she’s been all around the world and met world leaders and won the Nobel Prize. But she’s talking about a bigger idea: that marriage is an institution with plenty of baggage, and the technicalities and legalities can sometimes obscure what is important about the tenderness and understanding and affection that develops between humans.
I expect to hear in the fullness of time that Malala is getting married, once she’s worked some of these questions out in her head and met a man who respects her but also gives her the space she needs to be her own person and do what she came here to Earth to accomplish. Maybe she made a mistake not keeping these musings to herself, maybe she didn’t realize what it would sound like to her enemies and detractors. But to many of us, she’s voicing what we all think in our heads. She’s brave enough to say it out loud — but then bravery is what Malala has always been known for.
Addendum: It does bear asking why Malala evokes such vitriol from some of her compatriots (not all – there is a sizeable portion of Pakistanis who are very proud of her, and APS attack victim Waleed Ziad has said she is a role model for Pakistanis like him).
Basically, what Malala does is trigger Pakistanis because we feel very insecure about our standing in the world. This includes her supporters as well as her detractors. Those of us who support her want to believe in the fairytale because Pakistan has so few of them, and we’re desperate to have something good of our country out in the world. We vicariously feel respect because Malala is respected, and we get triggered when we see people hating on her as violently as they do.
Those who hate her feel she is actively working to expose our weaknesses to our enemies, but this is projection of their own fears and insecurities about Pakistan’s ability to survive its many challenges and threats. And when we feel bad about ourselves we look around for someone to blame it on, which happens to be Malala because she’s clearly visible and so prominent. We want to cut her down because we think she’s gotten too big and gone too far (in Australia, this is called Tall Poppy Syndrome).
So Malala is not just a litmus test to weed out jerks, as someone said so cleverly on Twitter the other day, but a psychological sore point through which Pakistanis express their frustrations about how we are perceived in the world and why we haven’t progressed further despite so many people trying so hard to achieve peace, prosperity and a good future for their children.
Malala Yousufzai has been through a lot, hasn’t she? So to see her on the cover of British Vogue’s June issue did something to my heart. Here’s a young woman who was shot in the face, suffered facial paralysis and damaged muscles as a result (you can see it when she speaks or smiles), wears a dupatta on her head, dresses in Pakistani clothing — and she’s on the cover of Vogue. “Survivor, activist, legend” reads the caption.
Wearing a crimson dupatta draped gracefully over her head and shoulders, a matching crimson kamiz, the background is crimson – the color of blood, the color of love – and with one hand up to her face, right where her facial muscles droop as a result of her injuries. A slight smile, light brown eyes glowing, her skin neither artificially lightened nor fashionably tanned. Thick, untamed eyebrows.
The cover of fucking Vogue, bastion of supermodels, society women, movie stars and pop princesses. And there she is, a Pakistani woman, coming into her own. Most people consider it an honor to be on the cover of Vogue. In the case of Malala, Vogue is honored by her being on its cover.
She is, quite simply, herself. And that is the only accolade she needs.