Malala the Hypocrite

In July 2021, Malala told Vogue, “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?”

And now, in November 2021, Malala has announced she’s gotten married. With a nikah, not even a civil ceremony! What a hypocrite!

Well, she fooled us all, didn’t she? Telling us that she believes in “live-in” relationships, that she didn’t believe in marriage, and she wouldn’t ever get married herself. I mean, that is what she said, isn’t it? That is EXACTLY what she meant without any of us projecting our biases onto her words, right? And how come she got to change her mind without asking for our permission or approval?

What she said in British Vogue is written in stone, it can never be changed, it’s immutable. We must take her words more seriously than those of our politicians and leaders, because she has been chosen by the West as the poster child of … something or the other. We should live and die by her words, because she has that much power.

How dare she question that most holy of institutions, matrimony, which in Islam is held more sacred than prayer, Hajj, fasting, and zakat! After all, in Islam, there is only one type of marriage — the nikah, conducted between one man and woman. We have never had any other tradition, including temporary marriage (mutah), or misyar marriage (where the spouses don’t have to live together)!

We have so much respect for marriage in Pakistan that nobody ever commits adultery, nobody ever gets divorced, there’s no such thing as watta-satta, or child marriage, or forced conversions and marriages. I mean, with such high standards, Malala should be the paragon of virtue as the chosen representative of the entire Pakistani nation and Muslim ummah.

And now that she’s gotten married, to a Pakistani man no less (not a white, as Taslima Nasreen repeatedly reminds us), we have to burn her at the stake again, because she’s disappointed us once more. How come she didn’t choose to live with some English guy in a nice little house in Oxford, and have a couple of kids out of wedlock? Wouldn’t that have been better for her, and better for us, so that we could continue to rail against her on every social media platform there is?

What a hypocrite. Fine, Malala, go and get married if you want to. I for one am going to protest outside the Pakistani Embassy in London because you subscribe to such a patriarchal institution and you went and married someone who feels like home.

Her marriage is a Western conspiracy anyway.

Aik Hai Nigar

Over the weekend I watched the ARY telefilm Aik Hai Nigar (There’s Only One Nigar) about the life of Lt. Gen. Nigar Johar, the Pakistan Army’s first female lieutenant general (and first female Surgeon General). The film stars Pakistan’s sweetheart Mahira Khan as Nigar, and Bilal Ashraf as her husband Johar, who served in the army as an engineer.

The film follows Nigar’s life from childhood in Swabi, through her studies at the Army Medical College, her marriage, and her steady climb up the army ranks until she achieves her goal of becoming a general. Her trials and tribulations, the loss of her parents and sisters in a car accident, her determination to serve her patients as a national duty, and her single-mindedness in pursuing excellence are all highlighted nicely in the film.

The relationship with her husband Johar is also portrayed in an intimate and warm way, almost too good to be true. Whatever Nigar does, Johar supports her and shows no qualms about having an ambitious and career-oriented wife. As they say, behind every successful man is a successful wife, but Aik Hai Nigar shows the opposite is also true. It would have been interesting to see if Nigar would have gone as far as she did without such a supportive husband, but that can only be hypothetical. Still, it’s nice to see a marital relationship portrayed on the screen that is full of positivity, affection and harmony. They are confidants and partners to each other, and certainly very photogenic. Good casting in general, especially of Bilal Ashraf as the handsome and loving Johar.

Neat cameos include Dr. Sarah Nadeem (an endocrinologist in real life) as Nigar’s mother, and Natasha Humera Ejaz (a talented singer and performer) as a tart colleague at the Army Hospital. It’s always great to see friends pop up like this!

Dr. Sarah Nadeem

Natasha Humera Ejaz

Mahira Khan’s performace as Nigar is consistent with her other roles as a woman who overcomes odds and triumphs in the end, no matter what the circumstances. But sometimes she doesn’t take enough risks with the roles — and that could be the fault of the script, as it doesn’t leave much room for Nigar the human being as opposed to Nigar the heroine. I’d personally have liked to see a more human side of Nigar: the one who doesn’t always cope with a smile after a short spell of crying. One who gets angry, who gets frustrated, or who doesn’t always get along with everyone around her. The biopic risks turning into a hagiography this way.

But for a couple of hours, it isn’t a bad thing to lose oneself in the story of this — by all accounts — extraordinary Pakistani woman, and enjoy a story that ends on a positive note. Lt. Gen Nigar Johar is still alive and well, serving in the army as the Surgeon General. One particularly nice piece of dialogue for me: at school, the wife of a General presides as chief guest at a function. Nigar’s mother tells her she could be a general’s wife one day, but Nigar responds that she will be a general herself one day, wait and see.

And we do.

A Bird With One Wing

“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.

On Reading Against White Feminism

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

Judith Butler and Afghan women

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 fine

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?

Nadia Ghulam Dastgir is an Afghan woman who spent ten years posing as her dead brother to evade the Taliban’s strictures against women

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.

PS: I’m a fiction writer by trade. Please check out this list of dystopias about controlling women’s bodies, headed by my 2018 novel Before She Sleeps.

Talking Pakistani Feminism

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?

Dressed to un-impress

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:

I also totally pose like this with my book in the tony wood-paneled library of a private club when I’m doing my book launch.

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.

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.

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 totally dress like this when I’m writing a novel.
The artful draping of your brocade dupatta on the chair is key to writing a good 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.

We Are Lady Parts

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?”

Yeah. Sure.

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.

Saira recites Speak, For Your Lips Are Still Free by Faiz Ahmed Faiz at the spoken word event where Amina has a meltdown