On Burkinis and Bikinis

There is this unhealthy obsession with the bodies of women. Muslim women in particular. The thematic discussion regarding women’s bodies is always in policing what Muslim women can and cannot do with their own bodies supported by a strict interpretation of religious texts and a botched sense of liberalism.

Right from time immemorial, Muslim women are forced to have to choose between covering up and not covering up, making the Islamic ruling on hijab/headscarves a black and white affair whilst ignoring the grey area. Due to a patriarchal interpretation of Islam, women of the Islamic faith have often found themselves having to choose between wearing the hijab and not wearing the hijab with both choices been politicized.

Muslim women are stuck--going forward, a liberal western society that claims they refuse to integrate and--moving backwards, meeting a religious society that claims they are forcing westernization upon themselves hence losing their virtuousness and the essence of being “flowers” (or whatever metaphor they use to describe the reasons behind forcing women to cover up).

The recent Burkini (a type of swim wear Muslim women wear to the beach instead of swimsuits) ban in France is no different from the forced hijab in Iran. What differentiates forcing women to cover up and forcing them to not cover up? Whilst in the process of this discussion, the ability to choose which is a fundamental aspect of being human has been removed for the Muslim woman hence, absolving her of her humanity meaning, objectifying her.

Whether it is in Iran or in France, the politicizing of Muslim women’s bodies is the biggest play in the disappearance of women. You cannot help but wonder why there is an excessive amount of fuss over a piece of clothing.

The forced hijab in Iran is a political act to stifle women. If you force women to hide behind a veil, you force them to remain in their place (usually at home without any real influence in governance or leadership), and if you force a woman to take of her hijab, you force her to literally have to hide at home and not be out in public space. Here is the part where some of you would ask “Well why don’t they take it off?”. It is not as simple as that.

The hijab is a lot more than a political/religious symbol, to some women, it is a spiritual act of worship. Women who choose to wear the hijab do so in accordance with the wives of Prophet Muhammad S.A.W whom were deemed the most pious of all women, they choose to protect their sanctity with a hijab, to cover their body while in the presence of people whom were not immediate family. To some women, it is an empowerment tool and taking that away from them is taking away their power over their body. It is a violation of human rights. The hijab is no different than the scarf nuns wear. If a woman can wear a bikini to the sea without humiliation, why can't another woman wear a burkini to the sea without humiliation? Double standards? 

This hijab discourse has polarized Muslim women into two different ideological positions. To accept the hijab is to be extremist and to reject the hijab is to be secular/western. This is the part where we insert a grey area where a woman can both be Muslim+not wear the hijab and also Muslim+wear the hijab yet still active members of the society.

The west wonders why Muslim women do not integrate when an inclusive environment for the successful integration of Muslim women into their communities is not created. The recent burkini ban in France if anything, has set the west back hundreds of years. In 2016, where western women are granted the freedom to walk the streets wearing close to nothing, Muslim women have being rejected the freedom to be fully covered, citing “security” concerns as supporting grounds. 
This is the absolute hypocrisy of secularism and we should all be rightly outraged.

The Insolence Of Hope

I was born in the 90s, not the most monumental time in history, the world was still healing from the war, still healing from the war. i was born two years before Rwandans turned against each other, blood against blood, black on black killing, bodies piled to the sky, the angels did not know what to do with all that grief. The 90s were a subtle time still, the world, looked forward to a new millenia, cupping hope in two hands, forgiving history for it's callous reminders of our shortcomings.

My sister was born in 2000, a new millennia, the naivety of hope. A year later, all that hope came tumbling from the sky. Hades opened his wide mouth to catch the remnants of the hope that lingered amidst the the smoke. Two builidngs shook the world and the skies opened up to cry blood. New york city residents picked out their dead and immortalised them in their hearts. That same moment
a naive child in Iraq was having the audacity to hope for a future in this brave new world, until fighter jets started dropping packages of carnage and broken dreams.

Our insolence to hope for a millennia filled with time travelers and Marty Mcfly shoes, have promised children like my little sister, a yet still possible lifetime of serenity, hanging in the air,
an unfulfilled promise.

We Women

We African women tie loss around our waists, colorful beads around long strings. when we dance, we dance with our pain and our pride, melodies only we can hear, we dance. we dance.

We Black women, simmering in the hue of molten chocolate, carry thighs that rub against thighs and arms that embrace, the bulk of the world. grabbing onto our children, teaching them two times perfection.

We African women, who do not cry for the children to see, who walk out at 3am, sit and make pap, mixed with tears and love.

We Black women, who do not say words like "I love you", instead, we prepare three of your best meals before you come home and serve cold zobo.

We African women, who are each others saviors, whose backs are bent from carrying the world, we hold the universe against wide bosoms, pat the people to sleep while we stay awake, and fix everyone's blankets.

We Black women, whom are everyone's fetish, everyone's one time sexual adventure, those women who love themselves painful and joyously, who do not let the world, see them break.

Memories

Some people become memories
Like fleeting images
Birds in the sky
Some people become statues
Un-moving sculptures
Constantly staring

Some people become rain
Cleansing us
Washing away our sins
Some people become thunder
Terrifyingly glorious
Almost beautiful
Some people become fire
They set us ablaze
And leave us begging
For lighter fluid.

Water, Sand, Mud

Writing has become extremely difficult. Mainly because this heart, is finding it increasingly hard to write from within. There is a yearning within for a place, a person or a thing. Writing for a while, was that thing, it was soul food. Now...now it is a stress. Writing must never be a forced act, a compulsion, it must stem from the places where the light does not touch. There is so much brightness around me and it is not the sun. The sounds are not music rather, screams and whimpers.

At the beginning of this year, i made peace with the fact that i would not be writing as much as i used to. The nature of my job does not leave too much room for personal expression. Also, i am having zero enthusiasm and motivation to write. This will be my last post for a while i think...or not. I am still not sure. I feel like this blog has had it's time and it is time to die out with grace. Yet, a part of me is still hoping things change and writing once more becomes my warm embrace. I do not know for a fact if i will not be back here but i will not leave you, reader . You can always find articles by me on ezibota.com or follow my dear friends blog https://heartsanddeserts.wordpress.com , she is truly talented and she has a lot to say. With this, i bid you, reader Sayonara. I might see you tomorrow.

xoxo
Shaheedah

In Borno State

In Borno state
you imagine being someone else
you are in Abuja
in one of those big houses
there is no blood
no stench of death
just big cars
and big houses

In Borno state
they call you IDPs
refugees in your own home
you know it is a lie
there was a time when
the children were children
and the schools were not tents

In Borno state
you imagine one day
families would stay
you wouldn't live
in filthy camps
you wouldn't know
the smell of sympathy
and the sound of pity

In Borno State
you are not you
you are not running
you are not hiding
In Borno State
you are home again

The Importance Of Pages Like Humans Of New York

I have always followed the HONY page. I always look forward to reading Brandon's page whenever he travelled out of the US, like when he toured the Middle east and then a bit of Asia.

I know i am not alone in this. I would scroll through people's comments whenever i am done reading a story to see people's reaction. Mine is usually exhilaration, especially stories that directly resonate with me and i find that same exhilaration in other people's comments so why are these stories important to us?

What really draws people to the HONY page is Brandon’s ability to capture a story. Most times, what seem insignificant turns out to be truly significant once an image is placed behind it. It is one thing to read a fictional story or watch a movie on an issue; it is another thing to see a visual representation of someone whom has, in reality, experienced that particular issue.

What makes HONY so important? The Human Story. The power of the people. We may think people’s individual narratives are not important but truly they are. All our stories matter. As a writer, I have always struggled with finding a reason why people would read my work and it is the same as that of HONY. The human story, the human narrative is important.

So many times I have cried through the HONY page, it is not like there is anything I have not watched on TV before or heard stories about, but the fact that this time around, there is an image behind this story, a living breathing life…it changes everything. I scroll through comments on the HONY page and I see people’s comments, amidst the bitterness of this world, there is still a lot of compassion. People find themselves relating to other people’s stories and there is a sense of “I am not alone in this” or “Look, someone in the same situation as I made it, then so can i”, there is so much hope and emotion intertwined in the human story.

So many times, we have seen how a single image and a single narrative can turn one person’s life around, the power of the people is truly magnificent in this sense. Through Brandon, people have reached out and successfully helped other people. If this compassion exists still, then there is still hope for humanity. Then we are not entirely lost. I made a speech one time off the top of my head because I lost the sheet I wrote my actual speech on at the last minute. Most of it is a blur to me right now but I remember hearing myself saying, “There is a story inside each and everyone of us, we are all living stories and sharing our stories sail us through life.” I went home thinking about the words that came out of my mouth without me planting them in my head and I realized that it came from my heart. I truly believe in the power of one person’s story. I truly believe sharing our stories changes our lives in one way or another. I understand why shrinks always encourage people to share their stories.

HONY shows us the significance of a person. We live our lives oblivious to the joys and sufferings of others and we are supposed to be okay with that. To find fulfilment in life, we must allow ourselves to feel. Some of us put up these walls for ourselves, maybe with reason but there is no ordeal, big enough to steal away the compassion and love from a person’s heart. We have to always be able to extend a curtain of love like a Patronus (harry potter metaphor because...NERD) and cover the people we meet along our paths.

I plan on buying Brandon’s book simply because I want to read people’s lives and be filled with a feeling that I cannot yet describe. It is warm and filled with love and other sweetness. You must feel it to. If you have an open heart, you have to feel it too.

Sayonara

xoxo