A Poem for Women in Islam

Ah, the serendipities of Google. Yesterday, while searching for information on Mr. Michael Clarke, one of the featured stars in a previous post, what should pop up but the official website of Iran Radio. Like NPR , except for the real mullahs instead of merely their camp followers.

And on this website was a page for women, a page full of exhortation and an invitation to Islam's women to join forces. The organization is called Worldwide Islamic Network of Women; the acronym they use is WINOW. Cool, huh? And just like the NOW group here, it’s a page urging the faithful to follow the dogma and the drill, to convert and see the light -- their light, anyway. So now you have these two feminist groups, WINOW and NOW —the new Scylla and Charbydis for women.

The author of the following poem, winnowed from this same page, is anonymous. Somehow this piece looks a lot like the negative image of various feminist "poetry" devoted to the liberating joys of abortion. Same dubious aesthetic, too.

Be Proud of Hijab

You look at me and call me oppressed,
Simply because of the way I'm dressed,
You know me not for what's inside,
You judge the clothing I wear with pride,
My body's not for your eyes to hold,
You must speak to my mind, not my feminine mold,
I'm an individual, I'm no mans slave,
It's Allahs pleasure that I only crave,
I have a voice so I will be heard,
For in my heart I carry His word,
"O ye women, wrap close your cloak,
So you won't be bothered by ignorant folk",
Man doesn't tell me to dress this way,
It's a Law from God that I obey,
Oppressed is something I'm truly NOT,
For liberation is what I've got,
It was given to me many years ago,
With the right to prosper, the right to grow,
I can climb moutains or cross the seas,
Expand my mind in all degrees,
For God Himself gave us LIB-ER-TY,
When He sent Islam,
To You and Me!
Here is the exegesis:

You look at me and call me oppressed,
That's because you are, sweet-pea. Doesn't require a degree in engineering to recognize fear when I see it hidden.

Simply because of the way I'm dressed,
Who in their right mind would dress that way in the desert heat if they didn't have to?

You know me not for what's inside,
No, but I can take a good guess that you wouldn't dare step outside without that covering. And you don't know what's inside anyone who isn't forced to dress that way either. Your point?

You judge the clothing I wear with pride,
No, it's more that I judge the misogynists who force a whole culture to see women as so dangerous and men as having so little self-control that women have to wear bags over their heads.

My body's not for your eyes to hold,
Don't give yourself airs. No one's looking that hard.

You must speak to my mind, not my feminine mold,
Ri-i-ight. And if I speak to you without your father's, your brother's and your uncle's permission, you're dead meat. All because of your "feminine mold." Tell me, what is a prison of cloth like? Have you ever run through a field barefoot, or laughed out loud in public, or walked somewhere by yourself just to think?

I'm an individual, I'm no mans slave,
If you say so. But how come you have to ask permission to go out, to marry, to talk to someone? Or how do you define "slave"?

It's Allahs pleasure that I only crave,
Spare me your religiosity. You don't have to wear blankets and live under someone's thumb in order to please Allah.

I have a voice so I will be heard,
But you may not use that voice to sing, may you? And no talking to men either. Sure you do. You have a voice. Just keep telling yourself that so your vocal cords don't atrophy. How many times in your life have you used that voice to say "no" to something you felt was wrong?

For in my heart I carry His word,
So do millions of other women, but they don't have to muffle up in yards of blankets to carry His word.

"O ye women, wrap close your cloak,
So you won't be bothered by ignorant folk",
Yeah. Wrap up and make a spectacle of yourself.

Man doesn't tell me to dress this way,
And if I believe that you've got some property in the Sahara to sell me, right?

It's a Law from God that I obey,
You keep on believing that. It might make your plight less awful.

Oppressed is something I'm truly NOT,
Of course NOT…you're the exemplar for freedom, you are.

For liberation is what I've got,
In which particular corpuscle do you store all this liberation? And what are you saving it for?

It was given to me many years ago,
Liberty is not 'given' - it's A given, like life and the pursuit of happiness.

With the right to prosper, the right to grow,
Hmmm. You get to do it your way, right? And other women are just beating the door down for the chance to be like you, aren't they? And you never cry yourself to sleep at night, do you?

I can climb moutains or cross the seas,
As long as you get permission first.

Expand my mind in all degrees,
But how come you can't sit in the same classroom with those "Others" - the men - while expanding your mind with degrees? How come you all have to sit in separate classrooms down the hall and see the teacher on a monitor?

For God Himself gave us LIB-ER-TY,
He did indeed. And someone stole yours and put this pitiful sham in its place.

When He sent Islam,
This is received opinion to which you are most welcome. I'm just glad the liberty He handed me didn't include this part of your contract.

To You and Me!
Ummm..I don't know how to tell you this, dear heart, but it's yours, not mine. Wear it, with your various and sundry coverings, in good health.

*********************************

This is Persian poetry? Hafiz is rolling over in his grave. And I can feel an attack of the vapors coming on. Pardon me while I go lie down with a cool cloth on my forehead. Oh Lordy, the sentiments expressed here are making me positively vertiginous.

Now wherever did I leave those smelling salts?