Sekka Spring 2022: Womanhood by Sekka

BE INSPIRED 4

From the Khaleeji Art Museum Collection. Photograph by Hajar Al Mutairi.

Storyteller-In-Chief: Manar Alhinai Managing Storyteller: Sharifah Alhinai Contributing Writers: Layla AlAmmar, Fatima Al Dhaheri, MD, Akram Alkatreb, Fadwa Al Taweel, Amal Al Sahlawi, Rym Tina Ghazal, Alaa Hasanin, Shaistha Khan, Hasnaa Mokhtar and Vittoria Volgare Detaille, Shahd Alshammari, PhD, Maryam Alshehhi, Maitha Alsuwaidi, Samya Ayish, Georgie Bradley. Art Directors: Maya Al Moukayed Tamara Romcevic Translators: Jonas Elbousty, PhD Salma Harland Katherine Van de Vate Contributing Illustrator: Hala Al Abbasi Interns: Sadeem Al-Qorashi Alanood Al Wahaibi Aya Salah About: Sekka is an independent publication and integrated creative platform that is dedciated to art, culture, literature and opinions from the Arab world, with a focus on the Arab Gulf States. It has been published since 2017 to share the rich stories of the region and amplify the voices of its people. Copyright: © 2021 Sekka Ltd. All rights reserved. Neither this publication or any part of it may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent of Sekka Ltd. Sekka is published three times a year by Sekka Ltd., a company registered in London, the United Kingdom. For corrections, please e-mail editorial@sekkamag.com. Disclaimer: The views of contributors and those featured in Sekka are their own, and do not

ISSN 2754-432X (Print) ISSN 2754-4338 (Online) Subscriptions

ways. We may feel connected through our language or because of the interests we share or the places from which we originate. However, what makes each of us unique are and the stories that could one day inspire positive change in the world. Media has long been a powerful channel through which the stories of the world have been told, the issues of importance have been discussed and change has been driven. However, in such a powerful sector, women around the world have been underrepresented in comparison to their male counterparts, leading much of the world’s stories to be told by men. A report published in 2020 by the World Economic Forum cited a 2015 study revealing that only 24 per cent of news sources are women. Another study published in 2017 by the New York–based Women’s Media Center found that 63 per cent of TV credits and by-lines were that of men. While many may not think much of it, by underrepresenting the voices of women, we are not sharing the stories half the world has to tell. Stories of half the world’s population will remain untold, unless media outlets take initiatives to change course.

started Sekka was to amplify the voices of the people of the Arab world, especially its women. Women of our region have long had their narratives hijacked by numerous international media outlets and publications, where they are frequently mis- and underrepresented. Numerous negative assumptions and stereotypes have been made about us. We have often been portrayed in the media as exotic creatures, people without agency, weak and much more. We’ve been painted with the same brush, yet we know as An Arab woman is a scientist, businesswoman, artist, leader, achiever... Most importantly, she is more than what the media often portrays her to be. As we celebrate International Women’s Day this month, a group of Arab women from across various sectors explore what it means to be an Arab woman today, speak for themselves about their successes and the challenges they face and highlight issues of importance to them. Standing behas affected who they are, and they share the direction in which they would like to go from here. Their male counterparts, including Moroccan photographer Mous Lamrabat, whose work is featured on our cover, also take part by creatively celebrating women they have known through their various paths. Are you ready to listen?

Oprah Winfrey once said, ‘We can’t become what we need to be by remaining what we are,’ and at Sekka, we have really taken these words to heart. One of the reasons we

If the Shoe Fits by Mous Lamrabat. Image courtesy of Mous Lamrabat.

Photography by Mous Lamrabat. Image courtesy of Mous Lamrabat.

Susan Sontag aptly describes photography as the act of participating in ‘another person’s morality, vulnerability, mutability.’ In an issue dedicated to womanhood, we turn the spotlight on the men behind the camera – why and how do they capture the vulnerabilities, duality and experiences of Arab women?

For chemical engineer turned commercial photograhe witnessed a woman denied access to the pool at a pool party because of her modest coverall. ‘She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, and yet, here she was being called out and embarrassed in front of everyone,’ says the Dubai-based photographer. ‘This incident bothered me so much that I decided to shoot a woman dressed in traditional Emirati attire – complete with the thobe [a long, kaftan-like garment] and batoola [a face cover] – but submerged in a pool.’ The shoot, titled Don’t Tell Me What to Wear, strongly resonated with people, and since then, Shah has found himself drawn towards stories that challenge societal norms and expectations. For instance, his highly acclaimed photo series of 2019, Rock Your Ugly, captured everyday people’s vulnerabilities as they took back the narrative and ‘reclaimed parts of themselves that they struggled to embrace.’ are accompanied by stories of physical and psychological insecurities that stem from toxic beauty standards or expectations. The series started with Shah sharing his own insecurities on Instagram, ‘but it soon evolved into a journey of letting other people know that whatever they are embarrassed or ashamed of,

other people are struggling with the same thing,’ he says. ‘Once people realise that all of us are struggling with the same issues, we would probably be nicer to each other and treat each other with more women, Shah believes women are braver and more comfortable than men and bring their feelings to the forefront of a photograph. In one photograph, he captures Omani-Emirati media personality Azza Al Mughairy as she pours a glass of water on her stomach. After giving birth, Al Mughairy went on a drastic liquid diet to lose weight. ‘Societal expectations made her feel like she needed to get back to her old, pre-baby body,’ Shah explains. ‘The photograph depicts how she hoped water would help suppress her appetite.’ In another, Shah captures a striking photograph of makeup artist Kimberly Carey as she holds a razor over her head. In the photo caption (now part of Shah’s book, Rock Your Ugly), Carey opens up about her 20-year journey with alopecia, an autoimmune disorder that causes severe hair loss.

Next page: From the Don’t Tell Me What to Wear series. Image courtesy of Waleed Shah.

Media personality Azza Al Mughairy as captured by Waleed Shah. Image courtesy of Waleed Shah.

Makeup artist Kimberly Carey as photographed by Waleed Shah. Image courtesy of Waleed Shah.

In his 2020 photo series, Magazine Covers, Shah takes a satirical approach to what he describes as the supposedly glamorous notion of ‘making it to the cover.’ He explains,‘I got tired of seeing fashion or beauty magazines and the fascination with being featured on a magazine.’ It started with Shah sharing a mock magazine cover on his Instagram page that featured a model. ‘Place your image here to become a big deal,’ the magazine cover read. In the Instagram caption, Shah states, ‘Proud to have shot this magazine cover for Magazine Cover Magazine.’ Soon enough, people on social media were curious to hear where they could buy these magazines. In a somewhat Banksy style, Shah went around the city putting a few covers on supermarket shelves. More than a gimmick, the Magazine Cover photo series is meant a close-up of a model’s face, heavily adorned with makeup. A background of makeup paraphernalia is used to brush and retouch the model’s face.

Left: Magazine Cover Magazine by Waleed Shah. Image courtesy of Waleed Shah.

‘Coz Your Real Face Ain't Cutting It,’ the cover reads, hinting at the multibillion-dollar fashion and tions. Another features a woman eating from a lavish spread. ‘17 Brunches to be Seen At,’ the cover reads, speaking about the region’s extravagant and excessively commercialised brunch culture. In yet another photograph, Shah captures a woman looking into the mirror as her waistline is morphed, making her look comically disproportionate. ‘Make it Stop,’ the caption reads, referring to individuals’ constant obsession with retouching images and conforming to a particular body size. While pushing the envelope on creative projects, Shah is also inspired by his wife to change how others view the world: ‘When I started looking at things that bothered her and the world from her perspective, it opened my eyes to things that I was oblivious to before,’ he says. ‘I am bothered by the divide in the way men and women are treated.’ With his commercial work, Shah tries to break stereotypes by suggesting clients have a male model cooking instead in advertisements. ‘Eighty percent of the time, I will receive pushback from the client, but afterwards, it is celebrated for breaking stereotypes,’ he says.

Like Shah, photographer Mous Lamrabat believes in pushing the narrative by ‘placing things where they don’t belong.’ Lamrabat’s signature style combines his North African and Moroccan heritage with Western or pop culture aesthetics. Some of his instantly recognisable work includes female silhouettes amid a monotonous, nondescript desert landscape, but they are wearing brightly coloured djellabas [a kaftan style worn in Morocco] with the Los Angeles Lakers and Chicago Bulls logos. The caption reads, ‘Mountain Goats,’ alluding to basketball icons Kobe Bryant and Michael Jordan. ‘It’s just who I am,’ says the Belgium-based photographer. ‘I like putting things where they don’t belong, and this [contrast] makes things interesting.’ The interior designer turned photographer cites examples of using the McDonald’s golden arches or the Wu-Tang logo as henna designs in his photo series. ‘For most people, it depicts the commercialised world that we live in,’ he says, ‘but the only way I explain it is that it is everything that I was obsessed about, everything that talks to me.’

Growing up in Belgium, Lamrabat couldn’t afford Nike shoes. Fuelled by an obsession with the unattainable shoes, he drew the Nike logo on the inside McDonald’s can be attributed to his formative life experience of working after school at the chain. In one striking image, he captures a woman wearing a black burqa [a cloak that covers the entire body and face except for the eyes] and holding a larger-than-life Nike swoosh sign, with the accompanying caption, ‘Just pray for it,’ a cheeky take on Nike’s ‘Just Do It.’ While one might view Lamrabat’s work as illustrating brand loyalty, his work also portrays the duality of the diaspora experience. ‘Being born in one place and growing up in another, you tend to face an identity crisis,’ he says. ‘But that isn’t a bad thing. There’s so much more that you can offer to the world – it positive.’ He also adds that having recognisable elements from popular culture attracts a diverse group of people to his work. Speaking of photographing female silhouettes, Lamrabat believes it comes very naturally to him. ‘I did it to symbolise women and not just the person in the frame. It’s about encouraging

If the Shoe Fits by Mous Lamrabat. Image courtesy of Mous Lamrabat.

Do You Want Fries With That? by Mous Lamrabat. Image courtesy of Mous Lamrabat.

the strength of women by not showing her face. It feels like the anonymity of it makes it universal and can be applicable to everyone.’ Lamrabat believes covering the face adds a mysterious allure to his subjects, and people can use their imagination to create ‘a face’ or interpret something one, everyone around me reacted differently to the image that “didn’t have a face,’’’ he adds. ‘Some found it emotional; others found it humorous…I felt to their interpretation.’

traditional attire), Lamrabat shares how it saddened him to receive stares from people on the street. ‘This is something that bothers me, and I am trying to deconstruct how and why that is … I am trying to normalise our culture – these things exist, and people comes in. ‘With your visuals and imagery, you are trying to change that conversation. When one goes into a gallery of an artist who is bothered by these things in society, you tend to look a little longer and listen a little harder. I’m trying to make the aesthetics of our culture … cool.’

When asked if these images unintentionally play into Western stereotypes that women who wear the burqa are oppressed or have no agency, Lamrabat responds that he doesn’t believe his work fuels these stereotypes . However, it does bother him that Middle Eastern and African cultures or traditions are never considered mainstream. ‘If the rapper M.I.A wears a burqa in a music video, the whole world calls it a “creative genius.” But if you see the same attire on the streets or on the news, people panic.’

Pinky Promises by Mous Lamrabat. Image courtesy of Mous Lamrabat.

'I’m trying to make the aesthetics of our culture … cool. ' ’

Tima Shomali. Image by Shukri Lawrence.

leaving their mark on the world. They have won or been nominated for some of the most prestigious international awards. Like Twenty Impossibles (2003), by Palestinian at the Cannes International Film Festival. In the past three years, Lebanese Nadine Labaki, Syrian Waad al-Kateab, British Palestinian Farah Nabulsi and Tunisians Kaouther Ben Hania and Meryam Joobeur were all nominated for Oscars.

Global streaming service and production company it released AlRawabi School for Girls, its second original Arabic series. The TV mini-series celebrates women not only on the screen but also behind the camera. Jordanian Tima Shomali co-wrote and directed the show, and the Amman-based company FilmZion, which Shomali founded in 2013, co-produced it. Shomali is not new to this industry. As a little girl, she had particularly clear ideas about who she wanted to become. ‘As a child, I used to gather my sisters and cousins, and I created stories. I had my mom’s old video camera, and I would act, write the story and direct it. I’ve always done so many things at the same time. Even for the credits, I would pass the papers in front of the camera,’ she recalls. Today, in her mid-30s, the multi-talented Shomali is more than a director; she is also a producer, writer and actress. ‘In every project, I never do only one thing,’ Shomali comments. Active in the industry since 2008, Shomali earned acclaim in the Middle East with her 2012 YouTube show Femaleshow, for which she was the writer, creator, producer and lead actress. ‘After the third episode, it became a huge hit and sponsors started approach-

ing me to produce various seasons. From YouTube, the show was bought by TV channels, and it became three seasons,’ she recounts. Whereas Femaleshow became a hit in the Middle East and North Africa (MENA) region, AlRawabi School for Girls went global. ‘It was trending in Latin America for one month, number three in France. It was a hit in so many countries. And people from different corners of the globe started reaching out. That was amazing for me, as the world is used to watching Western content and very little from the Middle

Of course, it has to be a good show in order to travel from regional to international,’ Shomali explains. Shomali wants to break barriers, and she does this well. However, doing so often leads to criticism. AlRawabi School for Girls, a drama series about bullying in a Jordanian girls’ school and sexual harassrebukes from people denying that these phenomena happen in their country.

AlRawabi School for Girls. Image by RSG.

‘I like people to have a conversation in every content I create. It’s very important for me because if I don’t change anything, I would feel like I have failed somewhere. This is how I measure success: if something has an impact,’ she says. ‘The series opened a conversation. Parents watched it with their kids, and they had a dialogue about it. I received so many messages from families and students who said how deeply they connected with the show and related to it,’ the director explains. She also thinks content should be entertaining and mainstream: ‘This is how you reach people. You can’t just preach. If you preach, where is the art?’

According to Shomali, if both sexes struggle simichallenges in entertainment are more formidable for women – from a cultural point of view. ‘Without generalising, it starts with the family. They can be the FemaleShow, a relative suggested I should stop. If a man had done the same, I don’t think any family member would have intervened.’ Another challenge Shomali faces is that as a woman, she must ‘work harder in order to prove to be worth it. A man would reach the same level of a woman without having to work that hard.’

For Shomali, the greatest achievement of AlRawabi School for Girls was that women gained the courage to share their own experiences of being bullied or sexually harassed. ‘We had an army online . . . an army of women defending and talking about the show. We made a movement.’

As a woman, she also feels the need to explain each decision she makes. ‘Instead of focusing on my work, I need to convince people about my choices. Otherwise, they would think I am bossy and controlling, but if it is a man, they say that he knows what he is doing.’

‘In a male-dominated culture, AlRawabi School for Girls represented the occasion for women to shine behind and in front of the camera. Of course men exist, and we appreciate their work, but I wanted to tell women’s stories from the eyes of women in terms of writing, producing and directing. The main characters are girls. The director of photography and the production designer are women. I wanted most of the heads of departments to be women,’ Shomali continues.

Nevertheless, the future looks bright for women in this industry: ‘We have so many amazing female producers, great women directors, although there could be more . . . It is very important for us female directors to give chances to other women.’

'It is very important for us female directors to give chances to other women.' 35

Portrait of Haifa Beseisso. Image courtesy of Haifa Beseisso.

Overcoming stereotypes and offering authentic female perspectives, Arab women in the entertainment industry are thriving. Social media has played an important role by not only offering platforms for women to be heard and seen but also providing them with opportunities to earn income from online content. In some cases, social media has even been revolutionary when used to demand legislative changes and take on issues such as sexual harassment, patriarchy and gender-based violence.

Sudanese Iraqi comedian Maha Jafaar. Image by Makki Rashid.

Arab women’s presence on social media platforms is huge, and many have large audiences, some comprising millions of followers. Although plenty of female there is also an army of women who have become drivers of change. According to ‘Social Media in the Arab World: The Impact on Youth, Women and Social Change,’ a study by the European Institute of the Mediterranean (IEMed), Arab women have played a leading role in the historic, political and civic changes sweeping the region. Notwithstanding the challenges, women such as Haifa Beseisso and Maha Jaafar have played parts in overcoming stereotypes about the Middle East and Arab women. Beseisso achieves this through her travel videos and satirical songs, and Jaafar does so through comedy. Born and raised in Abu Dhabi, the United Arab Emirates (UAE), 31 year old Palestinian Haifa Beseisso is a YouTuber and TV host, but she considers herself a creative change maker as well. Beseisso was 24 when she decided to quit her stable job as a TV producer to concentrate on her YouTube channel, Fly With Haifa, in which she uses travel videos to bring her subscribers around the world with her. As one of the most popular Arab YouTubers, with over 1.5 million followers across various social media platforms, she has no regrets. Beseisso’s vlogs were initially born from her desire to bridge cultures and regions, especially between the Middle East and the West. With time, her passion to foster understandings grew to encompass the world. ‘I wanted to show the world who Arab people are. I always felt we were misrepresented in the media; we didn't have a voice,’ Beseisso says. So, in her 2018 video ‘Stereotype World: The Middle East Speaks,’ which has more than four million views on YouTube, Beseisso encourages Arabs to speak up and tell their own stories while inviting the world to rethink stereotypes about the Middle East and North Africa (MENA) region. The video opens on a dark theatre scene, in which women and men dressed in traditional Arab attire sing,

Welcome everybody to the stereotype world I am the man And this my woman I always walk behind and stay low SHH QUIET! We live in sand castles And always ride camels Even on our way to school Yes, I’m oppressed Just like how you guessed I don’t get a say in what I do SHH QUIET! And I have 10 wives Then I bomb up my life Then I go to eat homoooooos, until Beseisso interrupts the sombre scene, introducing the real version of the Middle East. In a more colourful tone, the YouTuber takes us around Arab countries full of traditions, where women thrive. We got doctors, lawyers Coffee shop owners CEOs, ministers PhD holders Now I ain’t come here to say That we never struggle But then again show me one place Ain’t got no trouble When Beseisso quit her job, she was happy about countered new obstacles. Being a one-woman show has its advantages. ‘I love that I can express whatever I want without permission from the corporate hierarchy.

Portrait of Haifa Beseisso. Image courtesy of Haifa Beseisso.

and you might have lower budgets. You have to wake up every day and push yourself as an entrepreneur because you don’t have a boss telling you what to do. Sometimes I don’t feel like being in front of the camera, but I have deadlines, and I want to be so faces are often cultural. The community has been harsh at times, she admits. ‘Being online as an Arab woman, and in general as a woman around the world, people are watching our moves more than men’s. We just have to deal with a lot of judgment. On a daily basis, I get harassed.’ To address this issue, Beseisso released ‘The Shame Song’ in 2021. She intended to start a conversation around use of the word aib (Arabic for ‘shame’), which is widely used to pressure women and hold them back from following their dreams or even from simple actions. Beseisso says the song was written ‘by the people, for the people.’ She recalls, ‘I simply asked on an Instagram Story: “What are you guys shamed for that doesn’t make sense to you?” and my message box exploded.’ The lyrics were based on people’s answers. The song was also inspired by the rise of hate crimes and domestic violence during the COVID-19 pandemic.

To cope with harassment, Beseisso is learning to protect herself by working on her well-being. ‘I have coaches, three therapists and I go to a lot of retreats. As our work comes from the inside, it has to be always cleansed and cleaner in order to stand out,’ she admits.

With her travel and music videos going viral, Beseisso has gained international recognition. In 2016, she beNobel Peace Prize Concert in Norway, presenting alongside American TV host Conan O’Brien.When discussing Beseisso's journey, it is impossible not to mention her mother: ‘A very strong single mother from Gaza, she always taught me to be ambitious and that everything is possible. She was the one to actually push me to travel the world,’ Beseisso says. A dentist turned comedian, 28 year old Maha JaaUniversity. ‘I posted a video by coincidence online. It was meant for friends, but then it went viral,’ she tells me. After that, the Dubai-based Jaafar graduated and practiced dentistry for two years, but then her passion for comedy prevailed. ‘I fell in love with writing, acting and I felt that this is what I wanted to focus on.’ Today, she has 700 thousand subscribers on her YouTube channel and 1 million followers scattered throughout various social media platforms where she posts the content she writes and performs in Arabic. Born and raised in Dubai to a Sudanese father and an Iraqi mother, Jaafar has become famous for performing various Arabic dialects. ‘I have loved comedy since I was a little kid. I always loved to make my family laugh and to imitate accents and people on TV. I would dress up and impersonate different characters. It feels natural to me. I did not choose to do it. I am just doing it naturally,’ Jaafar explains.

abic dialects, earned her more than 1 million views. Jaafar comments, ‘Through those videos, I wanted to promote my Sudanese culture and at the same time to connect cultures from different Arab countries.’ Jaafar has a highly diverse background, and living in a melting pot such as the UAE, she wants to show the world that regardless of their diverse accents, cultures, histories and traditions, people in the MENA region are similar. Proud of her roots, Jaafar wants to be a worthy representative for Sudan and to share its richness and culture with the world. In 2018, she produced a video that shows the beauty of the African country. With more than 4 million views, ‘Salimmik- A Love Letter to Sudan,’ reveals Maha rapping against backdrops such as stunning sea and mountain landscapes, archaeological sites, traditional dances and wedding ceremonies. Early in the morning, we have biscuits with our milk tea Baked beans, fennel, peanut butter and sesame oil … ‘Toab’ and ‘Ar’ragi’ is our national costume Rickshaws like Ferraris ‘Elshaya’ on the grill Coffee – no additives ...

After all of this, someone still has the audacity to approach me and say, ‘Are you really Sudanese? It doesn’t show on you’ So what, have you never seen people who are mixed? 17 states, and we are all Sudanese. The video was shown at the United Nations headquarters in New York on the International Day for Tolerance. ‘That was a huge milestone because I felt very heard,’ Jaafar proudly recalls. She also believes ed in 2020 as UNICEF’s National Ambassador to raise awareness about children’s rights in Sudan. The comedian, with her warm and friendly personality, makes it seem as though her journey to success was easy and smooth. However, like Beseisso, she sometimes struggles with viewers’ judgment. ‘Being a woman in this region is complicated in general because people, including close family members, are constantly watching what you do, and they are always commenting on the way you dress, the way you talk, if you are loud, if you said something wrong, whatever,’ Jaafar remarks. If you are famous, things become even more complicated. ‘I am very grateful to have supportive parents, but sometimes you would have this family member who doesn’t like what you are doing and thinks you are going against the culture. It can come from close people, and it can really break you. They don’t accept you going on a journey. If something does not match what they believe in, it is wrong,’ Jaafar explains.

Jaafar tries to be careful when sharing her videos. ‘I think about everything many times before posting. It is very sad, but we cannot be fully [ourselves] on social media. We cannot show what we really think, what we really believe in or what we really want to affect you mentally.’ Jaafar has not ruled out advancing her career one step further by starting professional comedy acting. She knows this path won’t be devoid of challenges. According to the artist, female comedians are not given enough opportunities, and this is why many of her colleagues choose to post their content on social media instead of performing on more traditional platforms, such as stages or TV shows. She comments, ‘I would love to see more inclusivity of Nevertheless, when you’re in the UAE, everything seems possible. ‘Being in Dubai has been life-changing. It really brought me all the right opportunities, the right people and chances. It would not have been the same in any other country of the world.’ Dubai has indeed been highly supportive of artists such as Jaafar. In 2019, the UAE launched its Golden Visa, a long-term residence visa that is given to exceptional talents amongst others, to position itself as a global incubator for creativity and talents. Jaafar was one of the creatives to be granted a Golden Visa: ‘I am so grateful to live here, and I would never choose to live anywhere else. I love it here.’

' We always [ourselves], and that can mentally.' 45

Image courtesy of Ameni Esseibi.

The intersectionality of beauty standards in the Arab world has come a long way. What was once a rigid one-dimensional view has expanded with more inclusivity and diversity. The weight of the expectation to be 'perfect' in appearance has been exhausting, but at the same time, it’s been the default expectation through years of a conditioned belief system. Times have changed in this department, however. A new beauty ideal has emerged in the face of a very visible and loud reckoning. 48

While systematic change and progress takes time, the conversation, for starters, is on the table, with many vocal people supporting it. Along the spectrum of beauty sit many kinds of women now – women who subvert the formerly entrenched stereotypes with amazing individuality. Where these women were once ousted, now they come as they are, in full force. space in the industry, are stopping at nothing to keep the conversation and calls to action coming. Faduma Farah, a disabled model and adaptive fashion designArab world, are making strong strides in the right direction while addressing all the wrongs in the industry. For Dubai-raised Tunisian curvy model Esseibi, the industry language needs to change. Among terms such as ‘curvy’ or ‘plus sized model,’ she prefers the former as a point of principle (‘it has more attractive and sexy associations’), but she would rather toss the terms altogether. ‘At the end of the day, a model is a model, but unfortunately, we live in a world that likes labels. If you don’t call the smaller girl a “minus” size, why would you call the bigger girl a “plus” size?’ she asserts. She makes a very valid point.

Why are bigger girls held to an unfair standard? Esseibi’s straight-shooting voice of reason landed her as someone daring and different, but I was considered too “outside of the box” for them. They didn’t really want to test the waters with me unless they were sure of me. On top of that, I was also physically different, which was not seen as a strength back then. It was

a Cosmopolitan Middle East cover and features in Harper’s Bazaar Arabia and Vogue Arabia– what is it like being the bigger girl in the room? ‘It’s so empowering. I feel original, strong and different for all the right reasons now. It’s a feeling every big girl should be able to feel for herself. I feel I represent a message that is very strong and very important. I am proud of what I have achieved.’ ish-Somali Farah had to build up later in life when she experienced marginalisation following a near-fatal case of meningitis in 2011, which left her para-

lysed from the neck down. Until then, she was an able-bodied person. ‘I never thought about the disabled community before I myself became disabled. I assumed they had the same opportunities as I did. and confused. I used to wonder every time why I was facing so many hurdles and problems when it comes to accessibility. I felt totally lost for a while. I had to learn many skills regarding how to manage my daily life. We need a lot of improvement in evport of call was making some noise in the fashion industry. She says, ‘Whoever is wearing the shoes feels the pinch, as they say, so to me, it was about time adaptive wear was introduced, as I couldn’t high street. I felt I had to do something about it.’ In 2021, Farah founded Faduma’s Fellowship, an adaptive wear collection by Farah and fellowship award winner Harriet Eccleston. Farah created this initiative in partnership with independent designer hub Oxford Fashion Studio, and wheelchair users and showcased during the last

‘I was also given the opportunity to roll down the Week. For me and for the other disabled models, it was an amazing opportunity. It opens doors to what is possible and what disabled models are capable of. There is much more to life than sitting at home in your wheelchair wondering what is happening out there. There are so many things we can do. To be disabled is not the end of the world. Disability is not inability; it’s just doing things differently. Granted, it’s slower than an abled-bodied person, but we can still do everything,’ Farah says. It was this kind of ‘can-do’ attitude that helped Ameni through her journey – even if ‘not everyone in society accepts it.’ Even though diversity is a mainstay item on the agenda, a lot of tyrannical treatment still occurs. ‘I experienced high school bullying growing up, and now I get a lot of cyberbullying thrown at me, but when you love yourself enough, positivity becomes the standard mindset, and it has the power to silence the naysayers,’ she adds. As far as where the industry will go, Esseibi would like to see more retail options in the Middle East and North African region because as it stands,

Faduma Farah on the runway. Image courtesy of Faduma Farah.

‘an old school mentality’ lingers. It comes down to the brands: ‘They only want to work with the tried and tested models. Those models do not represent the world today.’ In the past, we may not have wanted to ‘see’ reality, favouring a kind of escapism. Now it’s what people need to see to self-identify and gain a sense of belonging. ‘Brands need to stop selling a delusion – we don’t want that anymore. But where the bottom line is concerned, they will always default to a formula that has historically “worked” but then perpetuates the wrong ideas and attitudes. This marketing aesthetic is outdated. It needs to change,’ she notes. With social media’s loud and clear sirens and insight into the sentiment regarding fashion and beauty, people are more aware than ever of the ills of society’s mentality and not only want change. They seek a systemic shift, and Farah is part of that quantum shift: ‘What we have done with the Faduma Fellowship has opened doors. We have become the leaders of a new example set in society. I hope to see many more designers come out of this.’

Precautions by Emirati artist Maitha Hamdan, which was exhibited at Abu Dhabi's Warehouse421 as part As We Gaze Upon Her exhibition. Image courtesy of Maitha Hamdan.

In her latest video-recorded performance piece, Emirati multidisciplinary artist Maitha Hamdan is captured licking a vanilla ice cream cone from behind a long pink veil that drapes her entire body, including her face, while a jingle that is used by ice cream trucks is played. The process of devouring the ice cream through the veil is a bewildering act to see, but that is exactly its intention.

Titled Precautions, the work which can be viewed by scanning the barcode, tackles ‘mainstream social norms and the boundaries of a simple act like eating an ice cream, and its effect on women’s behaviour amidst males,’ the 29-year-old artist explains. The devourment of the ice cream – an act considered, in the eyes of some, lascivious when made by women – is a way of ‘restaging gendered norms, repeated, reinforced and remediated as a radical, satirical and pictorial performance,’ reads the curatorial statement accompanying the work. The performance piece was inspired by memories of an ice cream shop that Hamdan and many girls of her age group used to visit as children in Sharjah, the United Arab Emirates (UAE). Precautions formed part of a recent exhibition titled As We Gaze Upon Her, which was held by Abu Dhabi’s art and design centre Warehouse 421 last fall and curated by the UAE-based creative art platform Banat Collective. The exhibition sought to expand the notion of womanhood amidst various societal restraints and gave women the space to reclaim and demystify their narratives and daily lives, in which side Hamdan, an array of female artists from across South West Asia and North Africa participated in the exhibition.

as her work frequently tackles womanhood-related themes, including the strong, eternal bond between generations of women of the same family across time, all of whom have empowered her in various ways. Her work, While You Are Away, for example, was an ode to her late grandmother. While You Are Away was an installation composed of prayer cloths that Hamdan’s grandmother had made by hand before she passed away. Hamdan painted the words ‘I Still Hunger for You’ in Arabic repeatedly on the cloths and suspended them from the ceiling. ‘I believe it is our duty as women to carry the challenges, thoughts and stories of our ancestors throughout our work as a tribute to them,’ Hamdan states. ‘We carry the genes of resilient, strong and wise women, and for that I believe we should always be thankful.’ However, Precautions tackles a subtheme of womanhood that differs from those Hamdan has explored before, and it shares a common factor with her previous work – the use of long pieces of fabric that has become her signature style. ‘I have always felt the connection between me and fabrics since my childhood,’ she explains. ‘As I grew up, many questions came to my mind regarding why. I am still in the pro-

Hamdan began practicing art at the tender age of seven after her art teacher – a woman to whom she is forever grateful – gave her the grand task of painting a three-metre mural. The experience was life changing for the young Hamdan. She explains, ‘It opened my eyes to the fact that my drawings and paintings can be bigger than an A4-size paper and can go beyond it.’ As she grew up, she began to use YouTube and Google to teach herself various skills in the and painting. In addition to Warehouse421, Hamdan’s work has been exhibited at Dubai’s annual Sikka Art Fair and Tashkeel, a contemporary art centre in Dubai. She has also worked closely with Expo 2020 Dubai, the UAE’s Federal Youth Authority and Google. In addition, she is a graduate of the Abu Dhabi - based Salama Bint Hamdan Foundation Fellowship Program for Emerging Artists. The young creative is currently an artist in residence at the Cultural Foundation in Abu Dhabi.

Emirati artist Maitha Hamdan.

Words by Alanood Al Wahaibi

Omani artist Mays Al Moosawi. Image courtesy of Mays Al Moosawi.

At just 27 years old, Mays Al Moosawi has already become one of Oman’s most iconic visual artists. The young Omani, who hails from the capital city of Muscat, stands out thanks to her illustrations, paintings and wire sculptures, which centre on and depict calls upon women of all shapes and sizes to embrace and love their bodies and shed their insecurities. Although her work is inspired by her experiences in Omani society and integrates elements of Omani culture, Al Moosawi’s message is universal and has found appeal amongst female viewers across the world.

Omani artist Mays Al Moosawi. Image courtesy of Mays Al Moosawi.

Art by Omani artist Mays Al Moosawi. Image courtesy of Mays Al Moosawi.

I spoke to the artist, whose work has been exhibited in London, Dubai and Muscat, about her introduction to the world of art, the stories of the women she depicts in her work, the challenges she faces in her practice and her plans for the future. How did your art journey begin? Did you always know you wanted to be an artist?

How and when did you decide to focus on women and their bodies in your art? M: I never decided to focus on women or their bodies initially. When I started my journey, I experimented with everything you can think of... until girls started appearing in my paintings and I found myself in them. That was about two years ago.

M: Art was always a part of my life, as I grew up in a family of creatives, so I always knew I would be an artist eventually. As a kid, I was told that my work was not good enough, which changed my whole perspective of art for years. I stopped creating until the age of 16, when I decided that it was the only thing I was passionate about and I knew I wouldn't succeed

Describe the women you depict in your work.

Do you face any challenges when it comes to creating body-positive art?

Do you experience challenges as a female artist generally? How do you overcome them?

M: All the time; we barely see any artists, from the

M: The only challenge I had and I am still facing is that I need to speak louder to be heard and seen as a professional artist. I overcome it by working hard and letting my work speak for me.

M: The insecurity experienced by other women in my community affected my own identity growing up. I felt the need to give them a voice. In addition, as a young girl, I was always bullied for being underweight, so I illustrate my journey with my own body and self-love, and theirs, through my work.

How has your art been received so far? dence and achieve self-acceptance?

M: I use my art as a journal of my own journey and experiences. I believe the best way to help others is to show them how much you have personally changed, and that will inspire them to work on themselves. In your opinion, how effective is art in raising awareness about women's insecurities about their bodies?

M: I get two completely opposite reactions. People either love it or hate it. Who are some of the female Arab artists whom M: There are many incredible female artists that I look up to, such as Mona Hatoum and Hayv Kahraman. What is your advice for women who are currently

M: From what I've seen, it is very effective. I love it when women relate to my work and it actually makes them feel better about themselves, and I believe it’s not just the artwork; it’s more of how my emotions

M: Always remember that being different is a good thing; embrace it.

sense them.

What are your plans for the future?

How would you describe your art style?

M: My plan is to keep exploring my journey through my work and to inspire more people through it.

with a touch of culture.

From the Veil Series – Hurma by Emirati artist Hessa Alsuwaidi. Image courtesy of Hessa Alsuwaidi.

Aib by Hessa Alsuwaidi. Image courtesy of Hessa Alsuwaidi.

From the Veil Series – Hurma by Emirati artist Hessa Alsuwaidi. Image courtesy of Hessa Alsuwaidi.

On a tufted black and white grid, a colourful word, ‘aib,’ Arabic for ‘shame,’ breaks free from the bars. It is the artwork of Emirati textile artist and designer Hessa Alsuwaidi. Speaking from her own experience growing up in Dubai, Alsuwaidi says the grid represents the right and wrong aspects of Middle Eastern societies and the cultural issues Arab women face.

‘Aib’ is the Arabic word used to describe an action or idea considered shameful or disappointing. However, in some Arab families, as writer Randa Jarrar puts it, the word is also used as a warning to women and girls who may not uphold their religion or family’s virtue. ‘“Virtue” in this particular example would mean safeguarding their virginity, affection and love for a future husband, who would then be the new safeguard of these in exchange for protection and The word is so controversial that other female artists, such as Yasmine Nasser Diaz, Haifa Beseisso and Sarah Bahba, have also explored it in their work. Sekka even dedicated a whole issue to the word in 2019. At the beginning of 2021, Hessa decided to address this topic to raise awareness about issues affecting Arab women. ‘“Aib” is a word widely and casually Women feel like they are not able to achieve what they want or have to constantly hide themselves,’ the New York-based artist explains. In the artwork, which was recently exhibited at Abu Dhabi Art, the word ‘aib’ is juxtaposed with the idea of feeling free.

Alsuwaidi is not afraid of coming to grips with culturally sensitive subjects. In her 2021 Veil Series – Hurma, she addresses the topic of veiling and coming of age. Exhibited at the Mana Contemporary in New Jersey, the project explores the journey from girlhood to womanhood, the process of veiling and its meaning. ‘It also addresses the weight of the Arabic word “hurma” – woman – which derives from “huram” – forbidden or taboo – and its relation to the idea of women's roles and behaviours in the Gulf region,’ Alsuwaidi says. ‘This project gives voice to the women who think they are incapable of having a voice without a man by their side. They can exist solely and securely on their own and thrive as their own beings and not because of a man. It’s time to exist as our own beings,’ Alsuwaidi adds. In this three-part series, Alsuwaidi recreates various pieces with fringes, which represent the process of veiling. Underneath the fringes is the word ‘hurma’ woven on a second layer. Next to the veils is a central piece made of condensed knots on one side as a reference to veiling, while the other shows more open areas as a refer-

From the Veil Series – Hurma by Emirati artist Hessa Alsuwaidi. Image courtesy of Hessa Alsuwaidi.

the viewer,’ Alsuwaidi describes. In this series, as in many of her works, Alsuwaidi uses bold colours. She predominantly uses pink and orange ‘because it’s by default associated with women and female energy,’ the designer explains. Inspired by multidisciplinary artists such as Sarah Bahbah, Farah Al Qasimi, Yayoi Kusama, Rexchouk and Covl, Alsuwaidi chooses to express herself with textiles. ‘It’s what I’ve been exploring since I started my undergraduate studies and carried on until my master’s. I also feel like textiles are tied to the notion ics I’m discussing.’ Alsuwaidi’s love for textiles and art goes back to when she was a child. ‘I was creative from a very young age and thought that I would pursue a career in fashion design growing up. My mom and I would make pleated skirts out of craft rolls, and I always participated in art projects and competitions at school.’ After college, it seemed only natural for her to follow this artistic path. In 2018, she obtained a BA in Printed Textiles from Loughborough University in the United Kingdom, and she is currently specialising in textiles at Parsons School of Design in New York.

Despite being based in the United States, Alsuwaidi maintains a strong connection with her home country, where she regularly exhibits. Last November, she collaborated with Bentley Motors to create a bespoke design for one of their luxury models. Titled Safeefa, the vibrant installation integrated the traditional Emirati craft of the woven safeefa in the car’s design, and it was one of the centrepieces of Dubai Design Week. The craft of safeefa consists of the weaving of palm fronds to create items like baskets, mats or rugs. ‘I have had a lot of support back home, and people say they can relate, so it’s been great,’ Alsuwaidi says enthusiastically. But her journey is not devoid of challenges: ‘You sometimes question a topic, but at the same time, you don’t want to overstep or disrespect anybody,’ Alsuwaidi admits. She is now working on a new project tackling the concept of religion as a personal journey, especially as a woman. In her very subtle but energetic style, she will invite the audience to be aware of words, as they carry weight and value.

'It’s time to exist as our own beings.'

All Human Life on the Planet Is Born of a Woman by Shahad Nazer. Image courtesy of Shahad Nazer.

You Then You by Shahad Nazer. Nazer's work centres on empowering women. Image courtesy of Shahad Nazer.

Art, in many cases, is used as a tool to address sensitive topics and challenge societal issues and gender expectations. Accessibility to online platforms has put such artworks on display for the world to see. For this reason, many young artists choose to share their work on social media. One Saudi Egyptian artist is using her online platform to make a difference.

Saudi Egyptian artist Shahad Nazer. Image courtesy of Shahad Nazer.

The Saudi Egyptian artist aims to create change through her work. Image courtesy of Shahad Nazer.

Shahad Nazer is a 26-year-old graphic designer who showcases her collages and digital illustrations on Instagram, through which she sheds light on issues Arab women face. Nazer features Arab women through an empowering lens in works seen by thousands of viewers around the world, making her one of the most popular young Arab artists today. Little did she know that she would reach the level of success that she enjoys today when she dipped her toes into the art world. In her early stages of becoming an artist, Nazer sage she wanted to communicate through her art. ‘I didn’t have a clear idea yet of how I wanted my art to be portrayed or what topics I would tackle,’ style that she describes as ‘pop art, dreamy, creative, ety of topics, ranging from calling for more female empowerment to challenging gender norms and expectations. She shares her art through her social media page on Instagram, where she addresses controversial and sensitive topics regarding the reality of being a woman in the Arab world. ‘As a woman, I think it’s important to stand by women and support them in any way possible. And, as an artist with a

public platform, it feels like it’s my duty to be the voice of these women and empower them in any way I can,’ says the young artist. Violence against women is one of the many themes Nazer explores artistically. As she explains, ‘One of the important issues is harassment against women or violence against women. It’s a very sensitive topic and isn’t being talked about enough, and I want to be one of these people that shed light on this issue as much as possible.’ According to the latest statistics provided by UN Women, one in three women around the world experience physical and sexual violence at some point in their lives. Thirty-seven per cent of Arab women have experienced some form of violence in their lifetime, although the number may be higher given that many survivors of violence stay silent instead of seeking ic reality of many Arab women who, like many of their female counterparts around the world,struggle to have their voices heard: ‘My art speaks on behalf of these women who are still going through these societal issues. I can’t disregard them just because other women and I are living the life we dreamed of.’

pressure that is placed on younger generations to follow the paths their families have set for them since birth. Numerous members of the youth population in the Arab world, especially girls, are pushed in certain directions by their families, ranging from getting married at a young age and starting a family to pursuing careers that are more traditional, such as medicine. Through her artwork, the young designer wants to ‘inspire people that it’s never too late to still follow your dreams, and for the parents to never limit their children on what they want to do in life.’ Like many of the youth in the region, this has been the case for Nazer: ‘My parents viewed art more as a hobby. They supported my art, but they didn’t think it would make a good career choice. They didn’t want me to major in graphic design solely, so I had to major in business, advertising to be exact, under creative design,’ recalls Nazer. ‘But now my parents are my biggest supporters in what I do, and I’m thankful for that. So, that artwork was just a reminder that some people are still going through the same thing, even in these changing times.’ ‘Growing up as a woman, we were told by society we couldn’t or aren’t allowed to do certain things because we are women. We weren’t allowed to drive [in Saudi Arabia], we weren’t allowed to work in certain places,’ Nazer says. ‘We’ve been through a lot to reach where we are today. But some women still

struggle with such issues, and I never want to forget them just because things changed for the better for me (us).’ Despite the challenges of being a woman, the artist also depicts the beauty of being a female through her work. An example is Nazer’s collage of a uterthat reads, ‘All Human Life on the Planet Is Born of a Woman.’ The artwork received overwhelmingly positive feedback from her followers, with comments complimenting and hailing it. When asked what the positive response says about the Arab world in relation to its openness towards reproductive anatomy, wards sexual education and human anatomy in conservative societies. This change makes her happy, given that many adults were not educated on such topics growing up. Nazer’s empowering depiction of the Arab woman, alongside addressing societal issues many Arab women face, has aided in her collaborations with a number of established brands and organisations. The artist has created editorial designs for the Saudi magazine Hia and collaborated with Adidas MENA and Nike on promotional campaigns. Several of her artworks have also been displayed in galleries and museums in Abu Dhabi, London, Belgium and Turkey.

Shahad Nazer's work tackles the pressures parents place children at a young age, or name their children after them. Image courtesy of Shahad Nazer.

Art by Shahad Nazer for Adidas MENA.

With her art, Nazer hopes to impact her audience emotionally and to remind them of the issues that exist as well as encourage them to be educated and raise more awareness. Nazer’s depiction of the Arab her younger audience as it reshapes how young Arab women see themselves. ‘A lot of young women came to me and told me I inspire them – that my art inspires them – and how they wish to become like me one day and talk about these issues freely as well,’ she says. ‘That made me feel so happy and proud that I'm even leaving a great impact on the younger generation.’ Nazer’s artistic journey has also changed how she views herself, as she recognises her rights as well as the urgency to spread awareness on the issues realise my worth.’

A Man of No Importance by Kuwaiti artist Shurooq Amin. Image courtesy of Shurooq Amin.

If Shurooq Amin had to describe herself beyond her achievements – being awarded Artist of the Year by the Arab Woman artist to have her art auctioned at Christies – she says she has been stereotyped as the 'censored artist' (owing to the fact that a number of her art shows were shut down by government authorities in Kuwait).

A Piece of the Pie: Who Stole the Tarts? by Kuwaiti artist Shurooq Amin. Image courtesy of Shurooq Amin.

Society Girls by Kuwaiti artist Shurooq Amin. Image courtesy of Shurooq Amin.

'Some people spend their whole life searching for meaning in their life.' 95

With a career spanning nearly three decades, Amin’s signature style includes themes that question the vice and virtue within society. With her painting series Society Girls from 2010, Amin ventured into socio-cultural issues. The series features women engaged in private conversations or at parties, each veiled behind a niqab (face cover) while exposing their legs. ‘The polarity between East and West is the backbone of my images,’ Amin explains in the artists’ concept note. ‘‘[It is] simply a slice of life of society girls in Kuwait. I explored the career woman and the party-going one: those seeking freedom and those being forced into child marriages,’ Amin says. ‘I also explored themes of materialism, consumerism and double standards in society with the treatment of men and women.’ While the face cover is symbolic of masks that people wear in public, it is also emblematic of the anonymity of the women painted. A dramatic feature in this series is that the women are devoid of any individuality or personality. Apart from the dissonance that occurs when some women try to conform to Kuwaiti culture and live within these constraints, the mixed media paintings address the concept of public image and space versus the private inner world. Although she received polarising reviews for this series, Amin believes it opened up a discussion: ‘It got

in society that the Kuwaiti woman or Arab woman, in general, was portrayed in this way.’ However, one of the most common criticisms Amin received was an objection to the way Kuwaiti women were portrayed, particularly when viewed by a Western audience. ‘They believed that it further reinforced the stereotype that Arab women are oppressed [and have no voice or agency],’ she says. ‘I don’t see it that way, and this has been misunderstood in my work. It’s quite the opposite,’ Amin adds. ‘I have shown women in all of their colours, based on Oscar Wilde’s book A Woman of No Importance, and I painted A Man of No Importance in 2012.’ The painting in question features a woman sitting on a throne, with a crown on her head. She holds up a paper cut-out of men. As she describes, ‘It’s symbolic that she is in control and not the other way around.’ As another example, Amin highlights Piece of the Pie: Who Stole the Tarts? from her 2014 series We’ll Build This City on Art and Love. ‘There is a giant girl like Alice in Wonderland who towers over everything and holds out a pie in her hand. The weight of tiny, over ridiculous issues such as what women should

wear. While they focus on these trivial issues, women While Amin breaks this (and several other) stereotypes with her art, she does not shy away from dire realities of the world. ‘There are certain paintings which show the oppression of child brides because of poverty or wars,’ she says. However, far from controversy and in a utopian world, Amin wants her work to inspire change. ‘I receive a lot of messages and comments on how my work inspires people and offers them comfort and support,’ she says. ‘For example, it inspired a young girl to follow her dream and pursue a path that she believes is her calling.’ In some other ways, her work has helped move things forward by opening discussions on censorship, freedom of expression and hypocrisy. ‘At the end of the day, it is not art for sensationalism but art with a message. It is for someone who wants to see society progress forward,’ she says. ‘Some people spend their whole life searching for meaning in their life,’ says the multidisciplinary artist. ‘I was born with a talent, and I feel this is my purpose.’

Empowering the Saudi Woman by Saudi artist Tagreed Albagshi. Image courtesy of Tagreed Albagshi.

In Hafsa Al-Tamimi’s most recent painting, Al-Bisht and the Bedouin Life, a woman is depicted wearing a black cloak with golden question is called al-bisht, which is a traditional cloak that men across the Arab world have worn, in different design variations and colours, for centuries. Also known as an ‘aba and mishlah, the cloak has historically been associated with men of high positions, including tribal leaders, royal family members and Muslim clerics, who have worn occasions throughout time.

100

Al-Bisht and the Bedouin Life by Omani artist Hafsa Al-Tamimi. Image courtesy of Hafsa Al-Tamimi.

101

Given its background, the cloak has long represented leadership, power and strength. ‘The same characteristics al-bisht is tied to are possessed by Arab women,’ says the Omani artist behind the acrylic painting, when she explains the reason why she placed a traditionally masculine piece of clothing on a woman. ‘Though the stories and experiences vary, Arab women generally have a high stature, elegance and sense of diplomacy, and al-bisht symbolises this.’ The 40-year-old is part of a wave of female artists, including Moroccan artist Lalla Essaydi and Emirati artist Fatma Lootah, who challenge the stereotypes about Arab women that continue to permeate in media outside of the region in particular, through their art. Far from portraying Arab women as being backwards and in desperate need of saving, AlTamimi is keen on presenting an alternative, more truthful image about them. ‘My message has always been about women. Through my work, I represent women, their personalities, their strength, their stories…. I hope this message comes across to the world,’ states the artist, who has been practising art since the early 1990s and has showcased her work in Oman, the United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Kuwait, Italy and the United States. ‘I paint women because I am a woman. I feel what women

102

feel, I relate to their stories. I don’t paint women for the sake of painting women or to create decorative pieces; I always try to portray women’s emotions and stories through the physical features of the women I paint and through the colours I use.’ Al-Tamimi’s signature style involves the use of bold colours in her paintings and a focus on depicting expressive female faces across her works, which distinguishes her artwork from her counterparts’. In particular, the eyes of the women she paints, which consistently look slightly upwards, have drawn viewers in again and again. ‘To me, the eyes are the windows to the soul,’ she says. ‘A lot of people tell me Al-Tamimi draws inspiration for her paintings from her immediate environment, which is brimming with strong women whom she personally admires, and who have shaped her. ‘I actually derive my strength mostly from my family, who are the strongest women I have met in my life, including my grandmother, who raised me, my mother, my elder sister and my daughters. My daughters are super strong, stronger than me even,’ she laughs. ‘They make me stronger. I also derive strength from the stories of successful women around the world.’

Omani artist Hafsa Al-Tamimi. Image courtesy of Hafsa Al-Tamimi.

103

Untitled by Hafsa Al-Tamimi. Image courtesy of Hafsa Al-Tamimi.

104

When the Moon Sets and the Mind Is Obsessed with It by Hafsa Al-Tamimi. Image courtesy of Hafsa Al-Tamimi.

105

On the other hand, Tagreed Albagshi, one of Saudi Arabia’s most prominent female artists, derives her the women she depicts in her paintings, from her late father. ‘I learnt from him how to be a mighty woman. He thought highly of me and gave me conme and his admiration of whatever I did.’ Albagshi’s father was one of her earliest supporters when she made the decision to embark on a career in the arts in the early 2000s, at a time when the remainder of her conservative family and community were not as enthusiastic about it as they are now. ‘My father presented me to society and helped with all the obstacles I used to face before.’ During that time, Saudi Arabia was not the emerging art hub it is now, and paving an artistic career path was especially challenging for women. She recalls, ‘I faced was in 2001, and the situation back then wasn’t easy. My family was conservative – there were so many obstacles in women’s way – but that is different today. What I used to ask for then and never got is easily attainable today. I can get everything I need.’

106

Over the last decade, Saudi Arabia has experienced to allow women to drive as well as the rise in the number of women in leadership positions. Albagshi has depicted these changes in the livelihoods of women in her paintings. ‘I think it’s my duty to document events in my paintings because when you where, you look for those answers in art,’ explains Albagshi. ‘It represents the times we’re living in. That’s why documentation is very important to me.’ The Saudi artist’s vibrant painting After the Decision to Allow Women to Drive, for example, depicts women driving on the streets of the kingdom with their male relatives sitting in the backseat. The 2021 painting came several years after she painted Drive, which is most famous for having been reposted by Barbadian singer Rihanna in 2017.

Next page: After the Decision to Allow Women to Drive by Saudi artist Tagreed Albagshi. Image courtesy of Tagreed Albagshi.

Saudi artist Tagreed Albagshi. Image courtesy of Tagreed Albagshi.

107

108

109

As a vision and hope for the future, Albagshi had painted Drive, which depicts a woman dressed in an abaya (a traditional black robe worn by many women in the Arab and Muslim worlds) sitting on the hood of a car, before the decision was made to allow women to drive in Saudi Arabia. ‘In my beginnings, I lived through different stages where I wanted certain things to happen or change [such as the ability to drive], because I thought they were necessities and not luxuries, and I used to paint them believing that they would happen in the future,’ she describes. ‘When I actually witnessed them come true later, I felt so proud to be a Saudi woman. I think Saudi women are the strongest women on the planet because they proved that they are capable of carrying their Saudi identity so well and that they can take on all the responsibilities that are given to them. I am proud to be a Saudi woman.’ This sentiment is evident in Albagshi’s work Empowering the Saudi Women, which portrays Saudi women from various careers and backgrounds together standing tall, like palm trees. In fact, the the way Albagshi paints the women in her various artworks. As she explains, ‘I am from Al Ahsa, an oasis that is full of tall date palm trees. When I pass by palm trees, I feel like I’m standing in front of a miracle because of the beauty and incredibleness of the scene. I think that women, because of their giving nature, are like palm trees. The palm tree is a giving tree; every part of it is useful. We don’t throw any part of it away, and that’s why I think palm trees and women are similar. We give endlessly.’ She adds, ‘Empowering the Saudi Woman depicts the golden age for women that they are living in. We, as women, are happy with these achievements, and because of the opportunities we now have. It’s such a great feeling to be able to paint these changes that are happening before our very eyes.’

110

However, despite how accomplished women in Saudi and the wider Arab world are, many beyond the region seem to have a persistently static view of them. According to Albagshi, ‘I exhibited my work in London, Paris and other locations around the world. When foreign viewers saw my work between 2010 and 2016, they were shocked to know that the paintings in front of them were painted by a Saudi woman, especially since they used to think that Saudi women are women who wore the abaya, the face cover and had an old mentality. When they saw a woman in front of them that was cultured and educated, they were stunned and amazed,’ she recalls. ‘Some of the messages I try to send through my work are that Arab women, generally, are educated, cultured, aware and can overcome all the obstacles they face, and [they can] give off a different image than that people are used to hearing and seeing. I think that we are wise women who know what we’re doing and that is what made us able to achieve and gave us strength, and allowed us to make our region proud.’ Like Al-Tamimi, altering the ways Arab women are perceived is a priority to Albagshi, who says, ‘Changing stereotypes about Arab women through my work, which carries global messages, is important to me.’

Motifs of Al Ahsa by Saudi artist Tagreed Albagshi. Image courtesy of Tagreed Albagshi.

111

112

Every face tells a story, and a woman’s face inspires many stories. In contrast to the humorous, yet deep insights of the late Irish writer and poet Oscar Wilde, who infamously coined the saying ‘a woman’s face is have, for more than a thousand years, composed some of their greatest work using a woman’s face as a canvas for their love, seduction and heartbreak.

113

Words By Rym Tina Ghazal ‘Coyly she withdraws, shows us a cheek, a lip, she a gazelle of Wujra, – yearling the fawn with her,’ wrote poet Imru’ Al Qays, whose words are forever immortalized in the Al Mu’allaqat, the pre-Islamic ‘suspended odes’ or ‘hanging poems’ that remain one of the Arab world’s most cherished literary treasures. Women were often compared to beautiful, slender gazelles, who it appears were able to cast spells over men by simply gazing back at them with charming, ‘As for the moon, so for the sun: from both / She draws her power; moon pearls grace her mouth, Andalusian poet Ibn Quzman. A woman’s face is a work of art. It is her jewel. It is her identity, tied to the identity of her family and tribe, where it was and remains customary in the more conservative communities for it to be hidden, protected as it has been in other ancient cultures where the elite women of important families often hid their identity and wore veils.

114

In today’s world, where there is a great push for everyone to be ‘plugged in’ and seen and followed on social media, and even to look a certain way, there is a lot of pressure on traditions and social norms. One of the trends that sets women apart in the Arab world, particularly in the Khaleej (Arab Gulf States), is that some avoid completely showing up on camera or having their photos published in public and media outlets, whereas others continue to engage with the public but only through voiceovers or innovative photos that simply focus on their hands and feet or that are taken from the back so to protect their identities. One of the ways 28-year-old Omani social media star Ashwaq Al Maskery – who is more famously known as ‘elshog’ – works around this is by creating digital avatars, a cartoon version of herself. ‘I want people to focus on the message I am trying to send through and not how I look like or what I am wearing,’ says Al Maskery, who wears the digital character as a mask at public social events. ‘The icon resembles the character that I use to represent me as a visual brand. I want people to embrace who they are, and even if they have the barrier of not being

Omani social media star Ashwaq Al Maskery. Image courtesy of Ashwaq Al Maskery.

115

116

Rawan Al Mahrouqi's artwork distinctly features blurry or no faces as part of her commentary on the tradition of hiding women's faces. Image courtesy of Rawan Al Mahrouqi.

117

allowed to show their faces on media, [I want them to know] that they can do it differently and still get their message through to the world.’ Besides privacy, one of the reasons this trend continues is because of the fear that exposure to the public may actually affect a young woman’s future and even lead to blackmail. ‘Many Arab girls were taught from a very young age that they are a very precious gem that needs to be protected and safe at all times. To post their photos to complete strangers means that they are exposing themselves to harm that can be avoided,’ says Al Maskery, who is also a Creator for Change on YouTube, where she tackles social issues on her channel. ‘We heard a lot when we were younger that [strangers] will take our faces and Photoshop them onto naked women and then try to “expose us” and threaten us by sharing these photos with the public if we don’t do what we are asked, and therefore bring shame to our families,’ she says. Some families consider it ‘unnecessary’ to show off the girl, especially at a younger age, as that may affect her chances of marriage because ‘many men saw her photos already,’ according to Al Maskery. In con-

118

servative societies, a woman’s honour and reputation males outside the family circle. A potential suitor may judge a woman who has been ‘too open’ in public to have viewed and known her. Although this belief persists among certain families and women, it is changing. ‘It’s less of a taboo now if a girl shares her photos online. And sometimes she also feels the pressure to do so since everyone else does it,’ says Al Maskery. Besides the pressure of sharing photos and videos kind of pressure today. ‘Each woman has her own beauty that suits her form, but unfortunately we are living in a world where beauty is being standardised, so we all have to look a certain way by putting on makeup and “enhancgeries. I hope that one day women will truly believe that they are beautiful the way they are regardless of what their skin tone is, the size of their features and even with the acne they have,’ she says. Rawan Al Mahrouqi is a young Omani artist who ad-

dresses taboo topics through her art. She creates pieces that trigger dialogue over issues such as showing a woman’s face in public. Her artwork distinctly features blurred or absent faces as part of her comment on this tradition. ‘The original inspiration comes from the tradition of hiding women’s faces. Before it was with burqas [face covers] in all their forms, and now with the modern times it has transitioned to social media and the Internet. In most instances, showing your face in real life is okay, but it is not allowed online, which is a contradiction that I have found very interesting,’ says Al Mahrouqi, whose art has been exhibited in Oman, the United Arab Emirates, Tunisia and London. (She is also part of the circle of experimental art at the prestigious Stal Gallery in Muscat.) ‘It also was a part of a personal struggle I deal with on a daily basis after deciding to remove my hijab, which is not accepted in my family. I got so many questions like, “What if some of our family members see you without it?” I didn’t know how to deal with it, and I felt like I wanted to go out and be happy

But things are changing within the Khaleeji communities, Al Mahrouqi says. She remembers how, back in 2009, putting one’s face online was seen as ‘a big taboo.’ ‘I remember I was the only girl in my circle of friends who did put her face as a display picture –without the approval of my family, of course. Nowadays I see that most girls and women put their faces on social media, and it is more normal and acceptable. It’s quite interesting how societal norms can change in the span of a few years,’ she says. ‘I love to observe these changes and why we do the things we do as a culture and a society.’ With social media growing in popularity, and even being part of one’s professional prospects, it will be interesting to see which other traditional social norms will be pushed out or changed with time.

possible,’ says the 29-year-old artist, whose faceless images have become her signature.

119

120

121

DISABLED WOMEN ON SCREEN:

A CALL TO ACTION 122

Disability is hardly represented on screen in ways that are not pitiful or tragic. Most significantly, abled-bodied women are presented on screen as the ideal feminine model. Ideal femininity, worldwide, tends to hold women to certain standards of beauty and femininity. In the Gulf region, Kuwaiti TV led the way in creating memorable musalsals (serials) that explored social issues and realities. A plethora of musalsals emerged in the 1970s-1980s, which later became known as ‘The Golden Age of Kuwaiti Television.’ Since then, a few iconic musalsals have remained embedded in viewers’ memories.

Shahd Alshammari, PhD.

This era entails a collective nostalgia, and many people still recall the names of iconic characters such as Khalti Gmasha, Mahthootha, Mabrooka, Rgaya and Sabeeka. Many of these female protagonists lacked the ideal femininity, and some were marked as deviant because of disability and/or mental illness.

When we consider Disability Studies in the Gulf region, we are met with a general lack of interest. Disabled individuals tend to be interested in Disability

As a Disability Studies scholar, I live with a physical disability and have therefore grown committed to the study of disabilities in the Gulf region. As I continued to dig deeper, trying to excavate the buried theme of disability, I found that most of the musalsals that I grew up watching were actually perpetuating the stereotype of disabled women as lacking and mother-in-law, limps throughout the entire musalsal (which is named after her, Khalti Gmasha, 1983) as she threatens her daughters-in-law and sons. Khalti attempts to control her sons’ lives. Viewers watch and laugh at the social satire without giving much thought to the ageism and ableism connected to Khalti Gmasha’s character. She uses her cane as a tool to humorously poke and smack her sons and twenty-something- year old, I was uncomfortable because I had only seen Khalti Gmasha using her cane on television. I had no cultural reference to rely on and did not want to look like her. The cane symbolised age and decay but also had a comical connotation. In reality, I could not walk around threatening to smack people with the cane (although I tried to), and I was too young to be called khalti (aunt). Television, then, did not provide a mirror to reality for me, a woman with a disability, and I wondered many times whether television productions ever portray

answer remains problematic, because as successful as these musalsals are, they have never presented a realistic and non-harmful depiction of disability or mental illness (that I am aware of, at least). Instead, disabled bodies and mental health are more often than not ridiculed and made into humorous, pitiful or tragic situations.

124

in the musalsal Ala Eldenya Alsalam (Farewell, World, 1987). Both protagonists, Mahthootha and Mabrooka, are regarded as suffering from mental illness, although a diagnosis is never presented. They are locked up in ‘The Psychiatric Hospital,’ which functions more like an asylum for single, divorced and older women. At the hospital, viewers meet all sorts of women from various social classes, who all share one thing: they are rejected by society and have been marginalised, hidden at the hospital, away from

society’s sight. Mahthootha and Mabrooka are single ‘spinsters’ and have no male guardian except for es. His only way to do this is to get male doctors to to lose faith in humanity and fall into depressive and psychotic episodes, which, again, have no actual explanation in the plot. As such, mental illness is treated as a comical narrative device, violent at times, depicting the violence of society (through the verbal and physical abuse of women struggling with mental illness). Derogatory terms, such as majnoona (madwoman) are tossed around lightly, almost becoming another name for the characters. The use of these terms by the show’s writers, actresses, actors, and later, the audience, had become so normalised that I never stopped and paid attention to the oppressive and ableist ideologies behind the representa-

WOMEN ARE REGARDED AS ‘MAD’ AND ‘BAD’ IF THEY THREATEN THE STATUS QUO or choose to transgress against society’s ation of mental illness.

tion of mental illness.

patriarchal norms. Bad behaviour is quickly labelled as madness without anyone dissecting or rationalising the term. The easiest label is ‘majnoona,’ and real lived experiences of mental illness are diminished. Musalsals that poke fun at mental illness or turn the person living with mental illness into a monster are many – and I wonder how effective it would be simply to survey them here. What I want is an accurate depiction of lived experiences of mental illness. What I want is documentaries produced by people living with mental illness who want their voices to be we need today. Decades later, we are still watching musalsals with inaccurate and harmful depictions of mental illness and disability. A recent Kuwaiti serial called Ghusoon fe Alwahal (Ghusoon in the Mud, written by female of a disabled woman who has a limp and facial paralan envious female villain who cannot have children (which is the source of all of her envy and villainous behaviour) and is tragic and unlovable. Because Ghusoon lives with a disability, she is marked as a pitiful -

125

ninity and, as such, is ridiculed and hated by society. What happens when women who live with disabilities such as Ghusoon’s watch these shows? What happens when the representation onscreen is one in which disabled women can never be loved, have families of their own, or lead successful lives? None of the disabled characters on screen leads a life that we can hope to have, and their bodies are marked with failure. We can see another example of the lack of love that disabled women have in Noor Aini (Light of My Eyes, 2009, written by Abulaziz Al-Musallam), in which a successful woman loses her eyesight and faces the ultimate tragedy, it seems: her husband abandoning and divorcing her because she is now blind.

BLINDNESS IS TREATED AS A NARRATIVE DEVICE FOR TRAGEDY, and a tragic plot line emerges to showcase how women who become sick and/or disabled are treated as burdens and quickly discarded.

Even more recently, a musalsal that gained a lot of critical attention showcased a disabled character’s intellectual disability; she becomes the object of ridicule and violence. Um Haroun (Mother of Aaron, 2020), aired by Saudi-owned television network MBC, played on many Gulf television screens and caused a lot of controversy because of its depiction of the Jewish community in Kuwait in 1948. No attention was given to the role of Zanooba, the disabled character who is constantly abused throughout the narrative and is always the town’s laughingstock, the scapegoat and the unlovable and undesirable woman. The audience immediately loved the character, played by actress and singer Alaa Al-Hendi, and a quick Twitter search yields comments applauding the actress’s performance. While Al-Hendi does offer a believable performance, I still wonder why no disabled women were offered the role and why no disabled screenwriters, consultants, scholars or activists were invited to share their insights into the portrayal of disability. Television and drama play a pivotal and

126

come to know disability and ableism, and the best way forward is to encourage dialogue among Disability Studies experts, activists, writers and directors.

Alenaizi is one of the most important Disability Studies scholars in the Gulf region and continues to research how disabled individuals are represented in the media and society. His work includes disabled people participating in creating their own narratives and reclaiming their voices. My work similarly calls for the integration of disabled women in various

In Kuwait, for example, only Hussein Alenaizi’s (2018) ‘Portrayal of Disabled People in the Kuwaiti Media’ explores media representation of disabled people.

become more accurate – a representation that is not tragic, comic, scary or pitiful. It is time that we start a long overdue conversation questioning the collec-

tive history of canonical musalsals, re-examining the myths and stereotypes they perpetuate and considering contemporary depictions of disability and illness in various media. Disabled women need to be included in conversations about them, and they need to be given roles and platforms where they weigh in on whether these depictions of disability are harmful or accurate. We need more disabled writers’ voices and narratives and to consider disability in a different light, away from myths makers, decision makers and experts on the topics that concern them the most. Who better to speak about and represent disability than disabled individuals themselves? As clear as the answer is, I want to see the changes in the region so that I know the work is being done, not in a scholarly and theoretical sense but in a practical sense that affects the audiences, masses and communities in the Gulf.

127

STRANGENESS, THE MALE GAZE AND REVISITING FOLKTALES:

ON EMBODYING UM AL-DUWAIS 128

My friends tell me it was characteristic of me to dress up as Um al-Duwais for Halloween. Previously, I’d gone as Eleven from Stranger Things (plaid shirt, bloody nose and, of course, the 011 tattoo). On another year, I wore a long-beaked plague mask above my reusable cloth mask (unsurprisingly, it was Halloween 2020, and it was a quiet, pandemic non-celebration). Nevertheless, an Um al-Duwais costume was the ‘most-Maitha-thing’ I could’ve worn for Halloween.

I spoke endlessly of Um al-Duwais. She is a liminal being of inexplicable beauty and of both a satiation and distaste towards men. Born and reborn across various Khaleeji (Arab Gulf) cultures (including the Emirati folktale culture), it is told that she roams neighbourhoods late at night in a beautiful red dress, her long hair cascading down her back in a braid. Her beauty is meant to attract men who do not stay in their homes at night; thus, she lures them in to pun-

There are several iterations to the depiction of Um al-Duwais in the United Arab Emirates (UAE), where I am from. Some believe she has the feet of a donkey and machetes for hands, as the word Duwais is derived from daas, which is the Emirati dialectical word for machete (in other words, Um al-Duwais directly translates to ‘the mother of machete’). Some say she has one donkey leg and one machete leg. Most believe that the main aspect of her otherworldly beauty is her feline eyes. In some stories, her hometown is al-Madam in the emirate of Sharjah in the UAE, whereas other stories situate her on al-Hamra Island in the emirate of Ras al-Khaimah in the UAE. Despite all the variations of her description, all folktales agree that her purpose is to be the evil that keeps men from roaming the streets at night and from committing irreversible sins out of wedlock.

Across South West Asia and North Africa (SWANA), various cultures tell folktales that have women as their central characters, and many of those stories align with Um al-Duwais’s. Al-Naddaha (‘the caller,’ or ‘the woman who calls’) is another example. From Egyptian folklore, she is a woman of extreme beauty individuals’ names, luring them in with a spell to turn them insane and kill them. Some say that she takes the men she falls in love with to the liminal world of ghosts to marry them, only to return them dead to their families. Another story, originating in Morocco, is that of Aisha Qindeesha (or ‘Contessa Aisha’), who is seen from afar as beautiful but is actually an ugly ageing lady up close. She, too, lures men in to undergo sexual activities, eventually killing them and

130

Maitha Alsuwaidi These stories of women and the evil they possess are not limited to the UAE or the Khaleej (Arab Gulf region). They extend across history and borders, in cultures and languages beyond SWANA and Arabic, as in the story of La Llorona, or ’The Weeping Woman,’ for example. In all of my encounters with Um al-Duwais and her sisters, I am met with one of two extremes of obextremely beautiful or hideous, and in some stories she is simultaneously and paradoxically both – that is, beautiful but only from a distance. ment men proves this is a pattern of perception (and

consequent depiction) rather than a singular instance or outlier. Although I constantly try, I struggle to reckon with this perception. I like to write about Um al-Duwais and give life to her in my personal essays and short stories. I like to believe the processes of rethinking her – particularly when it comes to why she does what she does – and loving her (despite the usage of her existence as a vehicle to scare and discipline men) are empowering. To an extent, they are. I am free to rewrite her story and give her the dimensionality and depth she lacks. In one article, for example, I wrote, ‘I am aware of her reputation for attracting and murdering men deserve it, for no well-intentioned man would chase after a woman in the middle of the night.’

On the last day of October 2021, I dressed up as Um al-Duwais, the way I envisioned her. I picked up a black abaya (a traditional robe worn by women in the Arab and Islamic worlds) from a college friend, borrowed my roommate’s red wool skirt, wiggled into my black combat boots, braided my long hair into two tails and painted my face red.

Strolling the gardens of Blenheim Palace in the cold night with friends in Oxford – where I study – I felt beautiful, powerful but inevitably strange. It is strange to personify the woman who lures and craves men in predatory ways to kill them, as well as embody a feminine character with power she channels into evil doings, when the reality is that I and many other women possess lived experiences that reveal the opposite power imbalance – that of women being taken advantage of by men who are raised with no accountability structures. Um al-Duwais is the product of the male gaze – one that fetishizes women’s physicality and visible identities and at the same time demonizes women for men’s purposes and gain. Dressing up as her made me feel conspicuous in the least inspiring way, even though I consistently recharacter’s power and that I chose to hon-our her. I honour her because I recognise that she was created and shaped through the male gaze and beyond her own will, much like many women whose identities and lives are constricted to a limited scope of choices, predetermined for them by societal and communal expectations.

I doubt that the strangeness will ever escape me because it is an indivisible part of womanhood. The male gaze extends beyond stories like that of Um

al-Duwais, and I wish I could say that dressing up as her and writing about her, as well as all my attempts to reclaim and reframe her narrative, have helped in erasing this strangeness, but erasing this strangeness, but

I AM STILL A WOMAN, AND I AM STILL FOLLOWED BY SIMILAR PERCEPTIONS AND JUDGEMENTS THROUGH TIME AND LIFE AND ACROSS VARIOUS SPACES, CONTINENTS AND CONTEXTS. However, the existence of strangeness does and will not diminish moments of illuminating power and passion, when I talk about her with other women and recognise that same spark of recognition and love towards her, built on the understanding that she was created to be misunderstood. Moreover, I do not seek these moments of empowerment and reclamation to erase these folktales, as they do matter. They are a part of our histories and cultures. They shall not be erased, but there is merit and strength in revisiting and revising them. There is growth in the act of critically engaging with the folktales that constitute our histories, re-examining and taking apart the ways in which those stories were written, whom they were written by and for, and what purpose they sought to towards reimagining those stories in ways that empower and sustain our sense of self and belonging to our cultural narratives.

131

132

133

‘WHEN YOU EDUCATE, YOU EMPOWER’

MY STORY AS A NEWS TRAINER 134

‘It took me just one moment to realise the impact women could have through telling stories of their communities. The past few years have proven to me that when you educate women, you empower them.’

This thought crossed my mind while at the 14th Annual Arab Reporters for Investigative Journalism Forum in 2021, the second virtual forum, held in Amman, Jordan. At the time, I was attending a panel titled ‘Arab Women Journalists and Creating Social Impact,’ hosted by Jordanian journalist Etaf Roudan, Lebanese journalist Dalal Saoud, and the co-founder of Daraj Media in Lebanon, Diana Moukalled (the session was moderated by Fatima Farag of the World Association of Newspapers and News Publishers). The panel presented an intriguing dialogue between the four women that revolved around the role of women in newsrooms, how leadership has changed in the past few years, their personal experiences of tackling the challenges imposed on them by their local communities and the trials they had to undergo to create the impact they had hoped to achieve.

Samya Ayish

I was especially taken by a statement that Moukalled made: ‘We, as women, have to work harder compared to our male counterparts to be in their position and to enjoy the privileges they have. Women in way, and Arab women in newsrooms had to suffer as a result of that, so it was always hard for them to be in leadership positions. Women had to always come had to play their roles perfectly in a newsroom, in addition to all the other roles they have, such as being mothers, daughters, sisters, wives etc.’ Throughout my twelve years working as a journalist, I have seen that women who lead their teams are described as ‘bossy’ just because they distribute work and give tasks to their team members. At the same time, I have never heard any man being described as bossy. I have read about women who love the idea of being on screen as presenters and anchors but they were denied the opportunity because they would not cut their hair in a certain way or lose weight to meet the network standards. In her book, On All Fronts, Clarissa Ward, a senior correspondent at CNN, writes about her experience with international brands, for which she had to abide by certain standards that made all women on screen look the same. Moukalled’s words caused me to think about the type of impact each of us could have by making a change in our surroundings. It made me ask myself, have I impacted someone’s life and changed it for the better?

136

I grew up in a regular family. I received my love for journalism from my father and the love to tell stories from my mother. I have been through it all: studied, worked, got married, had two amazback to working in news and had my ups and many downs. It has always been of great importance for me to tell stories of the women of the Arab world. One of the reasons for that is the fact that I grew up in a house of only girls; I have no brothers, and I have seen how much my parents had to struggle

because of that in a society that values the existence of a male member in a family. I have seen my mom’s misery after people asked her, ‘Mashallah [Praise be to God], how many kids do you have?’ She would say, ‘Four daughters.’ The usual response would be, ‘May Allah [God] give you a boy!’ My parents empowered my three sisters and me with education and opportunity. They always believed that when you educate, you empower. My parents grew up in a Palestinian refugee family. They left their land, country and everything they owned and ended up living in a camp. Education was the only safe haven at that time. It was within their power to move out of their dire situation, see the world and raise their family in better circumstances. I am very proud of my parents, and I continue to carry these ideas with me throughout my life.

As an undergraduate student, I was one of the to intern at CNN Arabic when it began its operation asked by the editor-in-chief to return as a part-time employee. I believe I did a great job because they asked me to join after I graduated as a full-time employee. It was a great opportunity to focus on topics that I love, one of which is Arab cinema. I took that opportunity to talk about Arab women in cinema and the ways they struggle in a male-dominated profession. In the conservative Middle Eastern society, working in acting and cinema is considered a sin, especially for women, because it always comes with stereotypes. because it always comes with stereotypes.

THE STEREOTYPE TENDS TO BE THAT WOMEN WHO WORK IN FILMS HAVE A BAD REPUTATION AS PROSTITUTES, heavy drinkers and drug

addicts who will do whatever it takes to charm men. During my time at CNN Arabic, one of the most memorable interviews that I conducted was with Palestinian– Lebanese director Mai Masri, who talked to me about 3000 Nights, which depicts the struggles of Palestinian women in Israeli prisons. I have always believed these are the stories we should tell and the kind of journalistic coverage on which we should focus: stories that show the ugly reality people, especially women, live in and the unjust treatment they face on a daily basis.

137

However, another important role I am very proud to have played is coordinating the internship programme at CNN Arabic. It felt like a big responsibility: teaching and guiding students as they begin their careers in journalism and helping them to understand how a newsroom works. Remembering these days never fails to draw a smile on my face, and it brings to mind sweet memories: taking the to the various team members, reviewing their work and their daily journals and, most importantly, help-

choose a topic they liked, and they were required to present it as an online story or video report. I usually had a list of advice when doing this project. I trained more than 100 interns at CNN Arabic, so I will never forget this list, which includes the following: Choose a topic that you really love. This is one of the few opportunities to write about something you like and that means something to you. Don’t be general. Dig into details. Keep on asking the question, ‘And what happened next?’ Keep asking until you reach a point where there is no answer. Then that is your focus. ney.

Focus on your close circle and local community. No one knows that community better than you do. This list always produced magic. It gave interns guidance on topics to select, and it forced them to ask many questions having to do with details. They felt so empowered with knowledge that they produced a variety of wonderful stories that meant so much to them on a personal level and that represented them. Most of my interns now work in big newsrooms, and some have even started new media companies. It makes me proud that we crossed paths and that I had the opportunity to teach them how to tell stories about their world. I have always been amazed by our part of the world: of stories. There are happy stories of successful women and men who found inspiration and followed their dreams as well as poignant and painful stories of refugees, war victims, orphans, students who

138

outside – many of whom know little about our culture and history to report on it – but also by the young journalists and storytellers who grew up in this part of the world and know it by heart. It is time for us to reclaim our narrative and tell our stories ourselves. If my presence at CNN Arabic gave me the opportunity to teach hundreds of students, being the Google News Initiative Teaching Fellow in the Middle East and North Africa from 2019 to 2021 opened the door for me to teach tens of thousands of journalists.

For a couple of years, I had the opportunity to visit dozens of Arab newsrooms and to meet journalists eager to learn and explore various directions in innovation and storytelling. It made me happy to see many young having their by-lines on stories they produced using the tools I taught them. I realised that in our current era, journalism is not only about telling the story but also about using modern and innovative tools to tell these stories and reach a wider audience. Many would come for advice or mentorship, and others would come for guidance on the best tools to tell a story for a digital audience. It made me proud of what I do and how I do it. Every time I start a training presentation and introduce myself, I explain why training is one of my passions. My reasoning goes back to the values my parents instilled in me: When you educate, you empower. Today, empowering people through education continues to be my life mission.

139

KHALEEJI FEMINISM:

BETWEEN EAST AND WEST 140

‘Feminism for me is a reminder that no matter what life throws at me, I want to understand more, live as close to the truth as I know it, and always show up for women who face multiple and intersecting oppressions’ – Sara Abbas, ‘Diversity on Common Ground.’

What is feminism? What is feminist activism? What is Khaleeji feminism? (Khaleeji means ‘Gulf’ in Arabic, and it is used to refer to people of the Arabian Gulf.) Does Khaleeji feminism actually exist? To begin answering these questions, I go back to a point in my life that shaped this tangled place in-between the East and the West in which I have located my feminist activism. I was born in Tucson, Arizona, the United States, but I grew up in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia: I am American by birth and Saudi by blood. Both are privileges I never chose yet am grateful to have had. Having grown up in Jeddah to Saudi parents, I was sheltered from many of society’s problems. The sad truth is that I only began to see past my blind spots around 2006, when I became a journalist and spent four years reporting on violence against women and migrant worker exploitation. In March of 2010, I bid Jeddah farewell with an opinion piece published in Arab News, titled ‘Goodbye Saudi Arabia.’ In the oped, I discussed how my decision to marry a non-Saudi forced me to confront a new reality for choosing to break away from the status quo as a woman. I came to know about citizenship privilege, class privilege, education privilege, gender privilege, economic privilege and more. Although I may not have had the right terminology to explain what I was uncovering when writing stories of individual and collective suffering, my feminist ethics led me to condemn the oppression of women and minorities as part of my value system long before I learned the academic vocabulary and theories of feminism.

In 2013, I decided to pursue my graduate studies so that I could ask questions about women and violence as well as the ways to address the problem. That was when I was formally introduced to feminisms – yes, in plural. Like other social movements and ideologies, feminism means different things to various people Gay eloquently put it in Bad Feminist, ‘In truth, femtially learned about Islamic feminism, which led me to Third World feminism, decolonial and Indigenous feminism, Black feminism and other veins of feminist thought. However, I was daunted by White feminism, colonial feminism, carceral feminism, state feminism and capitalist feminism. As I gained knowledge about

142

Hasnaa Mokhtar

what oppression and privilege mean, as well as the way structural violence looks like in the real world, I peeled off the layers to unveil my identities, my traumas and the responsibilities being a feminist necessitates of me. As a survivor of violence, my life and my healing are living proof that nothing is linear or feminism: how I embraced it, how I rejected it and how I eventually found my voice and calling because of it. Citing my best friend and sister Sara Abbas, ‘My feminism is a work in progress. There has been no single moment of arrival or of epiphany, but multiple ones that have set me on new paths.’ From the feminist movements that inspired me, I learned that I must embrace humility in my feminist activism and admit to partial and complicated truths. I live by the notion that change is embedded in a parallel process of individual inner growth and a communal outand internal should transform us into better human beings in our efforts to understand and make the world a better place. Feminism that doesn’t break your heart to help you grow isn’t worth learning or embodying. The ways in which we treat each other when no one is watching matter as much as the public protests against misogyny do. At the heart of this struggle is an ongoing refusal of the existing power structures, materials and ways of being in the world

as well as a rejection of thoughts and acts that prevail and perpetuate injustice globally. As Gay further explains in Bad Feminist, ‘I believe feminism is grounded in supporting the choices of women even if we wouldn’t make certain choices for ourselves. I believe women not just in the United States but throughout the world deserve equality and freedom but know I am in no position to tell women of other cultures what that equality and freedom should look like.’ This journey of feminist self-discovery led me to arrive at the truth I hadn’t previously been able to articulate: feminist. The struggle is real. On the one hand, Khaleeji feminists have to call out local patriarchies within Khaleeji communities and challenge the structures that perpetuate violence. On the other hand, Khaleeji feminists have to reclaim and re-narrate histories, heritages, stories and experiences to counter the violence selves stuck facing a challenge. The Khaleeji feminist must also grapple with privileged, upper-class feminists

in the region who have failed to position the collective survival and thriving of all women as the central concern. In 'Border Checkpoints at the Nodes of Intersection: Challenges Facing Intersectional Feminism in the GCC,' Shaikha M. Al-Hashem explains, ‘Unfortunately, the majority of feminist movements in the GCC [Gulf Cooperation Council] remain in their ivory towers and their campaigning does not extend beyond their class. These women groups, for examwomen as a form of empowerment, disregarding the fact that their own economic empowerment comes at the price of the other’s disempowerment.’

Our Khaleeji feminism should push us to ask agonising questions about the ‘repulsive idea of unity… critiquing the widely held belief that these institutions were simply dropped upon women from the heavens,’ as Mona Kareem writes in her exceptional essay ‘Manifesto against the Woman.’ She continues: ‘I write against the Woman who thinks brazenly that we are one. She, whose [sic] behind perches upon the comfortable chair of citizenship, class, and race…We can never assume that women will stand with women: such an alliance as I have mentioned can only be presumed once “woman” has been fully Woman because she carries patriarchy on her shoulders.’ How do we then become feminist advocates critiquing injustice without causing more harm? I have learned that no amount of academic training, feminist literature or activism can fully prepare one to understand what a violent experience feels like. However, our shared humanity, collective empathy and

individual humility should push us to keep trying to do better; to sit with discomfort and power through and the West with strength and not anguish; and to listen and to learn rather than hide behind a camouauthentic. As Angela Y. Davis says, ‘Yes. Sometimes we have to do the work even though we don’t see a glimmer on the horizon that it’s actually going to be possible.’

I am a Khaleelji feminist who once idealised and looked up to everything foreign and Americanised or Westernised. I despised the way my uncle ate rice and meat with his bare hands while seated on the henna on my skin made me cringe. Learning Arabic in school was torturous, and wearing the traditional Saudi black abaya (a traditional robe worn by women in the Arab and Muslim worlds) suffocated the life out of me. However, after two decades of self-searching, I now take pride devouring a plate of kabsa or a slice of pizza. I wear my hijab Jeddah or New York. Arabic calligraphic art became a passion, and I indulge in decorative henna tattoos whenever I can. Most importantly, I no longer shy away from claiming and defending my Khaleeji feminism with all its complexities. Central to my feminism is a lifelong journey of self-mastery and growth, as well as a sense of responsibility to confront inequity and discrimination and to stand in solidarity with and rights.

143

144

145

OUR LANGUAGES

OUR SELVES 146

This isn’t the article I initially wrote. When I was asked to contribute a piece about my experiences as an Arab woman writer, my first thoughts were of defiant assertion. I drafted an article invoking Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s 2009 TED talk, ‘The Danger of a Single Story,’ and what I see as the concomitant risks of the counter-single story. I delineated the various Orientalist frameworks that Arab women writers constantly wrestle with, all the boxes they love to put us in and the paradigms they use to define us.

even attempt to instil in us a love of our own literary heritage, and so we turn to others’ canons in search of something to relate to, seeking narratives we might see ourselves in. I drafted an article that afour truths – no matter whom they made uncomfortable.

But that’s not the piece you’re reading. To be frank, these conversations bore me. At times, it feels as though all we do is shout about the fact of our existence – that we’re here, we have voices, we have a presence no one can deny. We spend a lot of time outlining the shapes of our identities – hybrid, immigrant, local – that is, when we’re not engaged in transnational arguments about what it ‘really’ means to be Arab. It seems to me that we spend far too much time concerned with rules others have set for a game we didn’t invent. We expend so much energy touting our right to speak that we hardly ever get around to actually saying anything. In an essay titled ‘The Politics of Knowledge,’ Edward Said writes, ‘If sake amounts to little more than saying that you granted, like the attention given an individual in a crowded room at roll call.’

Layla AlAmmar

What do these assertions accomplish? What power dynamics do they unwittingly concede? What point does an assertion serve if that’s where we stop, caught in what Said calls ‘an ultimately uninteresting alternation of presence and absence’? mother’s (English), but all of my schooling was in Arabic, the language of my father and the family and friends that surrounded me growing up in Kuwait. When I was young, language also became a kind of box, and people rarely saw my bilingualism as a good thing. Perhaps they even saw it as a threat. At school, teachers chastised me for taking too long to formulate responses in Arabic because I was thinking in English and translating in my head. Family members would chuckle when I inserted English words and phrases into our conversations simply because they were on hand at the moment. Friends would laugh when I made a badliya – a syntactical or grammatical mistake in Arabic – as though it were proof that I

148

wasn’t quite as Kuwaiti as they were. Often, it felt like the two languages resided in separate spheres – Arabic when I was out in the world and English in the home. After leaving school, my circle widened, and I found myself around more people who danced with multiple languages. Our conversations moved effortlessly between English and Arabic (with the occasional rounded by those who spoke and thought like I did. There were no politics to our language choices, no implications for what identity we subscribed to, no

sense that it meant anything beyond the fact that a polyglot speaking to other polyglots tends to go The Pact We Made, came out in 2019 that the politics of language surfaced again. Suddenly, writing in English was a choice. More than that, it was a choice that meant was writing to someone, for someone … that someone being what we might simplistically call ‘Western.’ My novel was no longer as I had conceived of around me. All at once, I joined the ranks of other Anglophone women writers, such as Ahdaf Soueif, understood to tell ‘them’ something about ‘us.’ The book joined a body of work viewed as a pedagogical tool, a thing to be intellectualised before it’s seen as literature. And English was a device, a weapon, a

What’s more, for some segments of ‘us,’

ENGLISH IS A BETRAYAL.

Some see language as a zero sum game, where choosing English means rejecting Arabic. They lament the death of a language and tell us English is the spear that’s butchering it. They say the death of a language means the death of a culture – as though these were one and the same. Languages are heavy with culture, to be sure. They are vessels for beliefs and social practices, traditions and communal fabrics, hegemonic patriarchies and ugly histories. They carry the elements that bring us together and all that tears us apart. For some, language illuminates the house of culture. It’s the charge, the energy But what about those of us who speak multiple languages, who live in multiple houses or who have made – in our perpetual unbelonging – a kind of hybrid house?

They tell me I can’t express an Arab experience in any language but Arabic, which is to say that the way I and many others move through the world is somehow not quite as valid. If I think in English and you dream in French, why should that make us any less Arab? Identity gatekeepers love to pin you down, to decree the measure of your personhood, to turn the impossible project of the individual into a kind of equation with hyphens and percentages – Arab-American, a quarter this, an eighth that – as though it tells them anything about the person in front of them.

149

In an elegy to Said, the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish says, ‘In the end, identity is the innovation of the individual to whom it belongs.’ Our initial pause should be on the word ‘innovation.’ Darwish chooses to describe identity as a process of creative ingenuity – an object to draw immutable borders around. It’s an ongoing, dynamic lifelong project. What’s more, to say identity is an innovation is to say we have an active hand in its fashioning. Often, when we speak of identity, we speak of it as though it were bestowed on us. We think about external forces, accidents of fate, which press upon our selves in various ways and with varying intensity – what country we’re born in, what family and tribe, what social class or colour or religious sect. We're thrust into social, cultural, political and historical frameworks that predate us, and identity can become a performance constituted and enforced with each retelling, showing and assertion. The rhetoric of Arab belonging becomes punctuated with familiar icons and defended on familiar grounds. But we are made of other things, too. Inside us are idiosyncratic elements, phenomenological elements, that are ours and ours alone. The music we dance to, the books that change us, the imprints friends have left on us, how we experience love, the languages we speak, the ways we meditate upon transcendence – all are components that comprise who we are, who we have been and who we might become. All of these elements, the external and the internal, comprise what Lebanese-French author Amin Maalouf calls ‘genes of the soul.’ It’s a useful exercise, I think, to bring these genes out into the light every once in a while. Dust them off, turn them this way and that. they produce friction. to assume. It’s not a weapon to brandish or a straitdream coat that we spend our lives fabricating. We weave in all those threads given to us at birth, accentuating some with silver and gold and burying others so they’re not quite so evident. We stitch in threads of our own fashioning, ones that emanate from deep within and whose sources we can’t pin down. Some may be invisible, and others may be loosely woven because we aren’t sure of their permanence. And no two dream coats could ever match.

150

We are each singular and whole in our being. It’s dangerous to accept (much less internalise) a narrative that a remainder or diagnose them with a kind of post-something melancholia. I cannot abide a thought that would have my very self come into being through another’s gaze. The threads are mine, my dream coat is in my lap and I’ve been weaving since before I was seen. We should return now and pause at the end of Darwish’s statement – ‘Identity is the innovation of the individual to whom it belongs.’ He uses the word ‘ a ibiha’ to say that your identity is yours to own, to assemble and break apart and refashion. I like to think we’re caretakers, too, that identity is something we spend our lives tending to and nurturing. In his book In the Name of Identity, Maalouf says we shouldn’t think of our selves as a mere assemblage of various components or, worse, as a set of competing allegiances. He likens identity to ‘a pattern drawn on a tightly stretched parchment. Touch just one part of it … and the whole person will react, the whole drum will sound.’ I suppose that’s what happens when my novels are dismissed as ‘not really Arab’ because I’ve written them in English. The threads of my personhood vibrate, and my drum begins to rumble. They tell me I can’t express an Arab experience in any other language but Arabic. I say my Arabness is not governed by the determinants of others.

151

152

153

154

155

From A Trap Called the Body, a series by Maha Al Asaker. The embroidered text reads 'O you who has begot daughters, you will toil till the day you die.'

156

From A Trap called the Body, a series by Maha Al an goes to Mars, she still to her kitchen returns.'

on women, culture and identity. She is particularly interested in exploring how women’s early life and upbringing affects their sense of identity and their self-esteem through her work. This embroidery-based photography series by Al into English in the captions by Salma Harland) that men and women express throughout the Arab world to limit women.

that is necessary for the reproduction of the tribe through marriage. Her sexual function

noticeable, the intense awareness of women of their bod-

jected to a process of physical, mental and psychological conditioning; socialising them for the role society has pre-

157

From A Trap Called the Body, a series by Maha Al Asaker. The embroidered text reads 'A house full of daughters is doomed.'

158

From A Trap Called the Body, a series by Maha Al Asaker. The embroidered text reads 'Better seek the shade of a man than a wall’s.'

159

In the Name of Modesty by Iraqi-Swedish illustrator Hayfaa Chalabi. Image courtesy of Hayfaa Chalabi.

160

Hayfaa Chalabi: In the Name of Modesty

Hayfaa Chalabi is a Netherlands based Iraqi-Swedish illustrator, storyteller and lecturer in illustration and social art practice who uses her art to tackle and raise awareness

and migration, and how they intersect. The 26 year old’s digital illustration series, In the Name of Modesty, is cen-

women and their bodies,’ she explains.

161

In the Name of Modesty by Iraqi-Swedish illustrator Hayfaa Chalabi.Image courtesy of Hayfaa Chalabi.

162

In the Name of Modesty by Iraqi-Swedish illustrator Hayfaa Chalabi.Image courtesy of Hayfaa Chalabi.

163

In the Name of Modesty by Iraqi-Swedish illustrator Hayfaa Chalabi. Image courtesy of Hayfaa Chalabi.

164

In the Name of Modesty by Iraqi-Swedish illustrator Hayfaa Chalabi. Image courtesy of Hayfaa Chalabi.

165

Playdate by Bahraini artist Huda Jamal. Image courtesy of Huda Jamal.

166

Huda Jamal: The Playdate

Huda Jamal is a 21-year-old Bahraini artist whose paintings, which combine reality with imagination, are inspired by her raphy. The concept of this acrylic artwork on Canson paper nifying the groom, whereas the bride remains absent from the scene; instead, a child sits on the ground, accompanied by a toy,’ says the artist, who has been practising art since ers through her paintings. ‘The title Playdate suggests the idea of a childhood that goes missing once the child gets

the idea of a man getting married to a toddler seems sickThe empty seats in the background represent the ongoing nomenon.’

167

Hajar Al Mutairi: Internal Feminism

Internal Feminism by Kuwaiti photographer Hajar Al Mutairi. Image courtesy of Hajar Al Mutairi.

168

Internal Feminism by Kuwaiti photographer Hajar Al Mutairi. Image courtesy of Hajar Al Mutairi.

practise photography, she wanted to capture scenes that one cannot see in reality. The 27 year old’s photography is inspired by women’s issues and gender equality, which is Internal Feminism. In the series, a woman with a fake mustache is captured. ‘Many people think that feminists are against men, but those who truly are feminists know that the only thing they are against

Internal Feminism

says the young photographer when she explains the in-

inherited across time, and which rests inside them.’

169

170

Enas Sistani: Mo’alakat, Stuck in the Unknown

Enas Sistani is a 35-year-old Bahraini photographer who is inspired by people’s stories and experiences. ‘I'd like to think of my photography as a platform through which I capture those different experiences, especially ones that societies and people tend to shy away from discussing or -

In recounting the inspiration behind one of her latest photographs, Mo’alakat: Stuck in the Unknown, the photographer says, ‘This photo was taken to showcase a recent campaign calling for the rights of mo’alakat. The campaign, which the Al Tafawuq Centre in Bahrain spearheaded, looks

women fail to meet this demand because of limited financial ability, which often surpasses the dower that they ally left as mo’alaka symbolism to depict the issue at hand by using hangers to demonstrate the status of those women left hanging with no hope in sight. The Arabic word for hangers —aa’lakah— and women who are suspended —mo’alakat— stem from the same root, and using hangers in the photo makes for an indirect play on words as well as a symbolic representation of the situation without explicitly using the word mo’alakat.’

khul’ Left: Mo’alakat: Stuck in the Unknown by Bahraini photographer Enas Sistani. Image courtesy of Enas Sistani.

171

Barcode by Omani artist Sarah Al Balushi. Image courtesy of Sara Al Balushi.

172

Sara Al Balushi: Barcode

Sara Al Balushi is a 34-year-old multidisciplinary Omani womanhood. Her work Barcode tackles the contradictions facing women today, who are often trapped in traditional habits rooted in a bygone era. ‘Modern society tries to liberate women from the shackles of history and bring them forward into the 21st century,’ says Al Balushi. ‘In the midst ate women from certain restrictions, forms of backwardness still persist amongst some who try to cipher women’s thinking and who try to treat them like commodities. They manipulate them emotionally and physically, making them unable to break free.’

173

174

175

By Fatima Al Dhaheri, MD

He gave me

176

My Name

He gave me my name After his own grandmother, Who gave him his name After her own father My name carries Four generations Of a child born in a tent made of sheep wool, Of a mother who braided the hair of the daughters of Sheikhs, To feed her four children, Of a grandmother who looked at that very child and Changed his name to that of her father

Illustration by Hala Al Abbasi.

177

My name carries Four generations Of a man who wore the uniform all his life Only to give his heart to a woman who Didn’t speak his tongue or Pray his prayers Of a love lost in translation My name carries Four generations Of a girl who looked at the stars above and Wondered if they were lonely And if God can listen to every prayer My name carries Four generations Of a girl who weaved dreams out of The lonely stars above and Prayed that God will listen to her prayers too.

My name Is And I am four generations of Love. Pain. Patience. Dreams. And prayer. A lot of prayer. For I learned that the stars above are not lonely, For how can they be lonely When they walk with God?

178

179

Who Could Ever Surpass

By Amal Al Sahlawi

a Strong Woman?

180

Who could ever surpass a strong woman in choosing her battles and ways of survival, in all her honest contradictions, in making the most mundane of days absolutely wondrous, in her ability to forgive someone utterly and wholly who had hurt her for years on end only so she could sleep with a clear conscience? I never truly understood how a woman could shower everything she meets with pure, unadulterated love until I saw a lady who had just miscarried a faceless embryo.

Illustration by Hala Al Abbasi.

She was bereaved, like someone who had just lost an entire tribe. I never knew true strength until I saw women bearing gaiety amidst their pains, rising with ardent desires to stand out, undeterred by the numerous responsibilities that rest on their shoulders. True strength is a woman who goes to work while she carries her infant upon her waist, leading debates in grand conferences before jotting down a reminder on her phone, without the faintest trace of vain arrogance, to buy gluten-free milk for her baby. It is a woman who could pour her wrath on you yet help you unconditionally and without a second thought when you fall. She is the same woman you criticise for her spendthrift ways, yet she would sell everything she owns to support you in your time of need, only to see you stand tall and proud. You think she is a fragile vessel, yet she stands – like a gallant army – in the face of formidable hurdles whenever weakness conquers you. It is a woman who vents to she would bring Earth to a halt if she could only see her sick child well again. It is a woman who runs the household, stays loyal to her friends through thick and thin, holds lavish banquets and chooses to work despite having every means of comfort, either because she wants to take the lead or to be part of something bigger than herself. Women are phenomenal beings who inspire wonder and awe. They are loving, tender, giving and sometimes naïve, yet they are well aware of this, and they still choose – every single time – to be the better half of all things. Who could ever surpass a strong woman? Translated from the Arabic by Salma Harland

182

183

Through

By Maryam Al Shehhi

Their eyes

184

Her name is Amna. It translates to ‘safe.’ Her name on the ID is Aman, which translates to ‘safety.’ Her friends call her Amina, an adjective for someone trustworthy. Her husband calls her moon, mooni, the name of the moon. We call her Mom, Mama, Ummi; she calls her mother Umah, which is also an Arabic word for ‘people.’ Yes, she’s her everyone.

Her mother’s name is Aysha, Superwoman. Worked to feed her kids, all alone. Not really. She was surrounded by ladies, her neighbours Salma, Suhaila and Saleha. Superwomen.

Just like her mother used to, she braids my hair; Every Friday, she adds layers of henna. And just like her mother, she soaks my hair in oil every Saturday. Aysha is a superwoman. My superwoman. Travelled all the way from Oman in the early days to settle in Ras Al Khaimah. A traveller. A survivor. A superwoman.

She teaches me how to be independent The way her mom was.

She braids my hair; Her mom braids tree branches; 5oo9, talli, textile, craft; * Her father ties ropes.

And she continues braiding my hair, weaving years of narratives, Of women in neighbourhoods, Of working women, Of survivors, Of thrivers, Of a woman who’s a family Of divorcees And of widows, Superwomen. Superwomen. Superwomen. She stops braiding my hair, But the narratives don’t stop. With it; their hands continue weaving Textiles, Fabric, Craft.

* 5oo9: a word used in colloquial Emirati, written here in Arabizi,

Talli: a type of handmade embroidery on the traditional dresses of Emirati women.

185

By Fadwa Al Taweel

The Family

186

Assembly

It was one in the morning, and the news was still streaming real-time coverage of the election results, since the nationwide lockdown was imposed. Clamorous drums pounded in my chest as I scanned the the endless popups on my phone: ‘#WeAreAllSabika, Supporting Women’s Political Leadership.’

Illustration by Hala Al Abbasi.

187

reminiscing about that great moment, not the namlocal elections but the day my grandfather named her ‘Kuwait Hurra,’ (‘Kuwait is Free’) a name she believed was only hers. She took so much pride in that name that she never sought to achieve anything else of merit.

‘Isn’t he the same candidate Dad has been voting for for the last forty years?’ ‘Yes, just like granddad.’

‘Do you know why your granddad named me Kuwait Hurra?’ she asked while sipping on her tea.

‘And of course the dewy-eyed Salwa and Nuzha ended up voting for him as well, didn’t they?’

My sister Salwa rolled her eyes; she had heard this story countless times, more than any other member of our family. ‘Yes, because you were born on the day Kuwait gained its independence.’

‘Of course! Who dares defy Diwan?’

My sister Nuzha nudged Salwa’s foot under the table, urging her to respect our mother’s burning desire to narrate her story. ‘What does grandad call you, mum?’ Nuzha asked. ‘Kuwait or Hurra? Or does he use your full name, Kuwait Hurra?’ became engrossed in answering Nuzha’s question. ‘Your grandfather proudly calls me Kuwait Hurra whenever he is around other men and Hurra at home around your uncles. Yet my mother – may she rest in peace – used to call me Kuwait.’ My mother only narrated this favourite story on bank holidays to retain its glamour, and we always did our best not to let the tiresome repetition undermine its importance. I turned to my sister Firdaus, who had abstained from voting this morning following an argument with my eldest brother, Mubarak, before whispering in her ear, ‘What was your argument about this morning?’

188

‘He was trying to force me to go with Salwa and Nuzha to vote for our dad’s choice, and he didn’t like it when I talked back’.

I glanced at my father, who was watching our every move like he knew we were talking about him. ‘Dad?’ I smiled idly. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ He nodded, but my mother jumped in to care for his needs. ‘Diwan, how many teaspoons of sugar would you like in your tea?’

Instead of answering my mother’s question, he gazed at the TV, wide-eyed with astonishment; the same female candidate had topped all the polls ahead of his favourite contender. Tilting his head towards my brother Mubarak, who sat next to him, he sneered, saying, ‘It’s only a matter of seconds. She’ll be out of the race within the hour.’ ‘Less than an hour,’ Mubarak nodded. My father’s smirk was akin to a genocide eradicating our entire existence, as if the room was suddenly vacant of women, with no one left but my father and brother. My mother leaned in front of the TV to offer my father his tea, but rather than thanking her, he began to scold her for its bitter taste. ‘I asked if you wanted sugar,’ she reminded him. ‘You didn’t reply.’

‘When?’ he snapped. ‘You can never acknowledge that you are simply wrong, can you? Do you always have to come up with excuses?’

The conversation immediately escalated into an endless cycle of reproach and blame, spiralling into a heated argument that brought up countless yet irrelevant past incidents, such as my father’s devotion to his second wife, his numerous travels, the money that my mother had been spending outside of the family budget and her ‘leniency’ in dealing with their daughters, which only ever led to chaos, especially – so my father claimed – when it came to me, Rawda. I always got the blame whenever any acts of ‘disobedience’ occurred within our household. Dad vented his thoughts fully. ‘She does whatever she wants and makes decisions all on her own without showing the slightest respect for her father’s word in this house!’

She was lying, of course, but my father believed her, or maybe he wanted to believe her only so he would not have to deal with the fact that his daughters no longer did as he said. Silence ensued as each of us the news again without my mother leaning in front of when it came to the female candidate. The only thing that marred the silence was the sound of my father’s old rosary. The threaded beads rattled ing after the other as the female candidate’s ranking fell from seventh to eighth, to ninth, then to tenth. Another notification popped up on my phone: ‘#WeAreAllSabika, Supporting the Only Female Candidate, Now Ranking in Last Place, Still Holds One Seat Out of Fifty.’

‘All of this just because I decided to vote for the can-

‘If only it was a real candidate,’ Mubarak sneered. ‘One of our men! But it’s a woman! What would a woman do for you in the Assembly?’ ‘Your future?’ my father added. ‘Who helped you get the job of your dreams? Wasn’t he the same man you refused to vote for?’

The night sky lit up through the broad windows as in celebration of the triumph of democracy. The rehad lost the race by only eight votes. Translated from the Arabic by Salma Harland

Keeping my chin up, I crossed my ankles and tried my best not to be dragged down into this futile debate. ‘Dad, didn’t you use your second wife to pressure your daughters into voting before you and Mubarak pressured Mum, Nuzha and Salwa, thus giving that man a total of eight additional votes? Why does it bother you that my one vote was different?’ ‘And your sister’s!’ My father stormed out while pointing at Firdaus, but she cunningly dodged the argument. ‘I didn’t have to vote for one particular candidate over the other, for my vote doesn’t count anyway.’

189

190

Will we ever meet again? Your faint and mumbling voice is emanating from a breathing mouth, A voice like that, without a doubt, will take me back to that tree, The one we left bare after the invasion.

It is just a matter of time Before he withers at your door Like a wounded man whose heart has suddenly stopped beating. I remember you waiting for me on the edge of the bench, Worried about me, knowing that gruelling days are awaiting us; We have been through a lot already. The food we shared once we left on the trees: There the world begins, and there it ends Your smell has never left my clothes, Your beautiful simple face peeking from the window When I come back home before dawn. The cord, swinging between us, The excuses that I used to tell you, The obvious lies that were part of a masquerade Like a life that resembles a car accident, Like a soldier running away from war before it starts And like the movie Alone in Berlin, with its end Full of bitterness; The streets will be empty from those I knew once, And I’ll be another man in a strange land. The house I have never forgotten that house; It has remained intact, and its walls still show blotches of plaster. Even the sounds that used to rise from the roots And the mysterious sighing, and the love, breaking And falling on the bench before turning into a yellow leaf That my mother used to sweep at dawn are still there.

Translated from the Arabic by Jonas Elbousty, PhD.

By Akram Alkatreb

The child that you knew once became an old man; He is now describing you using few words, With his face looking down and crying.

191

It's Only Blood

Somehow, this blood on white tissues, The blood gushing between my thighs,

By Alaa Hasanin

Could have become a child. I told myself – it’s only blood.

192

And I pictured a child with full eyebrows Emerging from a spot of blood, Toddling across the porch. I don’t think about the world Or care about children. When they laugh loudly, I wish they’d shut up. And when they come up to ask for money, I wish they’d get lost. I’ve stopped seeing myself in every depressed kid. I’ve swallowed many years To distance myself from my childhood, Drinking almost every day So I could laugh, Welcoming the hand asking me to dance Because love is beautiful And happy. Love is a child. I closed my eyes, And with a rolled-up two-hundred note, I snorted white powder.

Then I was silent for a whole night. Just breathing Intoxicated me. I knew there was a child inside me, But I said, slugging wine from the bottle, That I wanted it to be dead. The next morning, I swallowed bootleg pills in the subway And said, it will die in the street. It will be a beautiful, dead child. I smoked a full pack of cigarettes when I started feeling ill. My friends said I was depressing them. I apologised and spent two hours in a public toilet. The blood may never stop. My child poured out as blood, drugs, alcohol and nicotine. I know I didn’t feel a thing. I didn’t suffer much pain. That it would have become a human being, That I carry within my body a treasure house of children, Children with full eyebrows, Coloured eyes And dark complexions. I came out and wandered in front of the cars. The world outside me is too big to grasp. The world inside me is too big to grasp. My friends came to drag me away. They said I was making myself depressed. As I stuffed into my coat pocket a child in a plastic bag, They added, life is beautiful And I’m still young. One of them spoke gingerly of a good psychologist and took my arm While I wept and put my other hand in my pocket To greet a small child That I had decided would arrive dead. Translated from the Arabic by Katherine Van de Vate

193

194

195

Arab women.

In their own voices.