Being a Muslim woman can be a lonely journey. I say journey because faith is often in flux: there are highs and lows, feelings of devotion and doubt, certainty of religious scripture and bouts of perplexity surrounding the patriarchal interpretations of it.
There are more than two billion Muslims in the world, with roughly half of us female, yet we are far from monolithic. Not only in cultures, customs and style preferences, but in religious views, too. Some accept centuries-old rulings as immutable; others feel the need to look at such traditions with fresh eyes. Among the minefield of opinions, finding your tribe of fellow Muslim women is not the easiest of endeavours.
I’ve lived in London, the Middle East and across the United States, but it was on Zoom that I finally found mine. Based out of Leeds, scholar and author Dr Sofia Rehman began a weekly book club centred on Islam and gender during the pandemic. More than five years later, her Sunday sessions remain non-negotiable commitments in my calendar. The online community spans all corners of the world, with members on a similar path of inquisition and introspection. Discussions are enlightening and empowering, and members (mostly women but sometimes men, too!) are compassionate and empathetic. We’re on the same page – literally, and figuratively.
Cool and edgy or oppressive and patriarchal? Depends whose head it's on.
In my experience, religious texts, lectures and spaces pertaining to Muslim women too often prioritise our roles in relation to men. Be modest, be pure, be obedient. It might not look like modern gender equality but there are just some things we just don’t question, is a common sentiment. There’s a reluctance to challenge traditional interpretations of religious scripture, even when they clearly contradict the egalitarian spirit that I know my religion is rooted in.
Why do men always pray in front of women? Why do women today still receive less inheritance than their brothers? How can polygamy be a fair practice in the present day? The dismal (if any) women’s sections at mosques, the hyper-focus on female modesty, unequal rights in marriage… the list goes on.
Rehman created a truly safe space where women need not feel fear when interrogating their faith. Through the book club, we’ve come to understand how some supposedly Islamic rulings may have been described for a particular time and place, and not necessarily prescribed for eternity. We find comfort in knowing that the Prophet Muhammad introduced regulations and preached messages that were profoundly feminist at the time, to a society that had previously viewed women as property to be owned. And we collectively lament how later ruling powers curtailed these liberties, stifling women rather than continuing to develop the faith’s emancipatory trajectory.
Many of the books we read together are deeply-researched appeals to revive this revolutionary vision of early Islam. Our first was Qur’an and Women by Amina Wadud, an African-American convert to Islam who later made headlines for leading a mixed-gender prayer in New York in 2005. One of my favourite reads was The Women’s Khutbah Book, edited by Sa’diyya Shaikh and Fatima Seedat. A khutbah is the speech given after the communal Friday prayer – traditionally, by men. The title alone felt revolutionary. Then there was Scott Kugle’s Homosexuality in Islam, a book that encourages readers to have an open mind when approaching one of the most divisive issues in the community today.
It’s this energy – a sort of communal, activist essence – that I wanted to embed in Dunya, the protagonist of my new novel, Turbulence. It’s a fictional story about a pregnant woman who goes into labour mid-flight, while reflecting on pivotal moments of her life. I knew early on that faith would be an integral part of Dunya’s identity. I wanted to put to paper many of the thoughts and concerns that modern Muslim women have, and surround Dunya with supporting characters who would sometimes validate, and sometimes challenge, her views.
There are stereotypes around South Asian women being oppressed, passive and not having a voice.
In university, Dunya finds her tribe through an extracurricular Muslim feminist group. They fearlessly delve into topics that would be deemed disruptive – even disrespectful – in mainstream circles. When the group ultimately gets disbanded, Dunya spends years searching for a similar community bonded by care, comfort, kinship and a sense of openness that isn’t always easy to find. The path is far from linear; her faith flourishes, dips and ultimately comes to a climactic tipping point in ways that will resonate with many modern Muslim women.
One thing I’ve come to realise is that you don’t have to agree with your loved ones about every aspect of religion. Being confronted with different viewpoints is what enriches the journey and encourages critical thinking, rather than blind devotion. Faith can be gently embraced and nurtured, rather than inherited and enforced. It isn’t a fixed destination, but an ever-evolving act of engagement – one that will come into heightened focus over the next few weeks during Ramadan.
It truly is a journey – and having like-minded companions who walk alongside you can transform it from one of loneliness to one of shared solidarity and sisterhood.
Hafsa Lodi is a fashion and culture writer with degrees in journalism and Islamic law. Her debut novel, Turbulence, is out on 8 February (The Dreamwork Collective, £14.99)
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