muslim girlhood is a knife. you kill us, and yet we will live forever.
forced marriages, stinky pussy, changing into miniskirts in dingy bathrooms, shiny pretty brown boys, and dancing with jinns
hi i wrote this in an hour and much of this is a purge from my body so I could care less if it’s messy but maybe that’s the point? hope u enjoy. bad angry sad Muslim girls this one’s for you xo
side note- details and names have been changed to protect their identity. consent was also given as well. love u my dear friends!
Last night, I wrote in my journal before going to bed:
Dear Diary,
These are things I want and need right now:
a good juicy long kiss
a good fuck
a long hug
kindness
revenge
God
Inshallah.
I woke up to the incessant noises of my father yelling SHEEEEET (shit), his face only inches away from the screen as the cricket world cup match played until it felt like the speakers were about to combust, my mom on the sewing machine rattling against our wobbly kitchen table, and her phone automatically playing Facebook reels of women selling sarees from the basement of their homes.
I looked at my phone; it was 8:30am on a Saturday morning, and all I wanted from this long week was to sleep in. As I forced myself out of bed and staggered out of the bedroom, my eyes still dreary with sleep in them and drool drying up on the corner of my lips, my father started wagging his phone to fix his phone because his phone kept dancing (he was talking about the Google Doodle animation of kids jumping rope for Juneteenth) while my mother asked me to write an email for work.
I quickly walked past them, mumbling to wait until I brushed my teeth, and quickly sprinted to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet and breathed out. Over the years, the bathroom has become my haven. When things became too loud or overwhelming at home, I’d hide away in the bathroom. No one could bother me here, I would think to myself. Eventually, my parents would knock on the door and ask me what was wrong, so I’d blurt out different excuses. Constipation. I got my period. Diarrhea. My foot fell asleep, so I can’t get up. Our medicine cabinet is now full of homeopathy ginger digestive powder and stool softener pills.
As I hide to avoid everyone and hear my parents wonder if God knows what their daughter does in the bathroom, a pang of dread hits me. A month ago, I turned 25. Sitting on the toilet, scrolling through Tiktok, I wonder how much longer I will have to hide. I suddenly felt pathetic. I’m too fucking grown for this.
After some time, I leave the bathroom and look around the apartment. The cricket match is over (Bangladeshi news was playing in the background because that’s what’s considered soft noise in our household). My dad is now rambling about how useless Bangladesh’s team is and that all the players look like chickens. My mom tells him to shut up because she’s trying to pay attention to a live video of an auntie from the Bronx selling georgette sarees and frowned down at her phone as she haggled in the comments. When they notice me out of the bathroom, I am bombarded by questions.
“When is the next match?”
“Do you like this saree or that saree?”
“Why is my phone dancing again?”
“Is shipping with one p or two p’s?”
The day had just begun, and I was already exhausted. My face began to feel droopy. I started to wonder if I had ever known silence. I plopped down next to my mother as she argued with an auntie in the comments to give her a discount.
“Amu…will all I know in my life is noise?” I desperately asked. “Is this all that my life is, maa?”
I wondered if she understood my pleading. She looked up at me with those big eyes that made me forget why I was upset in the first place and wrapped her arms around my shoulders.
"We’re your children, so of course it’ll be loud. And then you’ll get married and have kids, and they will also be loud. They will cry waah waah waah and need you. So we’re preparing you for your life!” she laughed.
It would’ve been easier to bear if her laughter was conniving and vicious. It felt like she was calling upon a curse. But alas, her giggles were much like a toddler’s, and as her doe eyes looked back at her phone while scrolling to the next video, I understood this was not a curse but her deepest earnest wish for me. And at that moment, as a commercial of Shahrukh Khan holding up a Thums Up soda bottle played on the screen, all I wanted to do was collapse on the floor and weep.
I got a text from my phone, and it was from a close friend with no words but just a caterpillar emoji. It was the day she was going to meet a prospective man her parents wanted her to marry. She had just begun her new job as a nurse, so naturally, it was time to officially begin her life— which, in other words, is marriage.
The caterpillar emoji meant that I had to call in exactly 30 minutes. Over the years, we’ve successfully curated code names for emergencies and not so emergencies:
Let’s get coffee? means Wanna smoke? I’ll bring some.
We’re catching up tonight means I’m getting fucked tonight so I’m telling my fam that I’m spending the night with you. (Not to be confused with actually catching up. It takes years of mastery to decipher which is which.)
I texted back with a question mark, wondering what was happening. We had looked over the guy’s bio data weeks in advance and learned that he likes to hike and try new foods and wants someone spiritual but also open-minded. We agreed that it either meant he doesn’t eat halal, or maybe he wants his ass eaten. My phone vibrates again.
“fabliha, pretend there’s an emergency at work. car crash or something. just talked to the guy and he asked me what color is my hair under my hijab because he wants to make sure I’m not like those wild girls with red-dyed hair. wtf.”
I twirl my red streaks and laugh.
“what a weirdo. and gotchu.” I texted back.
I set an alarm for 30 minutes and watched the news with bored eyes. A car crash in Dhaka happened the night before, killing 2 families. I quickly send another text.
“Astagfurillah. but good idea.”
The next day, a friend, Shahida, and I went to a dance party and fundraiser. The night felt light and magical. The moment I closed the door behind me, I felt like I was leaving behind all the sorrow and pain of the world.
We ran into some friends, and one of them handed us a joint.
“It’s special for tonight. I put lavender in it" I laugh back and say, “That’s gay as fuck. Lemme take a hit.”
As I reached for it, I got a notification on my phone. A photo memory appeared on my screen. An array of photos came up from the summer of 2018. I had just wrapped up my freshman year at a local community college, and my friends who were dorming were back in the city. Along with stories about drunken nights on campus that I was secretly envious of, they also brought some pre-rolled joints hidden in the bottom of their bags that their roommates got for free from their situationships.
We were 18 and stupid and brilliant with nowhere to go but everywhere to be, which meant we were dangerous. All we had that summer were five-dollar bills in our pockets and crumpled-up shitty weed, but we knew no difference because weed was weed, and we felt like we were on top of the world.
We’d somehow slip into museums and change into mini skirts and halter tops in the bathroom, and white people would stare us down, wondering why a bunch of Black and brown teen girls would be interested in art. After strolls in museums where we’d be reminded again and again that we wanted everything and no one wanted us, we’d march over to Popeyes and share a big bucket of fried chicken, which always hit the spot. Our lips were glossy from the mixture of the lip gloss one of us probably stole from Sally’s Beauty store and canola oil from the chicken. We were fabulously disgusting, and no one could tell us anything. Then, as the summer night sky darkened, we’d go to Central Park, and each time, we’d remember that it was probably not a good idea, but hey, why not? We got each other, we would say.
We’d walk under the trees, branches drooping over us as we took turns telling ghost and Jinn stories. Then we’d get scared and help put each other’s hair in a tight bun as we were reminded of our mother’s warnings that it’s dangerous for girls to walk under trees at night. Jinns live in trees, and if they see our luscious hair out, they would snatch us up. We’re girls; not even God could protect us, so we knew we were on our own from an early age. We were also told not to have a trace of perfume at night as it’s easier for Jinns to find us, but we figured the stench of our spliffs, sweat, and hours spent at Popeye’s would protect us.
During our strolls, we’d stop to practice a new dance trend because we never had the privacy to do so at home. But then we’d hear a branch crack or rustling in bushes. We’d scream FUCK THERE’S A JINN HERE (it was probably a man, but we were too scared to admit it as men are much more insidious than Jinns), scream duas, and ran out of the park and into the local trains where we’d prepare lame excuses to our parents of why we were out late.
Together, we’d eat up every minuscule moment of our time. We were away from the 5-meter radius of our community, which meant our entire world. A few train stops away, and we’d enter a whole new universe. We were in the wild jungle, and for just a brief, rare moment, we were the beasts, and the world was our prey.
We had to make every moment count in our hangouts and use our cards carefully. If we went out for one Saturday out of the month, we'd plan to meet a month or two later. We possibly couldn’t hang out again because good Muslim girls wouldn’t dare spend their time with anyone other than their family. We appreciated being able to leave the house occasionally anyway, a blessing we didn’t take lightly.
Shahida poked me, and I realized it was my turn to smoke. I looked around me and at the disco-lit room. I smiled to myself as I took a hit. I closed my eyes and breathed out.
In the corner of my eyes, I watched my friend Ananya tenderly kiss her girlfriend under the disco ball and twinkled at the sight. I remember that I hadn’t been kissed like that in a long time, and my body suddenly ached to be desired.
My thoughts returned to sitting on the rocks of Brooklyn Bridge Park, feeling the gentle breeze from the East River. Next to me was a brown boy I had met on Instagram, and I still couldn’t believe I was there with him. He was beautiful and shiny, and I wondered if I looked rusty, like an old penny next to him. I had seen him in tagged pictures of pretty brown girls I was jealous of. I took mischievous pleasure in that he was there with me on this romantic summer night and not them. I imagined their faces if they caught us, but he had made me promise that I wouldn’t tell a soul that we were meeting, and it would be more fun for us anyway if this were our little secret. Secrets make things more fun and special, he’d say.
I agreed without hesitation because I wanted to be chill, easy, cool girl to hide the stench of my desperation. I wanted him to want me so bad that I was more than willing to be everything he wanted and nothing of who I was.
The Sparkly Shiny Brown Boy told me I have great breasts, which made me blush, but I also wondered if he realized that I got a haircut. He leaned over to kiss me and shoved his tongue down my throat. His tongue tasted like the Takis that we shared earlier. I began to wonder if Takis on a girl’s tongue would be tangy like achaar, and then all I wanted was to go home and eat my mom’s biryani with the achar my neighbor made for us. But then he moaned in my mouth, unleashing his desire, and filled my stomach with him until there was no trace of me, and suddenly nothing else mattered because he wanted me, and that’s all I could ask for.
Ananya and I sat on a bar stool and watched her girlfriend dance with our friends.
“When she tells me she loves me, she literally speaks the words into my mouth so my body is filled with her love. Isn’t that incredible?” I watch her cheeks become swollen from smiling too hard. We hold hands, and I feel the love in her body travel to mine as our fingers tighten.
I crashed the night at Shahida’s place, and she was knocked out on the sofa while reruns of Schitt's Creek played on the TV. I laughed because I knew she would be the first to fall asleep. I tell myself I’ll also fall asleep in a few minutes, but an hour passes as I scroll through TikTok.
As I scrolled through, a video of two girls with shiny blond hair braiding each other’s hair with the caption i luv girlhood came up. As I watched their golden hair wrapped around their fingers to thread into a braid, I suddenly remembered tightening Layla’s hijab with triple the amount of safety pins than usual into her undercap. It is junior year of high school, and we are hiding behind a totaled car after dismissal, blocks away from a high school I’ve never seen but only heard of.
Earlier that day, a group of us met up in the bathroom between Chemistry and English class and hurdled around Layla as she angrily raged from English to Arabic. Between the flushes from the stalls, students treading to their next class in the hallways, and a girl asked me if I had a tampon because she wanted to see why her mom insisted it was haram, I managed to pick up tidbits from the commotion.
I hear sneaks of “stupid bitch wants my man” and “big head thot” and “Turkish girl from his mosque”. And so, we made a plan, and I found myself crouching down, waiting for a girl who could look like someone we hate because if one of us goes down, we all go down. The next thing I knew, one of us said go, and we charged down the block. Layla got on her face and started screaming things I couldn’t work out while we circled around and screamed YES BITCH FUCK HER UP FUCK HER UP DUMBASS HOE because that’s what bad bitches on t.v say, and if one of us was wronged, we were all wronged.
I look back and wonder what we desperately tried to prove and protect. Maybe it was because we had so little, and for someone to take what was rightfully ours reminded us of just that. We had to ruthlessly protect, and if you tried to snatch it, you’re fucking dead. (Unless you’re our family, then we’re fucking dead.)
We celebrated her (our) win at the local McDonald’s over fish fillet sandwiches with extra mayo, and Layla told us how, in a few years, she’d be engaged to her boyfriend. That summer, her parents somehow found out about her secret relationship. The best friend of the Turkish girl’s cousin’s mother went to the same mosque as Layla’s family, and word got around. The next thing we knew, Layla was on the next plane back to Lebanon to get married.
Years later, I discovered that she eventually returned to the city and worked part-time as a pharmacist at her uncle’s store. I thought I saw her once on the bus to Sunset Park, but she was holding a toddler and had a girl who looked about eight tugging on her salwar. I told myself that it couldn’t be and decided to stick to the image of remembering her ferocious teenage self instead because that was easier than what was in front of me.
The video on my screen replayed, and I watched the girls lay on a patch of grass tying flowers into each other’s golden hair with hundreds of comments saying girlhood girlhood girlhood. I put my phone away and tried hard to fall asleep. But I was awakened by the memories of the group of us in the bathroom stalls giggling about boys we met, girls we wanted to be, and dreams that would eventually be killed.
The video on my screen replayed, and I watched the girls lay on a patch of grass tying flowers into each other’s golden hair on my phone screen and scrolled through hundreds of comments where the word ‘girlhood’ was thrown in each sentence. I put my phone away and fell asleep.
A few days after the party, I met up with my friend Amal, who I met at a Shakespear Tragedies class in college. Since we graduated, we meet up occasionally and recount the horrendous experiences we had navigating love and sex as two naive and foolish Muslim girls. We’d howl and shriek at the embarrassment, things both of us would take to the grave. But after the laughter died down and the sadness crept through, we’d be left with the pain and dread our young selves had gone through for a slither of what we believed was love.
Over brunch, she told me how she recently ran into her ex from college. We were sophomores in college. She was the only one who knew about Sparkly Shiny Brown Boy, and I was the only one who knew about the boy she was “studying” with. So naturally, we were bounded to each other through the power of secrecy. We had learned the hard way how important it was to not trust anyone and how easy word gets around. We’re Muslim girls, and so all we had was our reputation, and even then, we knew the fragile thread dangled over us at all times.
One day after class, we met at the local deli, and she began crying in my arms. Her then-boyfriend had just told her that her pussy smelled like rotten fish. And so, out of desperation, we looked for solutions on the library computer and saw daddytate_ahs on Twitter saying to eat pineapple to make you taste and smell fresh that you’re man can’t get enough of. So we pinched together the left of what we had from our part-time jobs and bought a week’s worth of pineapples because, to us, we didn’t know what he said was fucked up and maybe girlhood meant helping each other be wanted.
Our waiter approached us and asked us if we wanted any drinks.
“Not piña colada,” I snickered. We look at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter. Our waiter laughed nervously and said he’d come back.
Through our breathy laughter, Amal looked at me with her beautiful smile and whispered, “I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing, but I think we’ll be just fine.”
We smile at each other and gobble the rest of our deliciously stinky fish curry.
I look back at these moments, and my heart hurts and soars.
We were girls with gorgeous smiles and merciless tongues and ugly hearts and beautiful souls. We were vivacious and terrified.
We have everything to lose and nothing to gain. We drink up every moment of life because we do not know when it is our last. As the thread of reputation strangles our throats until we take our last shaky breath, we cling to each other and claw our way through life. While we witness the face of cruelty every day, still, we look at life and say yes, I will drown in you. Yes, you fuck us over again and again, and yet I will love you because you chose me, and I chose you.
To be a Muslim girl is to be a knife. You kill us, and yet we will live forever.
haram😡☝️ (ive done all of this and am literally the final boss of kafir) very well written and fun!
this made my heart ache. i love how you write. as a non-muslim i could not relate to a lot, i admit, but as a brown person, i can understand. i love you guys i have nothing to offer except my own prayers.