The Perfect Muslimah

The perfect Muslimah. She is shy and retiring. She covers from head to
toe in voluminous black clothing, uncovering nothing of her face and only
one eye to see her way on the road. She walks silently and with gaze
downcast. She avoids talking and laughing so as not to allow the sound of
her voice to fall within the hearing of a non-related man. She keeps to the
shadows, emerging from her home only rarely. She allows her husband to
shop for food, clothing, and other necessaries so she can avoid the
boisterous and impious marketplace. She eschews TV for her Quran,
reciting ayahs throughout the day and night. She stands in prayer five
times during the day and late into the night. She cleans her home with a
thoroughness that would shame the keepers of the Kaaba. She never
contradicts her husband, always cooks his favorite food, defers to him in
all financial issues, bears with silent endurance any shorting of her rights.
She is the perfect Muslimah.
Why do we have women like this, impossible imaginary women like this, I
might add, held up to us as role models? Why cant we be good
Muslimahs and be businesswomen (like our mother Khadijah, may Allah be
pleased with her), who occasionally forget to put the dough away so the
goat eats it (like our mother Aisha, may Allah be pleased with her) and
who get jealous (like our mother Hafsah, may Allah be pleased with her)
and who are divorcees (like our mother Zainab, may Allah be pleased with
her) and who basically are good people, successful people, dynamic
individuals and pious striving believers? When so many of our early
role models of Islam are complex, diverse women of different
backgrounds and experiences, why are we instead given a
caricature to live up to?
My favorite striving wonderful Muslim sisters are married and single, shy
virgins and confident matrons, mothers of five and mothers of none, stayat-home keepers of the hearth and successful entrepreneurs. They laugh
at silly jokes, trip on the hems of their abayas going up stairs, sometimes
swear in several languages when they get cut off in traffic, burn dinner,
make gourmet meals, maintain a beautiful home, and barely manage to
keep the dust bunnies at bay. They speak out against injustice, counsel
their husbands before said spouse blows the rent money on a sure
investment he heard about from a brother at the mosque, bite their
tongues when their mothers-in-law criticize the way they fold the towels,
make sure some money is set aside for the zakah box at the masjid, fight
to make sure the womens prayer area is maintained, drive to work, drive

to the grocery store, drive the kids to school and soccer and karate, buy
only organic meat, spend too much time on Facebook, knit badly, crochet
well, and basically live lives that are busy, crazy, chaotic, and incredibly
fulfilling.
We are not caricatures. We are living, breathing, striving Muslimahs. We
pray and fast. We wear niqaab or hijab or just long skirts and loose tops.
We listen to lectures on Paltalk. We finish nursing degrees. We write. We
try not to sound stupid when we practice our Arabic. We try to increase
our imaan bit by bit, day by day, and some days are better than others.
We do what women have done throughout the history of mankind. We are
ourselves.
Some women have lost the ability to be themselves. She read in a book
somewhere that a woman is supposed to be subservient to her husband,
to be chaste and quiet and not have friends that her husband doesnt like.
She heard a lecture by some famous sheikh that a woman should only go
out of her house three times in her life when she is born, when she
marries, and when she dies. She truly wants to be a good Muslimah so
she clamps down on her personality. She smiles when she wants to
laugh. She wears a huge all-encompassing overhead abaya when she
really would rather wear something a bit less overwhelming. She locks up
her jewelry so as not to make a display of herself. She makes a grocery
list for her husband because he doesnt want her to go out, even though
she knows how to shop the sales and hes for sure going to forget half of
whats on the list. She stays off the computer, even though she really
loves to keep up with her friends, because her husband gives her the
stink-eye if she is online when hes home, even though hes on his iPhone
half the evening. She sits in the room while he watches his favorite show,
not working on her stitching or reading because it distracts him. She
only cooks the ethnic food he likes even though she misses her favorite
food. She stays away from the mosque because he says its too much of a
fitnah, though he goes every day to pray. She doesnt go back to school to
get the five hours she needs for her associates degree because her
husband says its not necessary. She refrains from mentioning an idea she
had for a business because he will say its not a good idea. She goes
without more than one abaya and a couple of thrift-store dresses because
he doesnt want her to waste money on a lot of clothing since she never
goes out. She stays inside the house instead of going out for a walk while
her husband is at work because he wants her to stay safe behind a
locked door when hes not there to keep an eye on her. She only calls her
mom when hes not home because her mom is not Muslim and her

husband disapproves of her. She builds a box around her that she has
been told is piety, but which in reality is oppression. She thinks the
problem is her. She thinks shes a bad Muslimah and she approaches
despair. But she goes on, for the sake of the children, or because
everybody knows that divorce is the most hated thing in Islam, and that if
she speaks out and causes a divorce shell be in the Hellfire. So she sits in
her prison of piety and dies a little more each day, until only a shell is left
behind.
Wow, dang, you say. Overly dramatic much? What a big imagination you
have! Um, no, not really. Everything, every single sentence in that last
paragraph, I have seen a friend or acquaintance of mine go through. Right
now, I know many of my Facebook friends and contacts, and real life
friends in my local community, are in such unequal,
unrealistic, unislamic relationships. They have been fed a line of crap by
men who want to practice HISLAM and they are suffering because of it.
I am here to tell all my sisters in Islam that it doesnt have to be
this way. There is room, among the one billion Muslims on the planet, for
you and your very own personality. There is room for you. Room for the
sister who snorts milk out of her mouth when she guffaws in a most
unladylike fashion. Room for the woman who goes to university and wants
to become an engineer or an architect or a doctor. Room for the woman
who wants to homeschool her children and have a small business on the
side. Room for the woman who complains like clockwork because the
board at the mosque (all men) tries to relegate the women to the balcony
even though there are disabled among them who cant manage the stairs.
Room for the woman who manages the checkbook, does the shopping,
and expects her husband to talk with her before he spends money on a car
or a business opportunity. Room for the woman who says, yes, we can
send money back to your country, but we have to take care of ourselves
as well. Room for the woman who has her own income and cannot be
guilted into giving it to her husband to pay the light bill. Room for the
woman who demands that her disabled child be accommodated at the
Sunday school. Room for women who are not quiet. Women who are
strong, believing, striving Muslimahs, not perfect by any stretch, but
working day by day to improve. There is room for you and you are the role
model of Islam, as much as the shy retiring, never-say-a-word-or-leavethe-house lady
Do NOT allow yourself to be boxed in. Do not think that changing
certain behaviors (dressing modestly, not drinking alcohol and going to

pubs) means you have to change your personality. If you are that
somewhat loud woman who laughs at all the jokes, go ahead and laugh. If
you are the woman who absolutely hates to clean, that doesnt mean
youre a failure. If you want to be a career woman, then do it, but make
damn sure you marry a man who will let you be yourself and fulfill your
dreams. Make sure the man you marry will be your partner and your
helper, not your judge and jailer. Marriage is not a master / servant
relationship, but I see far too many women acting like it is.
I look to myself. My parents divorced when I was 14. I learned early on to
take care of myself. Didnt always do such a great job of it, but heck, I was
FOURTEEN. I got a job when I graduated high school, advanced rapidly to
manager, bought myself a car, got an apartment, bought my own
groceries, fixed flat tires, did laundry, kept the apartment looking good
enough for friends to come over, started college, joined a gym, visited
with my family, learned about different religions, stopped drinking alcohol
and eating pork, stopped dating, learned about Islam, continued to work
and drive and pay bills and live my life. So, how come Im supposed to
just go all helpless when I get married? Am I to take all that life
experience and set it aside in order to make tea and wait on my husband?
Uh, no. Today, after twelve years of marriage (and a lot of bumps in the
road, because, cmon, were only human), I am nurturing my writing with
my husband as my biggest cheerleader. I have a full partnership with my
husband in our business. I have primary responsibility for the kids. I cook,
I clean (though we got some help with that now that Im working more), I
tell hubby Im not cooking today because I worked all day so lets get
pizza, I pay the bills. I know where EVERY PENNY of his, my, and our
money is. My husband consults with me before he makes any big
decision, except when he is around the house too much and decides to
rearrange the furniture. I teach the kids their Islam and I call my mom
(not as often as I should) and I do often sign off of the computer when
hubby is home NOT because he gives me the stink-eye but because I want
to spend time with him. I work on my cross stitch or crochet when were
watching some shoot-em-up bang-bang movie that he loves because I
want to be in the room with him but I cant let my fingers sit still for two
hours. I sometimes explain movie plots to him as the show goes on (No,
honey, the chimpanzee in Planet of the Apes cant really do all that
because this movie is fiction). When we were first married, sure, I was on
my best Super Muslimah behavior for a while, but over time I loosened up
because no one can sustain an act for that long. I let him see the real me
and I guess its okay because he hasnt kicked me to the curb yet. I am
the real me because the real me is pretty okay and I see no need to chop

up my personality into little bits and toss it into the wind. That way lies
madness, and binge eating and sitting on the couch watching Jerry
Springer and being unmotivated because nothing matters. No thanks.
I know a lot of you are married, a lot of you are divorced, a lot of you have
never been married. I know a lot of my friends have good, strong, healthy
marriages based on Islam and honest caring for one another. But I know
there are a lot, way too many, dysfunctional marriages that have skewed
toward the master / servant model and that is just not right. You are equal
to a man in the sight of Allah. Yes, we should be chaste (men, too). Yes,
we should pray and fast and not flirt and not watch TV programs with
nudity and bad stuff and we should try to keep the house clean and make
edible food if we are the main ones cooking. Yes, we should support our
husbands and rub their backs after theyve had a long hard day at work.
Yes, we should love his family and help them financially if they need it, and
not buy expensive clothing or waste money on ten different purses or
fancy shoes. Yes, we should be smart, and pious, and frugal, and
helpmates for our spouses. But we are NOT servants. We dont give up
our hopes and dreams when we become wives. We dont stop being
people. In a healthy marriage, your husband will see you had a rough
night with the baby and hell stop and pick up a roasted chicken so you
dont have to cook. When you are feeling under the weather hell mix you
up some weird concoction recommended by his mother and stand over
you while you drink it. Hell hold the baby so you can take a shower, hell
praise you when you go back to school, hell rub YOUR back some
days. Hell be your partner, not your boss. Wow, what a concept.