Synopsis

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Who is a ‘Muslim woman’? 

Does she look a certain way, behave in a particular manner and share the same desires, dilemmas and dreams as other Muslim women? Is she a voiceless victim, an enemy of the nation, an empowered subject or a silent spectator?

 

Perhaps, a more interesting question to ask is if any such thing as a ‘Muslim Woman’ even exists? In political discourse, in popular literature and movies and in the public imagination, women who are Muslim are often spoken of, written about, portrayed and perceived as one thing—a part of a fixed category, a member of a particular group, an unchanging, uncomplicated and undifferentiable mass. But does having the same gender and religious identity and sharing similar class and caste backgrounds, social and economic positions, experiences and surroundings make us one thing? Can an arbitrary label and a narrow lens capture the length and breadth of the individualities and interiorities, experiences and emotions, beliefs and experiences of the diverse and different women that make up the ‘category’ of Muslim Women?

 

No Country for Muslim Women is a collection of essays that seeks to answer these complex questions. It attempts to offer a counter-narrative to the dominant discourse that seeks to reduce Muslim women to this or that. The seven essays in this collection tackle different issues and offer an insight into what it means to be a Muslim and a woman in an India where Islamophobia and misogyny exist as parallel as well as intersecting lines and focus on the unique set of challenges that people who stand at the junction of these two identities have to constantly navigate. 

 

Through the use of personal narrative and the recounting of one Muslim woman’s experiences with bigotry and sexism, these essays make a larger commentary on the current socio-cultural and political environment of India. This project uses one person’s story to show a pathway that leads to many different stories—stories that exist and have always existed but have, for some reason or the other, been overlooked, underrepresented and erased from the mainstream discourse. By bridging the gap between the singular and the collective, between the personal and the political, between lived reality and news reports, these essays attempt to re-centre those who have been pushed to the margins and highlight the everyday costs of communalism. They also serve as a reminder to the marginalised sections of society to claim ownership over their own stories, to resist totalising tendencies and to fight back against erasure and exclusion.

 

By using everyday objects and experiences as entry points, this collection of essays aims to initiate in-depth conversations about identity and belonging, religion and gender and the many ways in which these factors overlap. Anchored in a specific object—something that is seemingly ordinary and highly common, like an old lunchbox, a bundle of papers, an online post, a piece of fabric, a family member’s grave, these essays discuss pertinent social issues such as the rise of anti-Muslim sentiment among the masses, the politics of food discrimination, the unequal citizenship law and its impact, the targeted harassment of religious minorities and the patriarchal norms, behaviors and mindsets that persist in our culture.

 

No Country for Muslim Women is, at its core, a project that asks the reader to help build a more equal and inclusive India and seeks a place for women who are Muslim in a society where both these identities make us highly vulnerable to be at the receiving end of vitriol and violence—not just a physical space for to occupy, inhabit and live in, but also roles, opportunities, positions and freedoms that have been snatched, denied and gatekept from us.

 

Note: I use the term ‘Muslim Women’ liberally in the essays but that has been done out of necessity and convenience rather than as a way to essentialize. While I am a Muslim woman writing about my experiences as a Muslim and a woman in India, I do not claim to speak for all Muslim women. 

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Artist's statement

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Ever since I was old enough to know what the terms ‘Muslim’ and ‘woman’ meant, I have felt the combined weight of both, and a significant portion of my life has been spent trying to either claim these identities or run away from the burdens and anxieties that they bring. I have often wondered what my life would be like if I wasn’t caught in the bounds of these identities and what would it be like if people saw me as just another human being and not as ‘Muslim’ and a ‘woman’ first and foremost? I cannot say that life would necessarily be easier if I wasn’t one of these two things, but would it have been less tricky to negotiate a space for myself in the world that I inhabit? To be a Muslim and a woman in the world where both these identities come with their own specific set of challenges and obstacles is not an easy undertaking. The moment you are born as or become a ‘Muslim woman’ in the eyes of people, it often feels like you are immediately put on trial for your entire life, subject to constant scrutiny and surveillance, harshly judged, publicly slandered and swiftly given a sentence. 

 

Growing up as a Muslim woman in India, I always found myself questioning the rigidity with which society reduces Muslims to either/or binaries, and the severity of the labels and stereotypes imposed on us. These questions have often made their way into my writing, which over the years, has become a space to negotiate the doubt, uncertainty and rage that I feel. 

 

Writing about yourself and your life can often feel like a strange, out-of-body experience. I have often wrestled with the idea of being the center of the story and there is also a nagging sense of discomfort and fear that comes with being the ‘I’ of the narrative and making yourself a possible target by sharing political opinions publicly. However, one has to let go of inhibitions and pretensions and dig deep inside, even if that means reliving unpleasant memories and revisiting uncomfortable truths. Writer and thinker Frantz Fanon, in his seminal work on race titled Black Skins, White Masks, addressed how white people had cleverly constructed their version of ‘blackness’, choosing to only look at and perceive black people through a lens that was coloured by prejudice. Fanon wrote how, throughout his life, he felt ‘dissected by white eyes’ which kept slowly and surely ‘cutting away slices of [his] reality’. In India, ‘Muslimness’ too, has, by and large, been ‘constructed’ and ‘dissected’ by people who are not Muslim. Several people, for their own purposes and agendas, have taken it upon themselves to speak for us and to speak over us, to squeeze us into very narrow boxes, to exclude and erase us from public spaces, powerful roles and popular discourse. This holds true especially for Muslim women whose lives and lifestyles, freedoms and limitations have been decided by others. With each passing year and with each new headline about Muslim men and women being demonised and attacked in our own country and within our own homes, I, like many others, have grown tired of letting others dictate where I and members of my community belong and don’t belong. This collection of essays is borne out of the exhaustion and frustration of being a bystander while others take hold of the reins of your story.

 

In putting together these essays and looking back on personal experiences, traumas and memories, I have been reminded me that our personal lives—the choices we make, the beliefs we hold dear, the relationships we build and the actions, big or small, we perform—can never be divorced from the larger political climate that we exist in. Through my writing, I want to remind people of the real and tangible consequences of their ‘small’ choices and actions, of the impact of their words and the repercussions of their silences. 

 

I hope my writing can reach an audience who is willing to listen, to pause and reflect not just on news headlines, reports and articles about political issues but also feels ready to engage and empathize with the everyday realities and lived experiences of people around them. Through my words, I want to extend a hand of solidarity to the people who are struggling with their many social identities, especially the ones who have been made to feel like they do not belong in the place they consider their home. I want them to know that they are not alone in feeling a sense of confusion, heartbreak, dissonance and un-belonging. As much as my writing is about holding a mirror to society and a quiet reminder of the dangerous road that we, as a nation, are currently on, it is also full of hope and longing for a better future for our country and a way to celebrate of voices of courage and dissent. 

 

As a writer, I am using the only weapon that I know how to wield—words—to convey the emotions, ranging from disappointment, anger and sorrow to joy, awe and hope, that I have felt over the course of my life as a ‘Muslim woman’. By picking up the pen and writing down my story, I am taking charge of the reins of my own destiny. I am no longer allowing anyone to hold the knife that can slice away parts of my being, sense of self and reality. I hope, through my writing, I can inspire someone else to pick up a pen and share their story.

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About the artist

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Anam Kazmi is a Writer and Editor based in New Delhi. She has a postgraduate degree in English literature from the University of Delhi and has worked as an editor for reputed publishing houses, think tanks and academic journals.

Her writing draws on her life experiences and attempts at bridging the gap between the personal and the political. Her work predominantly revolves around the themes of identity, home and belonging. Her articles have previously been published in newspapers and online magazines such as Hindustan Times, The Quint and Writing Women. 

No Country For Women is her first collection of essays.

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