Representative image of Muslim women.
Credit: iStock Photo
I am often told, “You don’t look like a Muslim.” The implication is clear — Muslims, according to some, must all look, dress, and behave the same. My personal choices don’t fit this narrow mould, but my identity as a Muslim remains unwavering.
In 1947, my mother and aunts decided to abandon the burqa, with my father’s consent. He believed that “hijab” was not about clothing but about the truth one carries in their heart. Modesty, he thought, was defined by inner values, not outer appearances. My parents prayed privately five times a day, and from them, I learned that devotion is deeply personal, as expressed by their close friend, Dr Zakir Husain, who believed that a true believer prays alone, in solitude, with tears in their eyes.
At the age of nine, I first experienced communal tension when children in my neighbourhood refused to play with me after learning I was Muslim. Years later, in school, I often forgot my identity as a Muslim. I shared meals with friends of different faiths, and we were simply children in a newly unified India.
However, decades later, I watched in horror as the Babri Masjid was destroyed and witnessed the violence that followed. In 2002, I travelled to Gujarat to document the violence against Muslims. The report we published, How the Gujarat Carnage Affected Muslim Women, was widely quoted. The brutality of religious violence left an indelible mark on me.
In 2000, I began working on issues related to Muslim women, founding the Muslim Women’s Forum and previously serving on the National Commission for Women (NCW) from 1997 to 2000. My work on Voice of the Voiceless: Status of Muslim Women in India helped highlight the challenges faced by Muslim women. My understanding of Islam, especially the Quranic verse that says Allah is closer to us than our jugular vein, guides my faith. I believe Allah speaks directly to me, and I don’t need intermediaries to understand my religion. This view has led to my rejection by both orthodox clerics, who say I don’t “look” Muslim, and liberals, who criticise my adherence to Islam’s core principles.
The words of Allama Iqbal resonate with me: “Apne bhi khafa mujhse hain, beganey bhi na khush Main zehr-e-halahl ko kabhi ke na saki qand.” (“My own are annoyed, strangers are unhappy; I could never call lethal poison a sugar lump.”)
This speaks to my isolation — rejected by both conservatives and liberals. One issue I struggle with is the widespread belief that Islam is inherently anti-women. For over 30 years, I have worked to explain the Quran’s progressive stance on women’s rights. The Quran’s teachings, such as granting women property rights, were revolutionary 1,400 years ago. Yet, despite efforts by scholars like Fatima Mernissi, the stereotype of Islam as oppressive to women persists.
The Ulema (religious scholars) have largely failed to present Islam’s gender-equal face. Over 20 years ago, in my NCW report, I warned that if the Muslim community didn’t reform its personal laws, the government would intervene. This led to a historic meeting between the All India Muslim Personal Law Board (AIMPLB) and women’s groups, with hopes of reviving Islam’s progressive message on women’s rights.
However, political shifts have complicated matters. In the 1986 Shah Bano case and again in 2014, the political landscape became more polarised, with governments aligning with religious lobbies that used gender as a political weapon. Issues like triple talaq and polygamy were discussed without understanding their complexities, and Muslims were painted as violators of women’s rights.
Unfortunately, Muslims have become their own worst enemies. We’ve allowed ourselves to forget Islam’s core message of gender empowerment, which predated the global women’s rights movement. We listen to self-proclaimed religious leaders who ignore the teachings of progressive scholars like Maulana Azad and Maulana Hali. Islam was the first religion to oppose female infanticide, yet today, some Muslims align with political forces that are overtly hostile to our community but claim to support Muslim women.
The consequences are dire. Ordinary Muslims, especially women, are caught in the crossfire. The lives of women like Kausar Bano, Ishrat Jahan, and Kausar Bi, who have suffered due to political battles, should not be forgotten.
A recent experience in Kashmir in 2024 served as a chilling reminder of the challenges Muslims face in conflict zones. While staying with family in Srinagar, our house was surrounded by armed military personnel on September 13. Despite my attempts to assert my rights, it became clear that any plea for justice or dignity would fall on deaf ears.
The words of Faiz Ahmed Faiz resonate in these moments: “Baney hain ahl-e-hawas mudaee bhi munsif bhi Kisey vakil kahen kis se munsafi chahein.” (“The judges and prosecutors are today rapacious; Whom shall we turn to for justice?”)
For Muslims in Kashmir, the search for justice is a tragic farce. There is no one to protect us, no one to listen to our pleas.
(Syeda Saiyidain Hameed recently published her memoir, A Drop in the
Ocean: The Story of My Life, with Speaking Tiger Books.)