Her Story

Zareena* was the motherly figure in the class that summer. Her presence gave off a nurturing, warm feeling in the class of around twenty girls that I taught English to in Karachi that summer in a school near my grandparents’ home. These women’s attitudes towards education (a departure from the boredom displayed by my then high school peers) inspired me – they liked to learn, they were attentive, and most of all, they were human. Zareena and the other women in the school, Al-Zohra Welfare Association (http://al-zohra.org/) are part of an emerging group of voices in the Pakistani and – in reality – global arena. These women have for too long seen the cycle of poverty, its resulting injustices, and the negative consequences it has on their life. They are tired of only hearing about the greatness of A’isha bint Abi Bakr, may Allah be pleased with her, and the honor of Maryam the mother of ‘Eesa (Jesus), peace be upon mother and son. I remember Zareena’s reaction to hearing my fluency in Urdu despite having lived in America, and I was amazed at her deep knowledge of Surah Yusuf as I tried to give an example from the surah to the students one day as I attempted to teach them lessons in time management. Zareena and I learned from each other mutually. The women of Al-Zohra left their mark on me and I hope I left an impression on them too. One of the last days I was there, I remember translating a court divorce paper for Zareena, the woman empowered by her deep study of the Qur’an and of Islam, the woman who could not continue to suffer at the hands of her husband while she had a young son. I don’t exactly know what caused this discord between Zareena and her husband, but what I do know is that I was proud of her adamant willpower to be the honored woman she knew she was. 

On the other hand, Firdaws* was around my age, maybe a few years older. She and her sister both came to the school to learn English, a strikingly novel endeavor for women in their family who came from the villages of Punjab. Nostalgia embraces me as I remember my down-to-earth conversations with Firdaws. Oh and I can’t forget the card and gift she gave me before I left – a jewelry box I still have on my dresser – and it reminds me of her story. She wanted to marry a certain individual but did not know at all how to approach him in the proper manner. There was a distinct shyness or lack of communication on her part. I remember telling her to not settle for less and to keep in mind the good qualities we should look for in a prospective partner. 

Even upon coming back to the idyllic States, I could not but be attached to the persona and stories of Zareena and Firdaws. Issues of divorce – I’ve seen ‘em in my family. What about marriage? A topic that the Muslim community never tires of talking about. What about the everyday communication gap between young women and their families with regards to marriage or other future aspirations? Been there, done that. 

Clearly, we as American Muslim women, believe it or not, are not disconnected from the stories and realities of Zareena and others like her. In reality, their struggles are our own. Their narrative, in many ways, is our narrative, the story of Muslim women who notice the disparities between reality – the cultures which bind us – and idealism – the liberation offered by Allah, our Creator, what the Book of Allah and the Sunnah offer. But how can we use those shining torches to illuminate and then eliminate silent and manifest injustice in our communities? 

The first step is to tell our story. 

*Names have been changed