A Guide to An Arab’s Feminist Awakening: A Plane Ticket, A Necklace Charm and A Tattoo

Living in the Middle East my entire life, I never had the opportunity to experience Feminism let alone Arab Feminism, or so I thought. I heard actors reference the “waves of feminism” and people on the news raging about some feminist movement going on in the USA but according to my indicator back then, I didn’t get “butterflies” in my stomach whenever I saw it in the headlines and so I simply dismissed its existence.

In school, I’ve always been that one opinionated student who got triggered whenever teachers assumed that guys should be carrying around the heavy tables and desks while us, the girls, should be given some folders and light books to carry as a way of keeping us occupied and distracted from this toxic play of strength vs femininity. In my region, I’ve always been that one opinionated citizen who believes that those whose struggles are the most underrated and unspoken of in Palestine are the women who not only have to constantly fight a war against the illegal occupation but also a war against patriarchy. However, I have imagined that opposing what the West refers to as “sexism and gendered rules” and that me having that “unacceptable defiant attitude” that forced people to roll their eyes at me, could ever be a reflection of the Arab Feminist within me waiting to emerge. But don’t worry dear audience, for in my short but relatively rich experience with life, I discovered that my feminist awakening only required a 19- hour flight, a necklace charm, and a tattoo to hit me and be manifested in my ideologies. So, all you need to do now is read through this general, but rather personal guide to an Arab’s Feminist Awakening.

It was one of those ordinary 19-hours, one-way flights I took from Amman to Philadelphia that planted the seeds of feminism within me. Despite the fact that people who took the same flight before me never complained about any side effects like an increased passion for activism, a sense of openminded- ness, and rebellion against gendered rules and societal constructs embedded within the thick fabrics of our Middle Eastern communities, I felt them right away.

I remember carrying my suitcase that had everything that would remind me of home down the streets of Philadelphia and I felt like a newborn, examining the tiniest of details around me trying to make sense of a world that is home to those drowning in money and overwhelmed with sophisticated diction. I remember I was startled by the confident women I saw walking on their own at night with their outfits that flattered every curve in their bodies without seeming to be terrified nor counting their last breaths.... “What? Women can do that here? Is that even an option that existed; walking without a man, a “guardian angel”, on a Friday night, wearing a skirt and not worrying about getting harassed or potentially... raped? Wow, how liberating” I foolishly muttered. However, do not get me wrong for I did not follow the footsteps of those who found solace and confidence in claiming that only the western world should be glorified and ours terrorized and minimized. Mistake me not for I am not one who would deny her roots and all that her country has given her, but I am one who needed to know the taste of freedom and the boundless limits to know what we are missing out on, or to be precise, what is being taken away from us. I suddenly realized that I was on the wrong side of a one-way mirror and that I spent my teenage years thinking I had a grip over my reality and my own future as if my loud screams and Arab rage were heard or simply... acknowledged. But no, I was stuck on the wrong side, prisoned and clueless of what there is on the other side of the mirror where one can know the taste of simply being... human. I used to be a feminist who took advantage of her ambiguous looks to white-pass and try to relate to the mainstream white feminist movement, and I felt hypocritical as if I was lying to myself and trying to fit into a mold that wasn’t crafted for my thick bones and Arab upbringing. Living away from home, in a place where speaking my mother language could make people uncomfortable and, in a place, where the only indications of my Arab Palestinian roots are my heavy accent and loud personality, it’s often hard to connect to my roots and recalibrate my moral compass towards representing the strengths and also the struggles of my own people. It felt like I had to surrender to a culture, a mindset and a lifestyle that wasn’t meant for me. However, it took one Palestinian-map charm dangling from my necklace burying itself deeper between my breasts with every heartbeat, to remind me that I am the daughter of the revolution; expressive and filled with vim and vigor. It took one charm to remind me that feminism isn’t supposed to be a one-size-fits-all but is rather a platform that allows me to represent the oppressed Arab women who don’t only fight patriarchy on the daily but also colonizers who are taking away their womanhood, children, houses, lands and most importantly, taking away their freedoms. It took me one tattoo to comprehend that I am more than just a prisoner of society’s outdated traditions, blind faith, and its manifestation of sexist ideologies and toxic masculinity. It only took a single tattoo to understand that “The Future Is Female”. For an Arab female, this whole process isn’t just about simply inserting pigments into the skin but rather about the social marking of an “untamed, oblivious westernized Arab female with loose morals and no family behind her.” I grew up believing that being society’s prisoner, a puppeteered doll, is vital because it protects my “sacred temple” and for long I wondered why someone, in their sane mind, would get a tattoo knowing that it’ll cut all ties with the temple’s guards; traditions, closed-mindedness, sexism, and societal toxicity. But it all changed as the letters “ج” and “ر”, the first letters of my mother and sister’s names, marked my skin and became a motive and a reminder of why I’m an Arab Feminist. I’m a feminist because I can’t stand the thought of how society could justify why a man could thoughtlessly lay hands on my mother or street harass her without paying for his barbaric actions. I’m a feminist because I cannot imagine the thought of society undermining women and treating those godly creatures who, like my mother, raised their families on their own and who gave birth to the human race, as second-class citizens to men without my Arab teenage anger rushing through my veins that have adapted to these situations and built themselves thicker walls to not break as easily. I’m a feminist because I would fight with every cell in my body a toxic society that thinks my sister’s destiny was determined the day my mom’s hospital room was decorated with pink balloons instead of blue ones. A society that foolishly thinks it can tame her and rid her from the ambitious dreams and opinionated personality without objection nor a fight. And do not be quick to underestimate the strength of my womanhood for my fair complexion, blonde hair and green eyes might not properly reflect my strong Arab accent and the vibrant revolution waiting to be born from within me. And let me not remind you that we, women, are the present and that we, women, are the future. I am not an expert in Feminist Theory nor Arab Activism but one thing I’m sure of is that feminism isn’t a one-size-fits-all movement but is rather one that encourages and advocates for diversity and inclusion. Feminism is a choice I make every morning and reflect through the way I talk, think and behave. As a Muslim Palestinian, I choose to be a feminist because I believe it’s time I stop acting like a victim of Islamophobia, the Zionist occupation, and my culture and rather act like a strong leading Arab woman who is empowered enough to vocalize her thoughts, emotions, and experiences and to flaunt her womanhood with poise, courage, and intelligence. The diverse and distinct motives behind each of our individual fights for our rights and freedoms in the community do not make us weak nor enemies. We, as a community, are uplifted by acknowledging our struggles and embracing the diversity within them. What unifies us is our struggle, our fight, and our vision. We are not just unified by our gender, race, religion nor color; our humanity is what empowers and unites us. It took me a plane ticket, a Palestinian- map charm and a tattoo to fully comprehend this and get to where and what I am today but it might take someone else other ingredients to bake their own cake of revolutionary feminist theories and that’s okay. For that, go out and find your individual feminist awakening, liberate your mind, body, and soul and hop on board for we, are about to change the world. By: Farah Abdel-Jawad's Wandering Mind