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I love my womanhood and yours.
I remember mocking girls who’d wear the hijab occasionally or have half their hair showing. The convertible hijabi. I remember not-so silently judging the girls who wore leggings, almost like second skin, with their hijab. The hoejabi. I remember questioning the imaan of girls who identified as Muslim, but didn’t even wear the hijab. The…
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Roles
My father was a patriarchal man. I spent more time arguing with him over a woman’s duty than cleaning the kitchen he told me to clean. “But Abo, it’s the boys turn to clean. I cleaned yesterday and the day before!” “Naya, if you don’t get in that kitchen. That’s your job. It’s my job…
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Home
How many of us have homes we’ve never seen, but feel deeply connected to? When the home is under rubble, under fire, under constant reign of terror you too feel it When 165 unidentified bodies are 165 of your brothers and sisters Somalia, I’m with you. I will mourn 165 times and for every…
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Goodbyes
October 5, 2014 at 2:21 pm, my father died. The first death of someone dear to me. I cried rivers and was scolded by distant relatives. “Dear Samira, to cry is to ensure suffering for your father during his trials in the grave.” “Stop Samira, have you no shame.” “Samira, death is promised to us…
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Muni's Musings 