On Our Minds pt.2
Talia
I have been to churches before; beautiful, historic ones across Europe - and for a funeral once. At the time when they held the funeral, I was eight, questioning the institutions of religion as a young girl does at that age. This began as a disbelief in the unseen, then developed into an aversion to how religions have socialized women to be below the status of men.
When I talk about religion, I am mainly referring to the Abrahamic Religions: Islam, Christianity, and Judaism. The trifecta of squabbling children. The one that grew up shadowing me was Islam. It never carried a name in the discussions, stories, or values my parents would impart to my sister and I. It was a deconstructed body, removing what could be interpreted as a “Muslim identity.” I was barred from it in my own home. My mother was banished to the secrecy of her bedroom in order to pray away from my father’s internalized Islamophobia. I can’t remember the last time I saw her wearing a white porcelain robe, with her knees to the ground mumbling in prayer I couldn’t understand, facing her reflection.
Lent was a few weeks ago, with Ramadan beginning days later. I am ethnically Muslim from Lebanon, but I live without knowledge of it, or appreciation for it. Frankly, I do so most of the time without a care. But, apparently now I do.
Should I fast? If I do, will I be bound by a cosmic wave of energy to the almighty?
There is a shame in not knowing. In being something, but not understanding it.
I have never been to church. But I have daydreamed many times about going to one not too far from my apartment. Sometime in the night, full moon in tow, I would sit in one of the pews with my arm folded in prayer over the one before it, seeking tawbah.
A witness to my shame.
Ramadan Mubarak.
Marisa
Earlier this month I saw a post on Gloria Steinem’s Instagram. It was a woman with fluffy curtain bangs, bundled in a violet scarf at the 1975 Women’s Day March. She held a sign over her head that read, “Every day is Women’s Day.” I have thought about this photo every day since, desperately grasping onto the hope this woman exudes in her unwavering gaze forward. I wonder what was on her mind, and if she could have foreseen the reality of today?
It's been half a century since the photo was taken, yet the issues raised by second-wave feminists are enduringly relevant. Histories continue not to be taught, perspectives not considered, and issues cast aside.
As I came into this year, I thought about what I, as a 20-year-old woman, was doing to bring a female perspective beyond my own into the conversations I was having. This led me to make a very deliberate choice: in 2025, I would only read female authors.
Those of you who know me will know that I always have a book in tow and shamelessly ramble on about it. In a time where books are being banned and authors silenced, reading must become an act of intention. One that has increased in its inherently political nature.
The videos we watch and books we purchase decide our perspectives, and therefore the world we leave behind. We know this, yet we so easily forget. A society where the work of women is not celebrated results in a world where women themselves are not either.
In my most formative years, I want to be shaped by female stories. To purposefully expose oneself to the brilliant words of women, is to remind oneself of multiplicity.
If in search of recommendations, click here for MEUF’s reading lists.
Photograph of unknown woman at the International Women’s Day March in New York City on March 8, 1975. From the archives of @gloriasfoundation