what now world?
Shockproof Rag
By Hadia Mubarak
I’ve never walked ten steps behind a man
Nor have I hid behind a veil of oppression.
I’m not ashamed of my body,
nor the thick silky locks of hair
concealed from you eyes.
Rag head, camel jock, terrorist,
I dodge stereotypes like missiles
fired from F-16 jets
that explode in my face,
deafening my ears,
splattering thick blood
like chunks of rot.
Glimpse of Hollywood movies
with veiled women
scurrying like a bundled package
or subordination,
Arab men blowing up planes,
headlines that scream terrorism,
circumcised women venting on Oprah,
is all they see in me
Eyes glued to a piece of cloth
on my head, they gawk
and shake their heads.
Don’t give me pity,
I call this freedom of choice.
Call modesty your enemy,
but it is my liberation
from succumbing to conformity
Do not lie to me,
my modesty appalls you
because it defies
your monopoly
over women’s sexuality,
because my clothes
do not invite your eyes
to trace the curves of my hips,
nor the chasm of my breasts,
because my modesty
rebels against your definition
of who I am.
My modesty is a threat to you
because it is a shield
that you can never penetrate
Do I make love with it with it on my head,
you ask, or wear a waterproof rag
when I take a shower?
I don’t wear oppression
in my clothes nor do
I belong to a slave trade
that sells women’s nudity
like sodas from a vending machine
Defiance runs in my blood.
I don’t dress like this
for an imaginary husband
fr a culture that dictates my life
from miles abroad.
this is faith, a belief
in the eternity of the soul
after bodies decompose
into nonexistence.
By Hadia Mubarak
I’ve never walked ten steps behind a man
Nor have I hid behind a veil of oppression.
I’m not ashamed of my body,
nor the thick silky locks of hair
concealed from you eyes.
Rag head, camel jock, terrorist,
I dodge stereotypes like missiles
fired from F-16 jets
that explode in my face,
deafening my ears,
splattering thick blood
like chunks of rot.
Glimpse of Hollywood movies
with veiled women
scurrying like a bundled package
or subordination,
Arab men blowing up planes,
headlines that scream terrorism,
circumcised women venting on Oprah,
is all they see in me
Eyes glued to a piece of cloth
on my head, they gawk
and shake their heads.
Don’t give me pity,
I call this freedom of choice.
Call modesty your enemy,
but it is my liberation
from succumbing to conformity
Do not lie to me,
my modesty appalls you
because it defies
your monopoly
over women’s sexuality,
because my clothes
do not invite your eyes
to trace the curves of my hips,
nor the chasm of my breasts,
because my modesty
rebels against your definition
of who I am.
My modesty is a threat to you
because it is a shield
that you can never penetrate
Do I make love with it with it on my head,
you ask, or wear a waterproof rag
when I take a shower?
I don’t wear oppression
in my clothes nor do
I belong to a slave trade
that sells women’s nudity
like sodas from a vending machine
Defiance runs in my blood.
I don’t dress like this
for an imaginary husband
fr a culture that dictates my life
from miles abroad.
this is faith, a belief
in the eternity of the soul
after bodies decompose
into nonexistence.