acf domain was triggered too early. This is usually an indicator for some code in the plugin or theme running too early. Translations should be loaded at the init action or later. Please see Debugging in WordPress for more information. (This message was added in version 6.7.0.) in /home4/hodakate/public_html/wp-includes/functions.php on line 6131The post Writer, Entrepreneur, and Activist Hoda Katebi on France’s Proposed Hijab Ban | VOGUE appeared first on Hoda Katebi.
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Last week, the French Senate approved a measure to ban the hijab for women under the age of 18. It was an amendment to a proposed law “reinforcing the respect of the Republic’s principles” under the administration of Emmanuel Macron. To be codified as law, the proposal must be approved by the lower house of Parliament, which experts suggest has “no chance” of happening. Still, the ban has triggered global outrage, and rightfully so.
While it may not officially become law, such measures in the name of laïcité, or French secularism, are common tactics by conservative powers to test public reaction in order to determine how and when to actually push them through. Whether this is perceived as a symbolic case study to gather data or an actual attempt at lawmaking, the very introduction of this proposal is cause for alarm. If it doesn’t pass this year, it could certainly pass in the near future; in fact, other anti-Muslim laws in France share similar origin stories. The once “outrageous” early 1990s proposal to ban hijabs and “all ‘ostentatious’ signs of religious affiliation” from schools, for example, was ratified and enforced within the decade and continues to affect young Muslim women today. The new measure would build on that existing ban by outlawing the hijab for young women everywhere in France, not just in schools.
As an Iranian-American, visibly Muslim woman living in the United States, the attempt to restrict our freedom of dress is not foreign to me. Growing up in the South, it was abundantly clear to me that being visibly Muslim—or just not white—and feeling safe in public was not always a guarantee. In middle school, my hijab was torn off, teachers asked me to remove it, and I was physically assaulted by a classmate. These experiences were not unique to me, though, nor were they a product of individuals’ personal biases or ignorance; rather, there are deeper roots in the violence I and other Muslims face around the world.
The hijab, women’s bodies, and fashion at large have long been battlegrounds for political power, colonization, and state control, from Iran to the U.S. Recall how in 2017, President Trump was encouraged to send more troops to Afghanistan after seeing a 1972 photo of Afghan women in miniskirts, evidently a reminder that “Western norms had existed there before and could return,” as reported by the Washington Post. While everyone was debating the liberatory merits of hijabs and short skirts, the U.S. was setting up infrastructure to extract natural resources. Or consider the legally mandated headscarves for women in Iran and Saudi Arabia, enforced in the name of a national religious identity; until just a year ago, Saudi women could be arrested for choosing not to wear one. It doesn’t matter if a state claims to be secular or religious, or if it’s banning a garment or mandating it—in both cases, women’s bodies are being politicized and exploited as a means of control.
Read the full essay at Vogue.com
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]]>The post From Karbala to Chicago: Reflections on Death, Mourning, & Traditions of Resistance appeared first on Hoda Katebi.
]]>1: Muharram marks the massacre of the grandson of the Prophet, Imam Hussain (ع), alongside his entire family, after they refused to pledge allegiance to the oppressive rule of the corrupt Yazid. Yazid had usurped control of the Muslim caliphate a few generations after the Prophet’s death. After Hussain responded to calls by the people living under Yazid’s rule for liberation, he and his family traveled to Karbala in southern Iraq, where they were chased and hunted down by Yazid’s armies who cut off their access to water. On the tenth of Muharram, (known as Ashura), Hussain was killed after being given the option for a final time of choosing between acknowledging Yazid’s rule and death.
The sun was just setting on the third day of Muharram, finally providing relief from Chicago’s unforgiving heatwave. One by one the streetlights slowly flickered on and the smell of incense drifted around us. All dressed in black and marching together, we were carrying the weight of the lives stolen from us as we chanted demands for a future that would bring justice in their memory. Many of our bodies were sore and bruised from the nights before. A drumbeat kept our pace while others offered food and water or carried massive black flags and other symbolic items above them.
This was a Black Lives Matter protest. But for me, it was also my first Muharram1 procession.
2: For all intents and purposes the line between the police and white supremacist groups are quite blurred, as there is substantial overlap in personnel and purpose.
Spending time “in the streets” these past two months, amid what Angela Davis has called “unprecedented” uprisings in cities across the United States, has redefined my relationship with mortality itself. Death has become so much more intimate, tangible, palpable, and with it therefore, my sense of proximity to, and near-constant awareness of, divinity and the world after death. As a non-Black person living in the US, I have had the privilege of being able to take my sense of “safety” for granted (for the most part). But in the last few months, safety has, to some degree, become a relative and fluid concept, one I can no longer foresee or predict, especially when trapped between an overfunded and trigger-happy police force swarmed around us with riot gear and tear gas, batons raised, and the armed white supremacist group we were just alerted are now on their way.2
As such, the conscious decision to get dressed and race to the police precinct after receiving a text at midnight from a friend on the ground saying “Natl guard just arrived. Wearing gas masks & heavily armed. They’ve boxed us in. Come now” is a simultaneous acknowledgement—whether consciously or not—that the justice and future we’re collectively fighting for is more important than the safety of our physical bodies, which we will all leave behind at some point. It was not simply a responsibility to my friends and everyone beside them at that moment, but more importantly an obligation to participate in Imam Hussain’s unfinished uprising; an attempt to manifest—rather than simply recite—the legacy of our ancestors whose stories are re-told (and erased) every year. Death is inevitable, but justice in this world is not.
Imam Hussain’s (ع) legacy at Karbala was just that: “death with dignity is better than a life with humiliation.” In other words, justice takes precedence over our lives—a notion antithetical to our modern-day carceral state or capitalist “values” on human life, focused so clearly on the here and now, and a fear of a death that separates one from their wealth.
Of course such a proximity to—and being on the receiving end of—this State violence is scary and emotionally and mentally taxing. But there is something deeply spiritual about the experience which forces one to reckon with mortality, and therefore the consideration of what comes next. As Muslims, we are encouraged to rehearse dhikr, a repetition of words or phrases that serve to remind us of the divinity in our lives. In doing so, this rehearsal is a form of spiritual grounding; a release of this world for a reminder of the next. So then how much more deeply enveloped in God’s mercy and love are those whose everyday is the very embodiment of this remembrance of the divine? How deeply powerful and divinely blessed are the everyday lived experiences of Black people in particular in the U.S. (and truthfully, globally) whose very existence, joy, and love–let alone leadership in continuing Hussain’s unfinished uprising–is in and of itself a form of resistance to racial capitalism and its violence that attempts to erase the divine?
This in its essence is a form of liberation theology: a way to reject the fears of this world (death, man, poverty, etc) for a prioritization of the next.
To borrow from Iesa Lewis’ beautifully-written piece “A Reflection on Revolts:“
“In the modern logic of slavery, we perpetually see that bodies are subjugated and enslaved, that those conditions of slavery dictate and regulate behavior, and ultimately that whiteness is glorified and even deified…Allāh tells His creation to seek refuge in Him from these forms, to turn to Him and Him alone. The ‘Word/Testimony of Oneness’ (kalima al-tawhīd), what makes the Muslim a Muslim, Lā ilāha illa Allāh, is a sufficient philosophy of liberation. Inscribed in its everlasting power is the statement to man; “you are not god.”
… [T]he Islamic imperative is that we complement the negation of deities, the ‘lā ilāha’ [there is no God], with the affirmative statement ‘illā Allāh’ (except Allah)…we must reject the Western anthropocentric tradition that places ‘Man’ at the center of the universe – everything is about our rights, freedoms, and individual interests. Instead, we must renew the Islamic vision of God first, such that liberation is complete submission to Allāh.”
It is with this Islamic liberation theology, lā ilāha illā Allāh, that the legacy of Ashura is clearly understood and we are forced to ask ourselves difficult questions that re-frame life, death, and fears for us outside capitalist framings. When being called to the streets to demand justice, what are we more afraid of than God? What could possibly be more terrifying than the wrath of the all-powerful? And what is more beautiful than the love of the most-merciful? Is our goal to survive—a goal that cannot be ever achieved—or to do what is right so that our souls can transition to the next world with blessings? If, as we are told in the Qur’an, that at the end of our time on earth we will look back on our lives and it will feel like only an afternoon (79:46), what then are the equivalent of a few extra minutes on earth if they are not in pursuit of what is right? For many Muslims like myself and as exemplified during Muharram, seeking God is synonymous with seeking justice.
And as all stories which serve as revolutionary models for and by the oppressed, Imam Hussain’s story at Karbala has been largely erased from many (primarily non-Shia) Muslim spaces. Many commemoration marches around the world are actively criminalized and have even been targeted by ISIS and others enacting anti-Shia violence. On August 29th, Indian military forces occupying Kashmir (the most densely militarized region in the world) opened fire with pellet guns on a Muharram procession, injuring dozens. The fact that India has banned major Muharram processions in Kashmir since the 1989 armed uprising against India’s occupation speaks volumes as to the types of parties invested in this erasure and criminalization.
Others degrade the memory of the Prophet’s family by saying that Shias “are still crying over something that happened over 1400 years ago.” This only serves to indicate a clear lack of understanding of both the history of Muharram and contemporary politics.
The tragedy of Ashura did not happen over 1400 years ago. It happened on May 25th, 2020; October 20th, 2014; March 21st, 2012; August 28, 1955; and it will happen again in the U.S. every time another Black person is killed by the police or vestige of slavery.
As poet Nouri Sardar recites in his poem 72 verses for Imam Hussain, “You’ll know how a man lived by how he died.” And Imam Hussain died like George Floyd, Muhammad Muhaymin, Laquan McDonald, Rekia Boyd—as a martyr of a State crackdown on resistance: whether through an uprising or simply “resistance by existence” while Black in a racial caste system.
It is in this essential justice-seeking that Imam Hussain’s revolt not only provides for us a blueprint of the struggle that needs to be continued, but it is in the commemoration and remembrance of Muharram that we can find a decolonial rubric of healing, community organizing, and vision building.
There is one important element that is quite globally shared in Muharram commemorations: collective grieving. Central to Muslim observations of Muharram are the re-telling of the story of Hussain’s uprising while attendants, and oftentimes the speakers themselves, audibly cry. Did you even commemorate Ashura if you didn’t cry? The scholar Shereen Yousuf writes:
“…our communal grief serves as a radical act…I find that tears can heal the communal body as they would an individual body, in that tears garner the potential to cleanse us of the toxins named fear, shame, doubt, anxiety and guilt, that reside in the crevices of our minds, hearts, and souls. In fact, these very emotions of inferiority are what permits these modes of domination over us to begin with, and it is tears [that] grant us the space to heal from them.”
A “decolonial” (and, dare I say “feminist”) practice of crying is at its core a refusal to become numb and desensitized to, violence. It is a refusal for men to be ripped from their ability to express the full range of human emotion without feeling “emasculated”, a refusal to normalize and contend with ever-present violence and Black and brown death, and a refusal to continue life as “business as usual” in spite of it all.
It is a decolonizing practice of self-preservation and care, and especially so for those living with a system designed to commodify, profit from, and maintain their/our oppression. Rather than indulging in unhealthy coping mechanisms such as compartmentalization or denial (or celebrating capitalists of color as “hope”), taking a moment to reflect on, engage with, and allow yourself to become (even if only momentarily) overcome by the reality of the suffering potentially ever-present in our lives, neighborhoods, communities, and ancestors, allows us both a release and grounding reminder of the urgency of justice. Practices of communal crying can be critical for our movements’ longevity and personal healing.
Even more broadly, beyond collective grief, the radical tradition of Muharram can be most clearly witnessed every year during the Arbaeen pilgrimage to Karbala, which takes place 40 days after Ashura. For two weeks, Muslims from around the world come together to walk 57 miles on foot from Najaf, Iraq to Karbala, following the final journey Imam Hussain and his caravan made. Every year more than 20 million people attend, making it also the largest pilgrimage–and autonomous and grassroots-organized mutual aid network–on Earth.










Photos above c/o Alex Shams, taken in 2019
Every day during the two week journey, every single one of the millions of participants hailing from around the globe are fed (with full meals, tea, and sweets from around the world), given shelter, and cared for (including even booths for foot massages) without a single dollar (or dinar) exchanging hands. There are also theatre-like re-enactments along the way of the events of Muharram (known as taziyeh) that serve to retell, embody, and internalize Hussain’s uprising.
Many of these traditions also exist and have been ongoing in a parallel manner in the United States: the massive food distribution may recall the Black Panther Party free breakfast program under their “Revolutionary Services” branch, and the value of independent community building outside of State markets as a pillar of the Nation of Islam. Much like the taziyeh and its role in embodying Hussain’s revolt, New Orleans Black activists host an annual Slave Rebellion Reenactment, “retrac[ing] the path of the largest rebellion of enslaved people in United States history, embodying a story of resistance, freedom and revolutionary action.”
In fact, just last week the scholar Dr. Su’ad Abdul Khabeer juxtaposed the route of Imam Hussain with the routes of the Underground Railroad that Black people followed to freedom:
These parallels are not simply a coincidence, but a manifestation of a liberation framework shared, rehearsed, passed down, and inherited by oppressed people globally. Black people, and particularly Black Muslims are, and have been, consistently leading these movements in the United States. While the particularities of each of these revolutionary services, re-enactments, routes to liberation, and historical moments are distinct from one another, they each are passing on and inheriting both the modes of resistance and the underlying power dynamics, racial and economic caste, and state oppression that seeks to undermine lā ilāha illā Allāh
Taken in a broader, global perspective, these collective and internalized practices have proved to be able to be quickly activated in order to serve tangibly revolutionary moments outside of these spaces. In Iraq’s (unfinished) uprisings last Fall, the same people who had travelled annually to Arbaeen to feed hundreds or thousands of people within the span of a few days were now feeding the thousands on the streets demanding their freedom.
And it is this translation of embodied rituals practiced, rehearsed, and grounded in Islamic tradition to service toward liberation movements seems to be at the very core of the events at Ashura and the commemorations that have followed.
Imam Hussain and so many of our role models, within the Islamic tradition or otherwise, were rebels and outsiders: those seeking justice within an unjust system and world. If they lived in the contemporary United States, they would likely be incarcerated, or dead. So what does this mean about these systems we find ourselves in if the best among us would be considered criminals, and the worst among us are elected as the leader of this country?
A truly honest reading of the life of Imam Hussain and tragedy of Ashura provides us with the lessons and guidance that many of us—myself included—may not be entirely ready to hear. But this moment in particular that we have found ourselves in has made devastatingly clear the urgency to not only hear the challenges we are called upon to respond to, but to actively respond to them.
Arundhati Roy says the pandemic is a portal; so too can be each moment of our lives. It is in these moments when we are asked to resist, revolt, and rise up, potentially risking our lives or bodily harm, that we decide who we are, what we believe in, and whose side we’re on.
Movements are waves, and, to borrow the phrasing of Ruth Wilson Gilmore, “a rehearsal of revolution.” Much like the repetition of praying five times a day, a tangible practice and discipline that connects us to the divine, so too is our embodied practice of collectively demanding justice—whether through a Muharram procession or a BLM march, or both together.
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“They destroyed us,” Iranian student Mohammad Elmi told The Guardian last month after being detained upon arrival at LAX, interrogated, sent back to Tehran, and billed for his own deportation. The 31-year-old planned to start his PhD program at University of California, Santa Barbara and join his wife already living in the United States. Despite carrying a valid student visa granted after months of security checks, Elmi was “treated like a terrorist,” and forced to agree to deportation—and with it a 5 year ban on visiting the U.S.—in exchange for one last chance to call his wife before being sent on the next plane back to Tehran.
Elmi is just one of the dozens of Iranians on valid visas whose lives have been permanently turned upside down overnight—and their horrific experiences act as hallmarks of Trump’s ongoing, broader anti-Iran and anti-Muslim platform.
Last month, while Trump was busy threatening war crimes against 52 Iranian cultural sites with less than 240 characters, the Los Angeles Police Department heightened surveillance of the Iranian-American community despite admitting “no credible threat[s].” Nearly 200 American citizens of Iranian descent were interrogated and detained—some as young as five were held overnight—at the Peace Arch Border in Washington for the only crime of being ethnically Iranian.
The shameful era of U.S. Japanese internment felt suddenly not so distant, and history seemed doomed to repeat itself.
The past two months underscored for Iranian-Americans the fact that Trump’s policies do not just endanger our families back in Iran; they also endanger hundreds of thousands of Iranian-Americans here at home.
As the last decades have made clear to us, when Americans elect war-mongering presidents with platforms of aggression, Iran will elect leaders who vow to protect them with military strength. The results of the Iranian parliamentary elections earlier this month resulted in a landslide victory for conservative hardliners, largely in response to Trump’s worsening of Obama-era sanctions and unhinged military hostility.
Today, Iranians are watching the U.S. elections closely, and Bernie Sanders may be the only chance for peace with Iran in the foreseeable future.
As an Iranian-American community organizer and abolitionist, I do not believe electoral politics are the arena where much-needed systemic change can happen. But there is too much at stake right now to ignore. While every other Democratic candidate either supports policies—such as sanctions, war, or even the Muslim Ban—that devastates our communities and propels us further into military escalation, Bernie Sanders has consistently been the near-lone voice in preventing war with Iran during his time as Senator, and is the only candidate who comes close to addressing the needs of Iranian-Americans.
Read the full essay on Newsweek.com
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]]>The post Understanding structural anti-Shī‘ism in Sunnī diaspora spaces appeared first on Hoda Katebi.
]]>Truthfully, it was not until rather recently that I really was able to understand the extent and prevalence of anti-Shia bias in the many spaces, relationships, and academic work I occupied and engaged in. The microaggressions, exclusion, erasure, dismissive attitudes, or blatantly anti-Shia remarks were so normal, latent, casual, and consistent that I did not even realize the extent of the trauma and anxiety I was carrying as a result of it.
Growing up as the only visibly Muslim woman throughout my schooling in Oklahoma, USA my self-esteem was completely shattered and my identity and core values were constantly questioned by my peers–and soon, by myself as well. From a constant state of being a minority ostracized and ridiculed within a majority white and conservative suburb, I had internalized a certain level of Islamophobia as a consequence. Islam was viewed to be at odds with a self-proclaimed “secular democracy” and everything I did was seen under a hyper-politicized lens. For example, I did not know it was not “normal” to be called a terrorist on a near-daily basis or get physically assaulted at school for wearing hijab. The few lines of “Islamic history” we learned in class were drenched in violence and only worked to reinforce narratives of ostracization and othering. It was only after I had moved to Chicago in 2012 for college that I was able to truly understand the extent of — and work to unlearn — the white supremacy and anti-Muslim bigotry I had internalized from being in spaces where it thrived unabashedly during the critical years of my identity formation.
Similarly, the extent to which the predominantly-Sunni spaces I have spent significant time in were just as much perpetuating and enforcing a certain degree of prejudice about Shi’a Muslims that I was consequently internalizing and allowing to question the very fundamental aspects of who I am. My renewed understanding of my Shia identity — and the constant discomfort and tension I felt leading up to this point as a result of the spaces I was occupying and learning about Islam in — was sparked only after the sudden end of a two year relationship with an Arab Sunni only months before our anticipated engagement.
While, admittedly, my parents were against our relationship in the beginning, arguing that Sunni-Shi’a relationships do not work when both parties are actively practicing their faith, I consistently pushed back, did the difficult work of having repeated conversations (and arguments) addressing their concerns and eventually won them over. While his parents seemed to be okay with everything in the beginning, I was eventually asked not to “bring up Saudi stuff,” not to “be super political” in conversation with them, and to even “pretend to be Sunni” to his extended family. Eventually, over the course of a phone call that lasted less than twenty minutes, he told me things can no longer move forward, citing again anti-Shia bias I had dispelled in prior conversations.
The end of the relationship in and of itself was less painful than the new realization and recognition of the slow-building trauma of blatant and latent anti-Shi’ism I had internalized and normalized over the years, in spaces and places beyond our relationship. I was hurt and deeply confused as to how someone who claimed progressive values, open-mindedness about so many “taboo” topics within Islam, could so be so easily influenced by anti-Shi’a prejudice. I began to realize that many of my friends were the same way. The conversations we had together about Sunni privilege and anti-Shi’a violence felt like explaining racism to a white man lacking self-awareness and unaccustomed to exclusion and violence in everyday spaces and institutions, or Islamophobes whose eyes and ears have been sealed shut to reality despite how many times they’re told the truth. It seemed unfathomable to many Sunni men that something that seemed so perfect and pure (i.e. Sunni Muslim spaces) could possibly be weaponized — intentionally or not — to make other Muslims (women, Shi’a Muslims, non-Arabs, queers, and other minorities) deeply uncomfortable and systematically disenfranchised.
But regardless of the intentions or situations that create and perpetuate anti-Shi’ism, the result is ultimately always traumatic, harmful, and requires urgent redress. Below are just a few beliefs, attitudes, political dynamics, and behaviors I have been able to understand in which structural Sunni normativity and anti-Shi’ism exists and thrives in Sunni Muslim spaces.
Just as “whiteness” is the normal and default Google stock image, Sunnism typically remains the dominant and assumptive default of any space that has not been specifically defined otherwise. Muslim Student Associations, “third spaces,” and even academic literature about/by Muslims consistently center Sunni schools of thought and doctrine, exclusively Sunni hadiths, and Sunni interpretations of historical events as factual and without noting the Shi’a approaches to the same, let alone the breadth and depth of other perspectives that exist in the tapestry of our tradition.
While Sunnis are the majority in most Muslim spaces, it’s important to note that numbers don’t guarantee the accuracy of a perspective or otherwise.
*Of course, anti-Sufi violence also unfortunately exists widely in various Muslim-majority countries
From my experiences navigating both Sunni and Shi’a spaces, I’ve noticed rituals and practices particular to each, that seem rooted in different understandings and frameworks of Islam. Of course I am not a theologian, but it seems apparent that Sunni tradition is rooted more in Sunna (as obvious as this may sound), though in contrast, the Shi’i tradition carries an additional layer of emotive, oral practices that have been transmitted to us by the Ahlul Bayt.
In particular, the duas recited in Shi’a masjids tend to originate from members of the Ahlul Bayt that have been passed down through oral tradition. Du’a Jawshan Kabir for example, a long, devastatingly beautiful, and emotionally-captivating duaa containing 1000 names and attributes of Allah and recited regularly during Ramadan in Shia spaces, was written by Zayn al-Abidin (the 4th Imam in Twelver Shia tradition) and passed down through the Prophet’s family.
Additionally, the death of Imam Hussain at Karbala (whose sacrifice is remembered and commemorated during Muharram, a time when anti-Shi’a violence spikes globally) is a grave injustice within the heart of Islam’s history, and it is through this act of mourning that Shi’a Muslims remember and honor the ultimate sacrifice in the name of justice.
These two examples of emotive and oral practices establish a relationship to Islam and Islamic history that elicits and encourages mourning, and is centered in most Shi’a spaces. Therefore, it is very normal (and in fact encouraged) to cry in Shi’a masjids, and it can also serve as a decolonial practice that allows for communal healing and reaffirmation to the pursuit of social justice.
Yet, Shi’as are constantly ridiculed and questioned for these practices that, from a strictly textual (non-Sufi) Sunni perspective, are seen to be superfluous and “overly emotional” — a label not attributed to similar Sufi practices within Sunnism.* Despite lamentation and emotive practices prevalent in Sufi expressions of Sunnism, Sufi Muslims are generally understood to be a “valid” practice of Islam within most mainstream Sunni diaspora spaces — an acceptability typically not afforded to Shi’as.
Within most Shi’a traditions, the Prophet (SAW) and his family are revered, celebrated, mourned, and centered in khutbas, programming, curricula, etc. This is largely because, among other reasons, each member of the Ahlul Bayt carry legacies and stories that reflect and model the ideals of Islam on a fundamental level. The unapologetic commitment to social justice, community, radical love, selflessness, pursuits of knowledge, and other virtues encouraged in the Qur’an and embodied in the stories of the Prophet (SAW) and Ahlul Bayt are incomparable. This creates a framing within Shi’a spaces that I have always deeply loved and appreciated because they keep me grounded. Their stories are also particularly important for Shi’a Muslims given the messages of justice they carry and the parallels that are able to be drawn to the current widespread anti-Muslim, anti-Black, (and anti-Shi’a!) persecution globally.
However, in anti-Shi’a discourse, such a framework is criticized as “too political,” calling the emphasis on figures like Imam ‘Ali, Imam Hassan, and Imam Hussein as “excessive” and even sometimes inaccurately assuming Shi’a Muslims place the Ahlul Bayt on the same (or even higher) platform as the Prophet (SAW).
And yet, Sunni Muslims typically rarely, if ever, have to engage in the same sort of “inter-sectarian” work on a community or personal/individual level as Shi’a Muslims typically do on a consistent basis. Rather, Shi’a Muslims and other Muslim minorities are constantly estranged, excluded, and not given a comfortable space to exist and practice within Islamic “non-denominational” yet Sunni-majority spaces.
Playing the “colorblind” game has never aided progress–let alone the conversations required to get us there. Nearly every time I passively mention or allude to the fact that I am Shi’a on social media or in conversation, I am usually quickly met with a barrage of messages or hostile questions about why I feel the need to “make such a big deal” about being Shi’a, intrusive questions about my beliefs, or messages proudly proclaiming that they are so “post-sectarian” that “I didn’t even realize I was Sunni until last year.”
A lack of understanding of differences between Sunnis, Shias, and other minorities does not make anyone any “better” a Muslim or more “sectarian blind,” but rather simply reaffirms the structural privileges of not needing to understand why your faith is constantly questioned and critiqued in everyday, mainstream self-proclaimed “non-denominational” Muslim spaces.
Just as there are various interpretations, practices, and schools of jurisprudence and thought within Sunni tradition, there are several varieties of Shias (including but not limited to Twelvers, Ismailis, Zaydis, etc) and other Muslim minorities (Ahmadis, etc). Just as Sunnis fall on all levels of the religious and theological spectrum, so do Shi’as and others. And just as homogenizing all Muslims under one banner is what Muslims frequently critique Islamophobes for doing, asking minority Muslims to conform to uncompromising spaces and reductive labeling is not only unfair, but violent. Saying “we’re all Muslim” to avoid having difficult but desperately-needed conversations about intra-Muslim dissonance only rips the community further apart, and erases all of the beauty of the variety of ways that Muslims have forged a relationship to Allah and Islam.
If your extended (or immediate!) family would be opposed to you marrying someone who is Shi’a (or Black, working class, etc) that is only all the more reason to use the opportunity to challenge these toxic and harmful perspectives. We need to be having conversations around racism, class, queerness, gender, and other forms of systemic violence–such as anti-Shiism–and hold our family accountable, not excuse them for their harmful beliefs and hide the Shi’as in your life away. These could be the same uncles that defend or justify when Shias are murdered, the same aunts who perpetuate anti-Blackness, and the same grandparents that enforce class or caste divisions. This is more important than labels; this is about combatting systemic oppression regardless of who it is against–and as a Shi’a, I would argue this is a duty in Islam for all Muslims.
This piece has been cross-published on Amaliah, our favorite UK-based Muslim platform highlighting and uplifting the voices of Muslim women, unafraid to publish the “taboo” or difficult conversations needed in the Muslim community.
P.S. Sorry friends had to turn off the comments here — though you can probably assume why. 
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Between a burkini featured in this year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue and the New Haven mosque set ablaze last month, Muslims in the United States occupy a particularly demanding moment in history. As we near the end of Ramadan, we live at the cusp of both unprecedented Muslim visibility and heightened anti-Muslim racism. If we are not careful, these new modes of representation may contribute to the rise of anti-Muslim racism, rather than combat it.
As a visibly Muslim woman born and raised in Oklahoma, I never saw anyone who looked like me shown in a positive light — if even at all — in the magazines I stashed under my bed or the television shows I consumed. Although I still had Muslim role models I looked up to (such as my mother), I grew up feeling unconnected to my surroundings.
My classmates, fed on the same media, would try to convince me that I was foreign; that nothing was made for me or people who looked like me. Being able to see a gorgeous, hijab-wearing Muslim woman of color such as Halima Aden on the covers of the magazines I picked up as a kid could have helped challenge my and my peers’ understanding of who is allowed to feel at home in the United States.
Yet although raising Muslim representation in popular culture is an important and necessary step forward, it can have devastating consequences if it remains only skin-deep. Representation must also be accompanied by a rise in unapologetic Muslim voices and structural challenges to systems that create and perpetuate anti-Muslim violence.
Today, major department stores are releasing Ramadan collections and modest-wear lines, and the media celebrates hijab-wearing models and influencers as the faces of fast-fashion brands. But too often, the conversation ends there: Our representation stops at the cash registers. And fighting for inclusion in the very systems that require exploitation and even violence against our own communities is not a step forward, but a step back.
While we are celebrating a Nike Pro hijab and Mango’s Ramadan collection, we know that Muslim garment workers in sweatshops are exploited to make these clothes. While we view more hijab-wearing women in police departments or the military as a “win” for inclusion, we ignore the fact that these institutions commit violence against our communities domestically and abroad.
As Muslims fight for a seat at the table to challenge white supremacy and popular nationalism, have we made sure that we are not oppressing our own communities in the process? Anti-Muslim violence is holistic and systemic; our efforts to challenge it cannot be surface-level and compromised.
Read the full essay on Washington Post
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Details on Kaepernick and #Nike:
— Charles Robinson (@CharlesRobinson) September 3, 2018
- It’s wide endorsement. He’s going to have his own branded line. Shoes, shirts, jerseys, etc. There will be Kaepernick apparel.
- Contract is a “star” deal on par with a top end #NFL player. Millions per year. Star deals also include royalties.
that's probably why ur still single
— Hoda Katebi هدی کاتبی (@hodakatebi) September 4, 2018https://t.co/RWrxnESG6D
John McCain’s legacy represents an unparalleled example of human decency and American service.
— Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (@AOC) August 26, 2018
As an intern, I learned a lot about the power of humanity in government through his deep friendship with Sen. Kennedy.
He meant so much, to so many. My prayers are with his family. https://t.co/iu28V3snDm
John McCain is a hero, one of the most respected senators and a friend. The hopes and prayers of the nation are with him and his family.
— Bernie Sanders (@BernieSanders) July 20, 2017
Today, people are grieving for the loss of a great statesman. I extend my deepest condolences to those that he loved, and those that loved him in return. Our nation parts with him in pain. https://t.co/ZeklgQw1Zo
— Ilhan Omar (@IlhanMN) August 26, 2018
Just another reminder that politicians can't be trusted to stand on stated values. Please explain yourselves to your Iranian, Afghan, Iraqi, Vietnam, Libyan, Palestinian, etc constituents. I hope the 100s of thousands of lives McCain was responsible for taking can rest in peace.
— Hoda Katebi هدی کاتبی (@hodakatebi) August 26, 2018
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To sell clothes so cheap, turn over new styles fast, and deliver such high profits, @HM @Gap & @Walmart suppliers rely on a business model that utilizes the discrimination and exploitation of women garment workers as a cost saving measure. #EndFastFashionGBV #TimesUp
— ICAR (@theICAR) July 3, 2018
Violence in @Gap @HM @Walmart garment supply chains is rooted in the structure of the industry: impossible production targets, women in high stress, low wage, temporary work drives industrial discipline practices. #MeTo to #UsToo - these are not isolated cases #EndFastFashionGBV https://t.co/WFD81sRaok
— shikha silliman bhattacharjee (@shikhaphone) July 3, 2018
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Deeply disturbing news that child killed yesterday was yet another student at UNRWA school - two others were killed previously. #Children should never be targets! https://t.co/uFapQwjQ3t
— Matthias Schmale (@matzschmale) April 21, 2018
P.S. We’re also honored to have Benji as our official #BecauseWe’veRead discussant! Tune in to Instagram live at 11am CST Sunday, April 29th to join the conversation as we discuss Assata Shakur’s autobiography!
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Illustration: Stephanie McMillan
Illustration: Stephanie McMillan
Illustration:Stephanie McMillan
* Edit March 8, 10:50am CST — I incorrectly used feminism and womanism interchangeably, and have updated the piece accordingly. (more on “womanism” and why it’s different from feminism here)
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*This piece has been updated as of February 14, 2018*
I was on WGN for a live interview last week, and was asked to speak about my work and my book, but when I gave answers the hosts didn’t like, their questions (and comments) started to get hostile, literally telling me I “don’t sound American.” They gave me 5 minutes on-air. I’m going to give myself this short article instead. Here are a few quick thoughts about this interview (which they also did not publish online, or give us access to the clip), as I feel it serves as a good example for a bit of commentary that can be applied to so many conversations happening now, and relevant to the work that is happening here on JooJoo Azad.
Few updates: 1/ First, I can't thank you all enough for your love & support, it's so refreshing & appreciated! I hope we continue to support Muslim women & women of color who challenge state violence/bias, whether that is laughing through an interview or demanding #FreeAhedTamimi
— Hoda Katebi هدی کاتبی (@hodakatebi) February 14, 2018
2/ WGN just called and Robin, the female anchor, sincerely apologized. (I also didn't realize so many of you called in! Like I said, ya'll on top of this -- thank *you* for making this happen and refusing to normalize this)! I accepted, and proposed a few ways to fix this --
— Hoda Katebi هدی کاتبی (@hodakatebi) February 14, 2018
3/ One proposal I suggested of course, is for WGN to publish a reading list I put together & do an on-air interview where we discuss what happened for their audience, what went wrong, and then to talk about Fanon, Assata Shakur, Edward Said, etc, & American imperialism
— Hoda Katebi هدی کاتبی (@hodakatebi) February 14, 2018
4/ They're going to get back to me on this idea, but in the meantime if you have any further ideas let me know hehe
— Hoda Katebi هدی کاتبی (@hodakatebi) February 14, 2018The apology was important, but it's also important to be able to use this moment as a teaching tool, and prevent it from happening again. Let's raise the bar.
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– sharing is caring! Found this article helpful? Your friends might too! –
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@ mainstream media where is your incessant obsession with whether or not Melania wears a head covering as revolutionary or not, now? https://t.co/QoekzWpvtd
— Hoda Katebi هدی کاتبی (@hodakatebi) May 24, 2017
“Liberation,” “freedom,” etc are used incredibly loosely, minimizing the act of being free or oppressed simply down to how a woman dresses. Which is incredibly problematic. Freedom is in the choice, not in any particular way of dressing. Hence, always returning to this concept of Orientalism — how this simplification of liberation and freedom are linked simply to fashion choices (as opposed to, for example education or not being drone-striked) — and then how that is used to justify military occupation.
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US foreign policy consists of trading bodies for approval ratings, guilt for innocence, absence for life, and strategic silencing, all for fear of a threat both feigned and self-made.
On April 13, 2017, the Trump regime dropped the GBU-43 massive ordnance air blast (MOAB) also known as the “Mother of all Bombs” in the Achin district of Nangarhar in Afghanistan. While the official statement from the Headquarters of the United States Forces in Kabul, Afghanistan, notes that the military “took every precaution to avoid civilian casualties” in what White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer called on Thursday morning a remote, mountainous area, the Achin district is, in fact, home to a population of 150,000 and sits a little over 20 miles from the capital of Nangarhar, a province in Eastern Afghanistan with a population of almost 1.5 million. This population now has to endure, at the very least, the lasting psychological effects of witnessing a massive mushroom cloud rising from their backyards, as well as the ongoing threats to their safety.
Bilal Sarwary, a journalist based in Afghanistan who spoke to locals in the area after the bombing, told BBC Friday morning that “their doors are destroyed or damaged and every single window or glass is broken … [they felt] more like doomsday … like the sky is coming down.” Fresh bombings in Achin continued through this morning, according to local sources. Nangarhar has been noted by many Afghans as one of the more beautiful parts of the country, with perpetual spring-like weather.
The US government and mainstream media’s failure to mention the presence of unmistakably large civilian populations — and the fact that these populations were placed in immediate physical and psychological dangers — is not at all an uncommon practice. Much like the history of physical, rhetorical, ideological and academic erasure of Indigenous people from North America, there is a continual erasure of mass populations in the Middle East and Africa, who are frequently invisibilized and deemed irrelevant by those who wish to craft a narrative that excuses violence and mass destruction.
Afghanistan carries a deep history of being designated as a testing ground for Western and Russian military weaponry (as India, Ghana and other Asian and African countries are for Western medicine). Although its population is significantly larger than that of Berkeley, California, Achin is portrayed as empty and vacant — a place where the dropping of a never-before-used, 30-foot-long, 21,600-pound bomb filled with 18,000 pounds of explosives is portrayed as carrying no risk of civilian casualties.
Beyond recognizing the continual erasure of civilians and populations at the state’s discretion, it is important to ask: According to the US government, who is classified as a “civilian”? Who is not considered a “civilian,” and is instead marked with the ever-shifting and contagious label of “enemy combatant”?
To answer this question, we must turn toward the foreign policy hallmark and legacy of the Obama administration: drone strikes.
Read the full essay on Truthout.com
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P.S. In NYC, LA, Oakland, San Francisco, or Chicago?
We’re making stops — come say hay at one of our events across the city!
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View this post on InstagramA post shared by Asiya® Modest Activewear (@asiyasport) on
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WE ARE NOT ALL MUSLIM STOP CLAIMING AN IDENTITY WHOSE OPPRESSION YOU DIRECTLY BENEFIT FROM https://t.co/rHig4DkRd9
— Hoda Katebi هدی کاتبی (@hodakatebi) February 20, 2017
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]]>“We are obliged to act in times of injustice; understanding that these incidents are not isolated, but an outburst of systemic racism in public and private academic institutions, it is our duty to confront the administrations of these institutions.”
– National Black Student Caucus
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). In theory, the idea of getting influential men to spread the word about, and trying to normalize, feminism, sounds like a great way to attract more men to join the cause, which unfortunately is not the easiest task to do. Not to mention that these roughly $70-$80 t-shirts are also raising money for charity. Sounds like a potentially decent plan?
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Lessgetstarted.
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