In the Company of Women

Writing is a lonely process. There’s me, my thoughts and whatever tool I choose to write; pen and paper or computer. It’s not a group activity. No one beside me to weigh two phrases and choose the better one, no one to verify my viewpoint, tell me if something is too hokey, too overdone, too underdone, too obscure, too subtle…just too much.

Then sometime last year I began writing an essay for an Avalon (Seal Press) anthology and something changed. Some wall fell away between me and a strange, hidden world. I can no longer see myself as an island, alone with my thoughts, feelings and tools.

Writing my novels was always lonely and I often second-guessed and wondered, re-tracing my steps, re-plotting, re-writing. A constant, never-ending process fraught with self doubt and insecurities. The core of it all: am I fraud? Not really a writer at all? A pretender?

However, while writing my essay, War Stories for this book, Voices of Resistance: Muslim Women on War, Faith and Sexuality, something changed. Dangerously close to my deadline, I looked out from my window as the house slept, my dog stretched out under my desk, I could only see the darkened Boston street. And yet, I was conscious of something else. For I knew that across the North American landscape, in large cities and small towns, there were others.

Other women, who at that very time were sitting in their own homes, writing or creating art work for this book of which we were all part. We are the voices of resistance, the artists, writers and poets who make up this book. Most of them were strangers to me; yet somehow I felt part of a community, diverse, disparate Diaspora of women, Muslim women. How did I arrive at this point?

Whereas usually, it’s my job to contact tardy authors, soothe their egos and their stress, crack the whip about deadlines, this time I was on the other side. As my deadline approached, two weeks before it in fact, I realized I had not written one word. Oh, I had a Word file but it was totally empty. Okay, so a couple of times I had written a couple of words but they sounded so lame that I ended up deleting them. It was only when I got a reminder email from the editor that I decided to put down something…anything on paper…or rather the Word file. How embarrassing would it be to not turn anything in, to end this journey as I began it…with an empty Word file? Maybe I was an imposter, a non-writer. Writing had always been part of my identity—and a good one or not--I had to reclaim it. It was time.

And that’s how I came to that point, on that dark Boston night, writing frantically. It was almost divine, that writing experience. Like other writers I’ve often experienced that almost magical feeling of something else…a muse perhaps…guiding my thoughts, making the words spill out faster than I can type. As if someone else has written something and I was just the instrument. But as I examine this I realize it is somehow un-empowering. As if the only time I can create something of value is when I can attribute it to something or to someone else.

This time it was different. I felt different, empowered and in control. I measured every word, analyzed every thought and they all melded together in harmony, not feeling labored or forced. But perhaps there was something helping me. I was not alone. They were here…offering encouragement and support, helping me write. Those other women. I completed my essay that night, edited it the next day and turned it in early. Then I got busy with life until the book arrived.

It popped up on Amazon the day before I actually held it in my hands. I’m not crazy about the rather plain, maroon cover but soon I am lost as I come face to face with the women I had sensed in my office that night, months ago.

She misses the veil, a tangible symbol of her Muslim identity, something she cannot put on as the man he is today. The Bangladeshi woman who deals with all the issues inherent in her coming out as a lesbian. Two Iraqi women lamenting the state of their country. One woman reflects on the inherent sexism with the Hajj even as she fulfils this ritual and is taken with its global nature. They are all here, in their diversity, from those with faith to those who have lost it, others who have reclaimed it. The only thing that unites us all despite the differences in our race and countries of origin—even the steadfastness of our faith-- is that we can all be loosely grouped as Muslims. Some of the writing—the poems and the essays—humble me with their searing honesty and exquisite word choices. The original art work is haunting and thought-provoking. I found this to be a very rewarding experience. And I can hardly wait to be a part of something like this again.

More than that, though, this is an important work (and not just because I am in it).
For those who think of Muslim women as black-swaddled, faceless, silent and repressed, this book will shatter myths. It is a snapshot in time and history of women who refuse to be defined by the larger world around them and who refuse to give in to pressures. They are the voices of resistance, more so because most live normal, every day lives even as they struggle on a daily, ongoing basis. And, because of that, I am proud and humbled to have been part of this seminal work.
To be part of this amazing community of women.

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