On behalf of Women’s day, I feel the need to address myself to women from marginalized backgrounds and cultures, I feel the need to speak up about topics that should be spoken about any other day.
For women growing up in developing countries, being educated means having the freedom and independence to build perspectives and points of view, to become more self-aware and gain knowledge of the world. For women growing up in the Middle East, education is our weapon, our arsenal in order to lead a meaningful independent life.
This is what it has meant for me, and sadly, most of the females who are growing up in the region. Needless to say, we live in a patriarchal society where men run all things; at the very least, they run the government, parliamentary seats, managerial positions and all in all, the country. Which leads us to ask ourselves: how do we even earn our place in society?
It wasn’t until later in my teenage years that I started immersing myself in my great-aunt Nadia’s famous poems. Her poetry remains a tour de force of passion that describes amongst others, a woman’s place in a male-dominated environment back in the 70s. The ideological codes that were pervasive back then, are still unfortunately seen today. Her fight to reinvent a whole new language that could counter propaganda from a woman’s point of view sparked a determination I have been holding in my blood to study, work and get vocal about challenges women are still dealing with.
As a girl that has gotten the chance to study abroad and live 9000 kilometers away from home, I consider myself lucky to have grown up in a healthy family and an environment that fosters equal rights and opportunities between genders. However, I wouldn’t say that would be the case for every other female growing up in the Arab world.
Where we come from, although I still feel the need to give some credit to most people I surround myself with, the necessity for women’s participation in society is almost irrelevant. The thought that women can even be as capable as men in predominantly male fields is inconceivable to many.
When waiting in line to board my plane at the Beirut airport, I can’t even count the times I have been asked by men at passport control why I even bother to travel all the way to Canada for my studies. And whenever I would try to quietly shut down the conversation with an uncomfortable giggle or a short answer on how I plan on working hard in the future, I would get a sarcastic laugh followed by a wink and a “you’ll definitely work for your father then”.
Not to come off as insensitive, but at this point, can we even blame the older generation? These people that grew up in a time of war where traditional gender roles were in place both on the field and at home, do they even portray women as anything other than wives?
Thankfully, these kinds of conversations haven’t happened since middle school when my girlfriends and I would get into intense arguments with our male peers who would find it amusing to look down on women. Thankfully, today’s society, and most people, both adults and teenagers, I have crossed paths with in Lebanon, rarely indulge in inappropriate “jokes” or comments about women and girls. Thankfully, I grew up in a household that has never treated me any differently from my older brother. The saddening part is, as I live in a country ruled by representatives that still hold the same seats they did back in the 80s, this has not been the case legally speaking; both in Lebanon and other countries no doubt.
This disheartening cultural narrative is thus repeatedly imposed on women who are for the majority, excluded from high public offices, which makes it even harder for women in Lebanese politics to even earn their seats or make our voices heard.
Today, I know one thing, my journey starts with my education, our (as I speak on behalf of fellow Arab women) weapon to finally reach a point where we won’t have to justify ourselves or prove something to be heard and represented.