Lack of Rights and Freedom Endured by a Young Muslim Woman

Ten years ago, I met and developed a friendship with a young Muslim woman. Through my friend Marwa, I was granted a glimpse into a world cloaked in mystery and misunderstandings. Freedom of any kind for a woman in the Muslim world is but a fantasy.

Our first conversations were guarded and at times nearly hostile. Marwa had never spoken to an American and I had never spoken to someone from the Middle East.

In a loss of what to talk about, I told her it was my son's birthday. I explained that I had worked hard to make a cake and decorate for a party. She was incredibly surprised that I had done this.

She said growing up that she had been taught American women were so cold hearted that they did not love or care for their children.

Over the course of about a year, we shared different aspects of our lives.

She was required to wear full coverings and cover her face with a burqa whenever in public. She did not resent this, but welcomed it. She explained that beyond the teaching of her faith it eased her mind that other men could not look upon her.

Her marriage had been arranged and she met her husband only once before the wedding. In accordance with Muslim traditions, he had not seen her face until their wedding night as it was strictly forbidden.

She had no rights as a woman. Marwa often spoke of fear. Fear of breaking a rule. Fear of being caught talking to me because I was an American. Fear of her husband who beat her. She spoke often of being beaten. She accepted this willingly and explained to me that in her culture it was within her husband's rights and duty to do so.

One day I told Marwa I was not going to cook dinner because I was tired. She begged me to cook. She was afraid my husband would beat me. It was hard for her to understand that I had the right to choose not to cook. She did not have the luxury of choice in her life.

In the Muslim world, she was considered a possession to her husband. The children she bore belonged to him. She was simply the vessel that bore them. Her oldest son was the 'man of the house' when her husband was away or working. In certain things, she was required to answer to her son because of this. This seemed to have its own problems and issues because her son was just ten years old.

As our forbidden friendship grew, she was forced to become more secretive. She was afraid her oldest son would tell her husband she was speaking to an American. Her son would often tell her husband of some infraction that resulted in her punishment. It seemed there was always the fear.

After about a year her messages grew less frequent and she finally told me it had become too dangerous to speak to me. Her worry of reprisal if someone found out she spoke to an American too strong.

For several years more, I would occasionally receive messages from her updating me on her life and welfare. Messages filled with warmth, so unlike the woman I first met years before.

Through Marwa's words, I was granted a wider understanding and appreciation for the freedom granted to me in the United States. For Marwa, and many other Muslim women, these lack of rights and basic freedoms go unquestioned with blind acceptance.

For my dear friend Marwa, the blessings of choice will always remain elusive and a bit misunderstood. I believe in many ways it will be much like the snow she so often had me describe, a concept only pictured in her mind.