We would never say we were dating,

Especially with our cultural taboos of “Getting to know each other”

But we were dating.

And oh yes, I met the man I had fallen for in Las Vegas.

No, not like that.

I guess there comes a time when

Two doors are open at the same moment and

The places in which they stand seem to collapse

Introduced by my giggling mother nagging at us

“Take a photo,” she said. “He’s cute!”

She, a short stout woman, went up to this tall Algerian guy

And told him outright, “Hey hey you.

Yeaaaaaaaaah you

My daughter thinks you’re cute. Can she take a pic?”

And I’m standing here mortified and pushes me at his arm

Taking the photo

I promptly got his number –wink-

My mom, the lady, set me up

I didn’t wear the scarf then and

If you asked me to wear the scarf,

I’d tell you “Hell no. There is no point.

Men would be attracted to me even with the scarf.”

We were both young and liberal,

Raised in modern societies interlinked by globalization and wealth

And of course, martial arts

This is not the story of how I was oppressed by my religion.

It is not the story of how I was oppressed by my family, my culture, nor my society.

It is the story of how I oppressed myself

A story of the absorption of mind and thought into breathlessly crashing tides among jagged rocks

It is the naïve belief that the access to heaven was closer to someone else than it was to me,

It is a story of false promises and dances between gripping fear

From the rising realities of tradition

And modernity.

This is the reality that some like me

Must tread upon diligently

Born to a Bosnian ex-refugee family, father blinded and mother forever reminded

And part raised in the colorful scenes of sequined clothing and fast spoken words in Urdu

Raised part “white” blonde and blue-eyed

And raised part American in all its ‘might’

Am I Muslim or am I American?

Am I modern or am I tradition?

He told me that marriage would require him to care for me even if i gain weight

But I’d need to lose it for the sake of his fidelity

He yells at me, taking my photo,

“You call THIS hijab? This is Hijab to you? Then just take it off.”

I stay silent, heart sinking.

He flaunts his Arab heritage as a marker of religious superiority

My heart was breaking

“If you want me to act like the Prophet, then I can tell you to stay at home and cover your face.”

He asked if would leave my job if he told me to

“But what are the conditions? What are the reasons?”

“It’s a yes or no question.”


“No buts”

“What does a strong Muslim woman sound like?” I ask him

“A strong Muslim woman sounds like….” He stopped


-to self-

What does a strong Muslim woman sound like?

A strong Muslim woman sounds like the moment breaking silence

Among a barren road

Broken by the elongating notes of a long sturdy train

Traveling at the speed of light from the silence of Point A

To the never ending journey to Point B

A strong Muslim woman looks like the elevated posture of chin raised,

Leveled to look ahead and not down,

Eyes forever open to the actions done before her

A strong Muslim woman smells of sweat leaking upon her face in between protests,

Physical and mental,

Academic and fighting.

Smells of blood pouring from the wounds upon her self-belief and hope

That she, as a Muslim woman, could excel.

A strong Muslim woman feels like chiseled arms from punching bags and of strength in light,

Emanating from the womb in the form of a child

Who better to carry the weight of another human being

Than the body of a woman?

A strong Muslim woman tastes of bitter sweetness,

Sweet from the taste of faith

Bitter from drinking among the rivers of fear and forced perception.

Now tell me again, what does a strong Muslim woman sound like?

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  • Merima Tricic is a student in political science and world arts/cultures with her focus on women's rights violations in ISIS-led groups. She likes to spend her time wandering and learning how to change her mind for the better.