I left jummah at The Women’s Mosque of America on Friday with goosebumps that until now have not gone away.
We witness fictional brown bodies have bleach thrown at them when they move from the pages of books to a screen.
Girls are cool too, but Bratz dolls and shimmery lip-gloss are not in your agenda right now.
What would you do if you lost your shoes to the mosque's black hole?
Why did my mind immediately associate “chick flick” with “bad movie?”
The khateeb assigned women the care-taking role, and embarrassed and judged them when they were trying to connect with God.
I am someone who enjoys fashion. I enjoy clothing and the way one can create their own personal branding and identity through a piece of a clothing.
What? I know, totally shocking, but think about it.
Basically, the moral of the story is this: women don’t want to get catcalled? Don’t wait for anything. Cross the street when the light is red.
He cursed terrorists, he cursed Islam, and he cursed Muslims. I was the only Muslim around, and I was terrified.
Five tries to get the right stereotype going, world.
Heaven forbid one of us dances.