By: L.L. , Feminist activist and human rights defender.
September 2024
The poster is designed by Sulafa Hijazi.
Note: This article was written before the fall of the Assad regime, the victory of the revolution, and the liberation of Syria.
Since childhood, I’ve tried diets, exercise and “healthy” programs. Some worked, others didn’t. But my issue was never with my body—it was with how society viewed it: its size, curves, contours, and even its virginity. It was as though my body were a sin I boldly confessed by daring to step outside the four walls of my room. No one warned me that the more a girl’s femininity became evident in her body, the more she was expected to withdraw from society. Knowing this silent rule didn’t help me; it only added a strange sense of guilt to every action I dared to take as a child—not as a woman with a woman’s body.
The truth is, society imposes standards on us, and if we dare to challenge them, we supposedly deserve punishment or public judgment, as if it’s a natural right. According to them, a non-virgin body, a fat body, or a tattooed body is a body without value—as though virginity is a stamp that dictates a woman’s production and expiration dates; or that the number on my scale measures my worth as a person; or that the space I occupy comes with a tax. My tattoos, they say, are a rebellion against all Arab beliefs. My body, no matter what happens to it, is always criticised by the eyes of society.
Once, I confided in a man about my experience with harassment and rape. He smirked and said, “Who would even look at you or desire you? Have you looked in the mirror lately?” Though I had no doubts about my self-worth, his comment opened a door to unsettling questions: Is my body all I can offer society?
My struggles with weight destroyed my childhood, and rape took my body away from me for years. I had no right, no say, no ownership over it. Though every cell in my body regenerates, nothing can erase the violation it endured. I was sixteen when my father asked me, “Are you still a virgin?” after I told him what happened. “Does virginity mean I gave consent, Father? Because I didn’t.” If you’re asking about the hymen, I don’t know. I can’t describe how I felt after my father’s reaction. I understand that his response came from a place of pain for not being able to protect me, that he feared society’s judgment and worried about my future. I forgive him a hundred times because he is my father. But for years, I carried regret like a mouth full of blood, all because someone exploited my love for my family and my fear of how society would impact their lives if the truth were revealed.
Years I can never reclaim were stolen from me. My rapist used every tool at his disposal—society, the law, my family—to threaten me. For a time, he succeeded in subduing me. But eventually, I began to rebel and tried to break free. Then came the threats to my life and my mother’s. He made it clear how easily he could reach my family: visiting my father’s clinic one day, photographing my mother at a shopping mall during one of my phases of rebellion—one phase out of a hundred. When I refused to meet him, he would stalk me after school. Nowhere was safe. He confined me within the 17,000 square kilometres of my homeland.
At night, my mind usually raced with questions:
Would my family believe I’d been trying for years to escape him without telling them, all to protect them?
Would I become another honour crime victim—a story quickly forgotten?
Would suitors still approach my sister if they knew that she had a ‘used’ sister?
Would my father still be respected at work?
Would my mother escape the gossip of the women in their social circles?
The pitying glances and endless interrogations assaulted me, devoid of understanding yet full of judgment:
“Did you fight back?”
“Did you scratch him and collect his DNA under your nails?”
And the harshest, most painful of all:
“Did you say no?”
I held myself together until the very last moment in that country. When I moved to Europe, I didn’t expect depression or PTSD to follow me. I thought Arabs were immune to these “Western” mental illnesses, dismissed as nothing more than “madness.” But the cycles of depression, binge eating, fasting for days, and long hours of exhaustion-induced sleep became a ticking time bomb, ready to destroy me.
I remember the day I decided to seek help. After months of crying, nightmares, and suppressed memories surfacing, I got out of bed, went to my mother’s room, and said, “Either I go to a therapist, or I kill myself.” My mother, with a strength I could never comprehend, simply said, “Then go to a therapist.” Not another word was exchanged. I went back to my room, cried, and then began taking the necessary steps.
Three years later, I can finally say my relationship with what happened has transformed. I no longer blame myself for choices I made as a child. I’ve replaced guilt with compassion and anger with strength. I criticise my body less now; instead, I thank it for all it continues to do for me. Everyone else has taken the liberty to judge and harm my body, so I’ve given myself the courage to praise and love it. This body, so often critiqued, is mine.
My family repeatedly told me, “No one will marry you looking like this!” They subjected me to endless experiments to make me smaller, as though my worth as a wife was inversely proportional to my weight. The justification was always “health” or concern for my fertility and future. But no diet I tried as a child spared me from hunger, hair loss, or vitamin deficiencies. I was never healthier when I was thinner. In fact, I began to notice my nervous system deteriorating under the strain of constant workouts and guilt for needing rest.
My fat body cannot starve to death, so why complain? I used to resent food, but during stressful times, it became a comfort—a confusing relationship since everyone told me food was my enemy. It wasn’t until I shifted to diets focused on building muscle, strengthening joints, and regulating the hormones affected by my PCOS that my perspective on nutrition changed entirely.
My perception of nutrition changed entirely, and my body began to improve in ways I couldn’t fully comprehend. The number on the scale didn’t shift significantly, but my measurements transformed. My face took on new contours, and my overall quality of life began to change positively. I felt lighter on my feet, had more energy, slept better, and even my skin became clearer. But the most significant change was my relationship with food.
I didn’t forbid myself anything, no matter what. I adjusted my other meals to maintain balance throughout the day. I didn’t fear or avoid any particular type of food. Instead, I began experimenting with recipes and using ingredients I had never dared to try before. Food became a means for me to witness the results of my physical efforts. I have never been lazy—I have always loved movement, sports, and play. Now, I also love my body, a body that embraces life. This newfound appreciation for my body led me to start adorning it. I began with earrings and then added a nose ring. Society continued to despise my way of expressing love for a body it had long tried to make me hate. But the final straw was tattoos.
When I chose to decorate my body with tattoos, my mother cried. She reminded me of my father’s religiosity and how much he would disapprove, especially under her watch. Yet I often felt a deep resentment towards those religious people who cherry-pick and interpreted texts to suit their desires.
I found nothing in the Qur’an about tattoos, and people’s reactions to them stem from societal attitudes rather than religious teachings.
Religion has never been the reason for my rebellion; society fuels a defiance within me that I cannot always justify. This conflict pushed me to drift away from religion and return to it as I navigated my love for God and anger towards society. Tattoos allowed me to see my body as a canvas—a work of art sculpted through nutrition and exercise, enhanced with designs and colours.
I don’t ask anyone to share my “sin,” but I wish my supposed transgression weren’t the most defining aspect of how society views me. Yet society hasn’t stopped at scrutinising my weight or how I adorn my body; even the age of my body offends them. How dare I mature to this age without a partner? But why? Why does my body belong first to me, then to society, then to a man, then to a child, and finally to time? I reject this.
Society controls us through women’s bodies. We’re not allowed to wear certain things, say certain things, or act in certain ways because, according to societal standards, these choices give men the “right” to punish us. Even men are shamed if they “allow” women the freedom to express themselves or make choices.
If I wear certain clothes, it’s expected that I’ll be harassed, assaulted, or targeted. Victim-blaming transcends gender; even men with delicate features are judged by these bizarre standards, as though being a victim requires “feminine” traits, whether or not the victim is female.
Even when we leave our societies and move to Europe, foreign men objectify our culture and modesty. They yearn for our “hidden” bodies, driven by a frightening curiosity and desire to break our moral walls. The way they gaze at our modestly dressed bodies is profoundly disturbing. Ironically, I faced more harassment while wearing a hijab than after removing it. Of course, no society is entirely immune to this issue.
Progress and feminist-driven legal reforms don’t mean men are better in the West; they simply mean men face accountability. Many avoid harassing women to protect themselves from the repercussions of a complaint or public exposure. This leads me to believe that the issue transcends religion, gender, and culture—it’s a matter of the freedom to name injustice and speak against it. Expressing injustice is the first step towards justice. Modesty, a revered yet misunderstood concept in our society, doesn’t mean silence; it means dignity. The day Eastern societies can distinguish between what deserves shame and what deserves dialogue will be the day we see real change.
By: L.L. , Feminist activist and human rights defender.