As a short introduction to all of you, my name is Lauren, and I'm a junior at the University of Illinois. For the 2007-2008 school year, I'm studying abroad in Amman, Jordan. Back when I had reliable internet access, I read and occasionally commented on Urbanagora. I hope that now that I have wireless in my homestay, I'll be able to participate more. For now, here are my thoughts on a topic that has interested me since I arrived here: women's rights in the Middle East.

I am not a feminist.

Or rather, I never thought I was.

In the US, I was an ardent opponent of what I thought was modern-day feminism. I wasn't impressed with the idea of the bra-burning feminist, and I was known to use the word 'feminazi'. My belief was that feminists were forcing rather minor issues to the forefront, and the radical rants of these women distracted the public from larger, more important issues. I understood the need for feminists in the early 1900s, but I thought that the dire issues had already been resolved. So when I came to the University of Jordan and signed up for a Contemporary Arab Women's Literature class (which I only chose because I had heard we had to write a short story that would be critiqued by a Jordanian author), I was skeptical, to say the least.

It's now January, and that class has come and gone. My previous general belief, that women are equal to men and should have the freedom of choice in dictating their own lives, has remained the same. If a women truly wants to be a wife and a mother and that's it—that's a fine choice, because it's her own. Some people would tell me this means that really, I'm not a feminist at all, but I disagree. I am a feminist.

Feminism in Jordan and the larger Middle East is different. Women here aren't fighting superfluous battles; they're fighting for the right to exist in the public sphere. They're fighting for equal access to education—a choice that won't hurt their marriage prospects. They're fighting for choice, a choice that isn't constrained by the wishes of their families. And their fight isn't the unnecessary one I had seen as 'American' feminism; theirs is a worthy battle and a necessary one, too.

On the first day of class, my Arab Women's Lit professor read us poem written by an Arab woman some hundred years ago. After she finished, she probed us for our reactions.

My friend Katherine said that she thought that in the poem, the girl had wings but she wasn't using them. She wanted to, but she couldn't because she was living in an oppressive society.
My teacher looked at Katherine and said, "Do you have wings, Katherine?"

Katherine, slightly taken aback by the question, paused. "Yeah . . . Yes, I do."

My teacher continued, "Do you use your wings, Katherine?"

"Yes," Katherine said, with a little more confidence in her voice, "I think I do."

"Good," said my teacher. "Now ask me the same question."

So Katherine repeated, "Do you have wings, Rula?"

"Yes, of course" my teacher said, nodding her head.

"Do you use your wings?"

Then my teacher—a women who has built her career on feminism—looked back, paused, and said, "Sometimes."

The statement, while sparse in words, really spoke volumes to the issues at stake here.
This society clips women's wings. I hate to say it, I really do. I want so badly to gush about how incredible every moment in Jordan and the greater Middle East has been. I want to disprove those who speak in broad, negative generalizations about the Arab culture and people. And while I have had an incredible experience thus far, I can't lie, and I shouldn't hide the stories that need to be told.

Throughout the course of the semester, my teacher related to us both fictional and real stories of a society that is family-oriented and ruled by shame.

Shame is what drives choices here. Unlike America, the ultimate individualist culture, the Middle East is collectivist. People are defined by their family name. Your standing in society is determined by your family name. And while just one 'good' family member cannot improve a family's reputation, one 'bad' family member can ruin a family's name for decades.

"Honor"-killings are still practiced in Jordan for precisely this reason. There were 18 in 2006, a similar number in 2007, and there's already been more in 2008. Better to kill your sister and cleanse your family's honor than let the girl live and endure a tarnished last name and reputation because of the girl's 'sins'. And as sick as it is, killing the 'wrongdoer' really does give the family a clean slate in the eyes of society.

On a lighter note, the shame factor also affects the jobs people take. Jordan has around 30% unemployment rates (the *official* numbers put the rate somewhere around 15%... but everyone knows the government smudges the statistics 'a bit'), but a LOT of labor here is imported. Even if a man is unemployed and could work in that construction job, he doesn't; it is more shameful to work in such a menial position than it is to be unemployed. This same pressure greatly constricts the employment options women can seek, and it makes establishing independent means of income very difficult.

Yet even if a woman does have an independent means of income, she is often still dependent on your family. Here, you live with your family until you are married, because living on your own would indicate that something is wrong with you. Word would get around, and it wouldn't reflect well on your family. So you continue to live with your parents.

My teacher, Dr. Rula, was the most inspirational woman I've ever met. Her CV actually states: 'Dr. Rula believes that dreams do come true.' At around age 45, she is still single, and she still lives with her family. Does she want to live with her family? No. She dreams of a place of her own; she spoke to us about what colors she would paint her walls and what curtains she would buy. But at the end of the day, she knows that these are just silly daydreams that won't ever be realized. Here's a women who has spent her lifetime trying to improve the lives of women in the Middle East, and she herself only sometimes lived her principles.

"I hate being a coward," she said, "I hate it. But you're tired of being the black sheep all the time. The shame inflicted by your own family is horrible."

Which brings me to veil.

Ahh, the veil. It's hard not to think about it, to critique it. After all, it's an easy comparison, a ready-made difference between me and my female peers. It's also been an oft-touted source of debate in the West.

Before I came here, I was a keen supporter of a woman's right to wear the veil. I thought it was admirable that a woman choose modesty in an age of immodesty. Yet after living here, I can't help but question the choice to veil yourself. When I see a veiled girl, I can't help wondering, was wearing it her choice? If a woman chooses to wear the veil, I respect and support her decision. But what if she didn't choose it, and how do you know? Personally, I cannot comprehend how a woman can CHOOSE wear a burqa, a niqab, or a full-face covering. I cannot understand how a woman can wear a black sheet that masks her beyond all recognition and still feel like a human, much less a woman.

I know I am the outsider here, and so it is hard to critique a society from this seat. I am the American, the individualist. Edward Said would say that since I am a foreigner, I am an orientalist, and I will never be able to understand the society. If this in fact true, then it pretty much seals this society off from outside criticism and makes my complaints and observations null. But I am not the only critical one; many Jordanians are working to change the lives of women in this society.

For example, the Women's Studies department at the University of Jordan is beginning an outreach program that teaches women in the villages basic health care concepts. On the side of the government, there have been many laws made that are aiming at helping women. Because women have never been able to be elected to Parliament on their own, there is now a quota in parliamentary elections, allotting six of the 110 seats to women. This law, however, is a bit controversial, even within the feminist community here.

In fact, not all the laws aimed at protecting women are good for the country. A rather strange example of this is that police are not allowed to pull over a veiled woman who is driving a car at night. This law was passed because of several cases of women being harassed by a police officer when they were driving alone. The side effect of this law, however, is that now women abuse it, driving wildly at night because they know they cannot be stopped. Even men have taken advantage, wearing a headscarf so that they can drive recklessly without fear of repercussion.
I believe that creating laws to deal with the problems women face here – if, indeed, you even think they are problems – is not the solution. For passing laws may shape the institutional framework, but it does not address the societal structure, which is the true heart of the issue. Yes, any new laws that are passed still does not solve the basic question: Is this your true choice, or is it the family- and society-imposed choice?

A topic often touched upon in my Arab Women Writer's class was that women in our novels, and in real life, do have choices. The course of their lives is not written in stone. Yet even their 'choices' are confined within the societal structure they themselves are born and bound into.
Once, Dr. Rula needed to hold class on a Saturday to make up for a previous missed class. One of her female students walked into class that day with a five-year old boy. Dr. Rula, confused, asked the student who the little boy was and why he was there. "He's my brother," the girl said. "My dad wouldn't let me leave the house without a male escort."

MEN are dominant here, in every way imaginable. For the first time in my life, the majority of the stores sell only men's apparel. Men rule the public domain, and they are also masters of the house. And yes, they are the escort and guardian of us women, members of the feebler sex.
I'm currently living in a homestay that is scarily reminiscent of the storylines from my novels. My host mom exists to serve my host father. He doesn't move a muscle to help himself. Ever. If he needs an ashtray that is two inches away from him, my host mom will get up from her seat across the room to put it in his hand. He doesn't answer the phone. He doesn't cook. And he certainly doesn't thank my host mom for all that she does for him. Because in his mind, woman exist to serve the whims of men. Woman are not equal to men.

Women are defined by men. At my all-women's gym, there is a sign on one of the walls that lists the top ten reasons why women should exercise. The number one reason is to please your husband. (Other reasons include so that you can chase after your kids and so that you can make your friends jealous; the idea of personal health isn't listed).

So what can be done to change the society so that women may at least live marginally improved lives? In my class, we talked a lot about 'solutions' to the failure of feminism in the Arab World. Historically, feminists have approached the issue from all numbers of backgrounds; Arab feminists have been Marxists, radical Muslims, 'Western', and even in some cases male. Yet all groups have had limited success.

As a result, there is a debate within the community about whether feminism is even relevant for Arab women. Is that why feminism has never made great strides in the Arab world? Have these women simply been brainwashed by the Western imperialists? And that is the biggest criticism of feminists: no matter how they approach the issue, they are accused of being 'Western', or worse, 'American'.

I believe that feminism is relevant to Arab women, but it must not come through a Western filter. The feminist revolution needs to be homegrown, and in my opinion should come from within Islam. But will this happen, or is it a pipe dream? This part of the world needs many revolutions of many different stripes, and I'm not sure if a feminist revolution should be first. In fact, the 'inshallah' (if God wills), external locus of control, culture may not ever succeed in revolting against their oppressors—be they men or Israel or an imported monarchy that gives Wahhabists free reign—because they are passive. Sure, they complain about their fate a hell of a lot, but no one really does anything about it, because what happens happens, and it only happens if God wills it to happen. I hope that someday women (and men) here will unite to take action, because the simple truth is: there is a big problem, and it needs to be solved.