Issue 8 – 2010

Beyond the razor and melted wax: Our bodies are battlegrounds

Kim Makhlouf - January 6, 2022

Our bodies are battlegrounds, and our body hair is a feminist issue. We are told from a very young age that our body hair is “dirty”- that it must be removed. We are expected to be hairless temptresses, ready to be gazed at. Silent seductresses with hair-free skin. Even talking about our body hair is somewhat of a taboo. Such is grasp of the patriarchy, on our bodies, our choices, and our voices. Between shame and pain I was about 10 years old the first time I was shamed for my body hair. I had this one friend, exactly my age, who lived in the building next door. We spent a lot of time together riding bicycles and playing teachers and house, doodling on her large chalkboard. One spring evening, she and I went for our usual bike ride. I distinctly recall wearing a colorful pair of leggings and a sleeveless tank top. She looked at my armpits with utter disgust and said, “Aren’t you embarrassed with yourself?” I, of course had no idea, and you can imagine the sort of shame that abashes you when you only learn something you should already know. Our bodies are battlegrounds, and our body hair is a feminist issue. A short while later, I started removing every bit of body hair I could see and reach, nipping each follicle at the bud. You could almost say, I was traumatized into the practice that I quickly learned can be painful, time-consuming, and sometimes even harmful if not done correctly. So why are we conditioned to hate our body hair? According to Rebecca Herzig’s “Plucked: A History of Hair Removal,” the modern perception of body hair being unwomanly may be traced back to Charles Darwin’s 1871 book “Descent of a Man.” Body hair was linked to “primitive ancestry and an atavistic return to earlier, ‘less evolved’ forms” in Darwin’s theory of natural selection, according to Herzig, a gender and sexuality studies professor at Bates College in Maine. The modern perception of body hair being unwomanly may be traced back to Charles Darwin’s 1871 book “Descent of a Man.” But before Darwin, hair removal can be traced back to 3000 BCE Egypt, India, and Rome. Ancient Egyptians even considered pubic hair “uncivilized,” resorting to a method quite similar to waxing. Known as the sugaring method (which remains popular to this day), women melted sugar by adding some water and the juice of a lemon in a pot. The mixture would then be cooled and molded into a paste that would be applied to the skin and ripped off. Needless to say, it was/is painful. © Downs Fast forward to the 19th century, Gillette introduced the Milady Décolleté, the first women’s razor, replete with its own rose velvet wrapping. Remington also released the first electric razor for women in 1940. In Islam, hair removal is mandated – within certain parameters. Women and men are expected to shave all their pubic hair before marriage. For men, it is important to keep the beard clean and kempt. Women have to go the extra mile and keep a clean-shaven body, repeating the process no more than 40 days at a time. So why is removing body hair more targeted towards women rather than men? To paraphrase Herzig, it has a lot to do with gendered social control… and also, it has a lot to do with what sells and those in positions of power who get to make the decisions over what it is that actually sells. Ugly hairs One of the first anti-hair campaigns was advertised in Harper’s Bazaar in 1914. As fashion was slowly evolving to expose women’s arms and armpits, going bare became the trend. Shaving later expanded to include legs. As nylon – a fabric used to manufacture pantyhose – shortages became more common during World War II, women were forced to maintain the hairless look that pantyhose once helped them achieve. And as the bikini made an appearance in 1946, women were routinely trimming pubic hair as well. Shave the kitty, Missy In the 1950s, Hugh Hefner’s Playboy magazine shifted the standards of feminine beauty. Erotic, clean-shaven, scantily-clad women, draped in very little lingerie pictured on magazine covers became the benchmark of beauty. Shave the kitty, missy, became the motto. Despite the wave of feminists that boycotted this trend in the 1960s and 70s, body hair and pubic hair removal, championed their way in many forms all the way to 2021, and the term Brazilian into our everyday vocabulary. One of the first anti-hair campaigns was advertised in Harper’s Bazaar in 1914. A Brazilian is a grooming service in which a woman’s pubic region is stripped bare of all its hair. Pioneered in the 1990s by seven Brazilian sisters living in New York, the Brazilian wax became a trend as more TV shows, models, and magazines standardized the look. Not only limited to waxing, the Brazilian later expanded to encompass razors, sugar (sukkar), epilator, depilatory creams and lasers to groom the pubic area. But is it popular in the Middle East? “I have had laser hair removal for almost two years now. Before that, I used to get my body professionally waxed, but I always shaved my bikini area myself, I was too shy to get it done by someone else,” Maha*, 20, from Qatar, tells me. “My mom never told [me and my sisters] to get our pubic hair waxed, so we always assumed we should shave instead. I don’t get uncomfortable doing it anymore. I’ve been doing it for ages with the same lady. She’s also a Muslim, the woman who lasers me, a hijabi.” According to Maha, women rush to get laser hair removal, especially of their nether region, right before they get married. Some women start almost two months before their weddings, which yields very little results, as laser is a long process, stretching over several months. © Exotic Cancer For Lina*, a 22-year-old Palestinian, it has a lot to do with self-esteem. “I used to get a Brazilian wax every three weeks,” she shares. “I like to be completely [hairless] down there, especially considering my active sex life. It’s just a preference. Otherwise, it just messes with my self-esteem.” The 2020 lockdowns forced her to explore other grooming methods, she says. “After the salons closed due to COVID-19 lockdowns, I had no choice but to shave. My mum was never aware that I used to get a Brazilian wax regularly; she doesn’t mind if I was shaving myself – in fact she used to buy razors for me and instruct me on safe shaving methods. It was however an issue of another woman touching my genitals.” Grooming her pubic hairs also depends heavily on her relationship status in terms of longevity and her partner’s gender: “When I am in a long-term relationship, I eventually get comfortable with my boyfriend seeing some of my pubic hair. If it’s a new relationship or random hookups, I stick to the fully shaven look. I also take my partner’s preferences into account as well.” Dating a woman definitely changed the course of her grooming choices and the types of conversations they have about body hair, she tells me. “I have a girlfriend now, and one time I felt uncomfortable getting intimate with her because I hadn’t shaven. She didn’t really care. Women partners differ to men from my experience,” Lina says. For Lamia*, her grooming preferences have changed with age: “When I was much younger, removing all pubic hair was such an important part of our young adulthood for me and my girlfriends, especially if we were in love or anticipating any sexual activity, including marriage,” the 47-year-old mother of one tells me. “Norms and taboos really differed from household to household. Not all the girls I knew had similar opinions or practices. I used to fully groom my pubic region, I thought it was an important variable that measured my attractiveness and how much my partners wanted me.” “I don’t groom for anyone else anymore, I do so for myself.” Now, Lamia says that her grooming choices depend on her needs and the mood she is in. “I don’t groom for anyone else anymore, I do so for myself. It feels better for me, more comfortable and more importantly, more hygienic.” As for her daughter, she says, “She has the power to make decisions regarding her body. I know many women and girls who don’t have much of that freedom and that is detrimental to a woman’s physical and mental health.” Boxes that we must overcome “’Body hair needs to be extracted. It’s a sign of cleanliness, [implying] waxing or shaving to beautify the areas with hair.’ [This] is drummed into women’s heads, that hair is ugly and needs to be removed,” says Myriam Sfeir, a professor at the Lebanese American University. In my conversation with her, Sfeir explains that often removing hair is not necessarily an informed choice, that women grooming their body hair is a result of societal pressures, gender norms and wrongful ascriptions to religion. © Jocelyn Runice “It’s part of the patriarchal system and its notions to fit women into the boxes they are supposed to occupy… Social media also plays a role in shaping opinions, as well as peer pressure. [You will] find mothers who instill that in their daughters, and others who are shocked by their daughters’ requests to remove pubic hair and body hair in general.” For me, grooming my nether region became second habit shortly after the afternoon biking incident with my friend. The shame I wanted to avoid was tied to how efficient I would become with the razor. How skillfully I would contour and “clean” around all the nooks and crevices. I am 20-years-old now – that’s a decade of grooming! When I asked my boyfriend about his grooming practices, he said the first Brazilian he gave himself was around the age of 16 or 17. I still think of growing a bush and taking it to the beach, but I haven’t grown that confidence quite yet. I have in my sexual life, to a certain extent. Maybe because I’ve been in a long-term relationship. But who knows? Maybe my bush will one day become a permanent part of my body I am no longer ashamed of. After all, whether one prefers the bare look or the bush, it is ALL about choice. A choice that only we women get to make about our bodies.

Dossier ,

Gender Fluidity taking Over Fashion

Carla Richa - February 21, 2022

Imagine walking into a department store that was not divided based on gender. There were no men and men and women collections, but one collection for all. That is the basic definition of the fashion industry becoming gender fluid. And that is where we’re heading, with more and more people choosing fashionable items while disregarding who the piece was initially created for. What is masculinity? Melissa Hajj, Lebanese designer for the upcoming brand C’est N’importe Quoi, explains how in school one of the first things they were taught was how Giorgio Armani created a suit for women in a time period when suits were only worn by men. He did this when women started entering the work field, and it shows how strongly society impacts fashion. “Gender neutral fashion is a reflection of a society that is becoming more inclusive,” Hajj says, highlighting the rapid changes we’re seeing right now in fashion. Many big names are challenging traditional fashion norms, such as Young Thug and Harry Styles, who have both become influencers and leaders in defining genderless clothing. “I think people are finally realizing that a lot of us don’t fall under two sexes and the gender roles each pertain to, and the easiest way to express that is through fashion,” says Maria Atik, fashion lover and enthusiast. “As someone who identifies as gender-fluid, my gender expression tends to shift along a spectrum,” she says. “The way I express that physically also shifts from day to day.” © Melissa Hajj Many big names are challenging traditional fashion norms, such as Young Thug and Harry Styles, who have both become influencers and leaders in defining genderless clothing. Harry Styles started his journey by walking down the red carpet at the Met Gala in women’s clothing, and later appeared on the cover of Vogue wearing a dress. “When you take away ‘there’s clothes for men and there’s clothes for women,’ once you remove any barriers, obviously, you open up the arena in which you can play,” Styles says in the interview with Vogue. Billy Porter, another fashion icon, adds to this argument by expressing how he wants to be a walking piece of political art. He says his goal is to challenge expectations. “What is masculinity? What does that mean?” Wearing items from the women’s sections This is where the split comes. When wearing a certain item of clothing, no matter what collection it belongs to, doesn’t have to be an expression of your sexuality, or characteristic of your sex. Fashion is a means of self-expression and isn’t limited to anything. Young Thug dropped his mixtape No, My Name Is Jeffrey wearing a dress by Alessandro Trincone on the cover. Later on, he mostly rumors about his sexuality and masculinity. He denied all the claims and explained his choice of clothing in an interview with Big Boy Neighborhood. The artist and designer of the dress both believe in androgynous clothing, clothing that combines both masculine and feminine characteristics. Trincone, Italian designer for Not Just a Label, writes in the biography for his latest collection, “Areinmi is dedicated to all the people I inspire and who, in turn, support me. Homosexuals, heterosexuals, neutrosexuals, students, all men and women of all ages.” The fashion industry is heading towards gender fluidity and androgynous collections, urging designers to focus on creating exceptional pieces for all rather than limit them to a certain group. The statement cover had nothing to do with the artist’s sexuality; yet that was the main focus. People were shocked to see a rapper wear women’s clothing. But he wasn’t the only one. In July 2019, Vogue wrote an article this issue titled This Was The Decade That Hip-Hop Style Got Femme. Today, we find ourselves asking: are these pieces still considered Femme? Or were they just picking out statement pieces? “Fashion is a statement, it empowers us, for instance, the impact of a garment is perceived differently from one individual to another, because it merges with our personality,” says Assaad Awad, Lebanese and Spanish multidisciplinary artist, commenting on the article. “It is way beyond gender and sex.” The fashion industry is heading towards gender fluidity and androgynous collections, urging designers to focus on creating exceptional pieces for all rather than limit them to a certain group. The future of fashion Separate collections for men and women won’t be needed anymore. People will simply choose an item because they like it without checking who it was targeted to, leading many designers to adapt to this shift in consumer behavior. © Vogue “When designing an item, you don’t think of the physical. You’re thinking of an idea and bringing it to life,” Hajj says. “It’s like you have a canvas in front of you, but instead of painting, you’re molding it on the human’s body.” She has been doing this since the start of her career. In her first collection, she played with the human shape eliminating the ability to recognize one’s form, curves, or sex. Hajj is not the only one who has followed this type of thinking. When Awad designs an item, he designs it for people. “I focus on the concept and impact of the piece itself,” he says. “I don’t target my designs thinking about a specific sexual orientation.” Fashion will always have a big influence on us and vice versa. Whether we are feeling extremely happy, or eager to prove a political point, fashion will always be a main means of expression. We’re slowly but surely reaching a time where limits will be nonexistent, especially in the fashion industry. Statement pieces are slowly becoming the new norm and fluidity is taking over. So, enjoy your outfit and never think twice if a piece catches your eye!

Cinema ,

The female gaze: a new view on women’s bodies in contemporary Arab cinema

Jamal Ouazzani - September 25, 2021

Nudity in Arab cinema has always been transgressive. Throughout the Arab world, female bodies on the big screen have been either plunged into invisibility or exposed as devilish and lascivious. This is why it is necessary to better represent their bodies as subjects rather than objects of desire and eradicate the ordinary male gaze. Wait, what? What is the male gaze? Visual pleasure and fantasy Since Laura Mulvey, a British feminist film theorist, published a groundbreaking essay on narrative cinema and visual pleasure in 1975, we understand the male gaze as the act of depicting women in visual arts from a masculine and heterosexual perspective. In cinema, it means that the director, the viewer, and sometimes even the actor are contemplating a woman’s body with lust and for their own pleasure. The way the camera shoots the scene inspired Freud to coin the term “scopophilia,” the visual pleasure of the spectator possessing the body he’s looking at. Indeed, the close-ups make the body closer to the public, as if it were merely inches away from touch. The camera movements are an incitement to touch the bodies. The king of the male gaze in France is Tunisian director Abdellatif Kechiche. In Blue is the Warmest Colour (2013) and in Mektoub, My Love – Canto Uno (2016), Kechiche perfectly demonstrates the way in which heterosexual men grasp women’s bodies and sexualities, the eye becoming a tool for arousal by the desire to feel the skin and even the desire to penetrate. With the female gaze, bodies appear without being restricted to what’s attractive and desirable for the man who stares at them. from The man who sold his skin by Kaouther Ben Hania Unfortunately, this is hardly new. In 1958, Egyptian film director Youssef Chahine had already centered his masterpiece Cairo Station around the male gaze as a vessel for sexual obsession. He used superstar dancer Hind Rostom, one of Egypt’s sex icons at the time, as an object of desire, luring the audience in by objectifying the body. More recently, Algerian director Nadir Moknèche opened Viva Laldjérie (2004) with a sex scene in which Lubna Azabal appears full-on naked, taunting the viewers when smoking her after-sex cigarette. Her body is both neutral and powerful since it’s a revolution in itself to see a naked female body on the screen. Needless to say, in predominantly Muslim countries, this scene is outrageous since it does not respect the boundaries drawn by the intimate body parts called awra ( عورة). Oddly enough, the etymology of the word awra in Arabic also refers to blindness, so awra is both the punctured eye and the sex organ. Century after century, Arab patriarchs have defined a women’s entire body as awra, which is why she must be veiled, thus protected her from men’s gazes. Nothing feminine should disturb or penetrate the male visual field. But the veil is an intricate phenomenon because it showcases while hiding, and in many instances, it has led to the hypersexualization and political obsession hinging around women’s bodies today. But the veil is an intricate phenomenon because it showcases while hiding, and in many instances, it has led to the hypersexualization and political obsession hinging around women’s bodies today. In most Arab movies, women’s bodies must not be seen in their birthday suits. But in due time, there has emerged another way of filming women’s bodies and it’s through the “female gaze”. The female gaze is no longer based on asymmetric power relations but on the idea of equality and sharing in the sexual act. French cinema theorist Iris Brey has shown that some conditions must be met to speak about a female gaze: the main character must narratively identify herself as a woman, the story must be told from her point of view, and her story must challenge the patriarchal order. Beyond the outdated, old-fashioned gaze In an Arab world plagued by censorship, the rise of political Islamism and revolutionary upheavals, female directors are trying to reinvent the way the body is viewed, beyond heteropatriarchy, beyond what Edward Saïd formulated as Orientalism, and beyond the colonial fantasies revealed by Joseph Massad in Desiring Arabs. The way the camera shoots the scene inspired Freud to coin the term “scopophilia,” the visual pleasure of the spectator possessing the body he’s looking at. https://jasad.hellotree.dev/wp-content/uploads/2021/09/From-As-I-open-my-eyes-by-Leyla-Bouzid-370×260-1-300×211.webp From As I open my eyes by Leyla Bouzid In the last decade, Maryam Touzani, Nadine Labaki, Mounia Meddour, Leyla Bouzid, Kaouther Ben Hania, Haifaa Al-Mansour, and countless others have used cinema to redeem the female body from their own point of view. Through this lens, the body can go back to just being a body. In I Still Hide to Smoke (2016), nudity is raw, without artifice; the naked body is no longer idealized, it is shown in its most realistic shape: stretch marks, curves, wrinkles, and other imperfections included. From I still hide to smoke by Rayhana Obermeyer Director Rayhana Obermeyer films naked bodies and yet the atmosphere is not sexually charged. It is a celebration of the natural female body composed of flesh, sweat, and even menstruation. It is a body bare of the layer of sexualization; it is just a body. Nonetheless, male directors can also have a stab at filming bodies with a female gaze. In L’Amour des Hommes (2017), Tunisian director Mehdi Ben Attia puts a camera into Amel’s hands (Hafsia Herzi) so that she can take pictures of sensual-looking men and reverse the patriarchal gaze. In recent years, Arab female directors have modernized the sexual representations attached to the female body. They have thus made it a vehicle for a political protest; a protest to reinvent women’s bodies by sexuality, by liberating dance moves, by bodily autonomy, or by self-determination. With the female gaze, bodies appear without being restricted to what’s attractive and desirable for the man who stares at them. Instead, we’re left to examine what’s really there: a body, with all its curves, edges, and imperfections, for once not seeking interpretation or proclivity. It is just there.

Testimonies ,

Our Fearless Fierce Force

Karen Saab - September 8, 2021

After my pitch to Jasad received the greenlight, I sat there finding myself unable to put into words the struggles I’ve had with my body. For years, those struggles were mine and I was as much a part of them as they were a part of me. But I found myself battling the demon that is writer’s block. I need to write about my heart, my years researching the profound effects the patriarchy has had on me, on the binaries of masculine and feminine, and the reinforcement of the status quo. But my pen failed me… Fear paralyzes us Maybe this magazine is not for me, a woman from Lebanon’ south in her late 30s; a woman who has struggled with her body throughout the entirety of her adult life. It is exhausting and nerve-wracking. It almost, dare I say, feels sinful to take to a platform that welcomes my trials and tribulations; a platform where I can voice all of my tired body’s struggles with a sexuality that I can only describe as checkered. But here I am dear reader and here you are. I am paralyzed with fear. As a woman who grew up in a conservative, predominantly Shia south, I see myself as a rebel for refusing to wear the veil I am paralyzed with fear. As a woman who grew up in a conservative, predominantly Shia south, I see myself as a rebel for refusing to wear the veil. But rebel is not how I am seen. In fact, my hair, bare arms and skin, have often been the center of attention for all the wrong reasons, putting my soul and personality on the backburner. I was not seen for who I was, but rather for whom or what I was perceived as in the eyes of others: an immoral, loose woman. © Maia Iva My body became my enemy. What I chose to adorn it with, what I chose to wear became a major hindrance to me. I chose to no longer wear tight clothing to work, dresses became off limits whenever visits to my pious uncle’s house were due. My thoughts attacked me: “Don’t show your bare arms when exercising on the corniche,” they said. “Who is going to take your seriously with those brightly colored nails and your long blonde hair?” I struggled with assumptions, with projections, with people readily believing the most preposterous ideas about me based solely on my unveiled hair and “immodest” body. I found myself on the losing end of a moral race, with no redemption in sight. I was losing respect for myself, for my body, for my feminist ideas. I was internalizing my community’s hatred and making it my own. I was internalizing the misogyny and everything that comes with it (after all, isn’t feminism just an excuse to be loose?). My body became my enemy. What I chose to adorn it with, what I chose to wear became a major hindrance to me. Strength in numbers It was the first of online staff meetings for the English department of Jasad magazine, and already, I was feeling out of place as I listened to our editor in chief Joumana Haddad discuss her vision of the magazine. © Wangeshi Mutu There I was, a woman on the verge of losing all convictions in the feminist cause, listening to a well-articulated female journalist who had spent decades fighting my fight – and making it look easy in the process, even though she, too, grew up in a very conservative family. Where does she get the strength to fight on? I almost opened my mouth a couple of times to ask her, to implore her to divulge her secrets: How do you go on when our world is hell-bent on telling us that we are only bodies? How do you claim your body and your sexuality as yours with no fear of judgment or retribution? I listened on, enamored, as more people voiced their thoughts on feminism, the body and sexuality, and I could feel myself growing stronger…healing, almost. I listened as my strong and beautiful coworkers voiced their ideas emphatically, confidently, with no hint of self-doubt. They too have struggled, like I have, but somehow, they powered through, undeterred. So I listened on, drinking them in, drinking it all in. I am not alone, my mind chimed, I am not isolated. There are people just like me, out there, who understand my struggle, and every woman’s struggle here. And now we have a voice, we have a platform, we have purpose. Alone, I was afraid, but together, we are a fearless fierce force to reckon with. I found my strength in numbers, and I now stand tall knowing I was never wrong for daring to claim this body as my own, in all its glory and shortcomings. Jasad Magazine’s mere existence gives me hope, a hope that will galvanize the new generation to change the oppressive status quo. The journey has just begun, and we will prevail. I am not alone, my mind chimed, I am not isolated.

Featured Artist ,

Antoine Fadel

Jasad - November 4, 2021

Ever since his entry into the film and media world, Antoine Fadel, born in Beirut in 1972 has managed to carve a stellar name in the art of photography. With two short films showcased at the Cannes film festival and over 20 years of experience in the world of media and films, Antoine’s journey has been filled with breakthrough moments, incredible projects, rare honors, and unforgettable collaborations. As a film director and producer with clients ranging from private to government sectors, he is highly competent and has a thorough understanding of the media and film industry, with a remarkable ability to transmit his message through visuals to reach all types of viewership. His skills encompass a bold grasp of aesthetics and extend to the incorporation of storytelling in his work. The body, according to Fadel, is “an element of expression and an engine fed with love, passion, and compassion.” With several certificates in film and TV production, and having attended training alongside the best directors of photography, Antoine enjoys nothing more than “constantly being a student.” He is driven by the relentless urge to always discover and explore.

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Claiming back herstory in Cassandra Speaks by Elizabeth Lesser

Re-shifting the focus on the clitoris