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.

When I started reading Cassandra Speaks I was shocked.  This is the book I wanted to write for the longest time.  All the thoughts swimming in my head for the last few years have been cheating on me with another woman, Elizabeth Lesser, an American author living on the East Coast of the United States. Unlike me, Elizabeth decided to write these ideas down for the world to see. And boy, are they worth seeing.  There is nothing more satisfying than a book that points to the everyday world around you and says: have you ever seen it this way? When you’ve finally finished the book you’re reborn with new eyes, and there’s no way to go back to the way you used to see again. Cassandra Speaks is one of those books. Blaming Eve Cassandra Speaks, simply speaking, is about stories. It’s about the stories that society tells that end up becoming culture. What point of view are these stories written from? And do they represent how both women and men view humanity, or are they biased?  To what extent do the stories that we learn as children and hear again and again as adults in different forms all around the world shape how we view the world, and how we view ourselves? The book is divided into three sections: Origin Stories, Power Stories, and because this is not a series of complaints about how the world is, the third section is called A Brave New Ending: A Toolbox for Inner Strength. How many of the stories we use to explain the world and ourselves are written from a male perspective?  In the first section, Origin Stories, the author looks at spiritual parables and mythical tales such as Adam and Eve, Pandora’s box and the myth of Cassandra and the princess of Troy. Elizabeth revisits the moral of every story, the one we have been taking for granted, and then sheds light on what it’s really telling us as adults and as children. For instance, Eve was second born, first to sin. She is blamed for bringing Adam down from the heavens. Therefore, our society’s origin story is based on blame; blaming Eve for her curiosity, for wanting more, for breaking the rules. How would things be different if “humankind’s first big mistake wasn’t to follow the lead of a woman?” How would the world change if our origin story was less about blaming others and more about being responsible for ourselves as well as each other? How many of the stories we use to explain the world and ourselves are written from a male perspective? Although that is necessary, are our human stories missing the necessary other half? The author calls for us to truly examine this and imagine what is missing. Because just as Lesser says so herself, the entire story of humanity changes when women are storytellers. To tell stories about the prophet’s women as normal women, the author, a scholar with a doctorate from the Al-Azhar University, could not reveal her true identity. Wonderman in a dress © Rada Lewis In the second section, Power Tales, we move into the modern world, the world of novels and movies. Elizabeth looks at how society defines power through the fiction it produces. Power is always about physical strength, dominance, military weapons, blood and beating, fighting and winning.  Even when women are taking on more leading roles in movies, they are doing it in a similar fashion to men, like women superheroes punching and shooting in skin tight outfits and high heels. As I read this I was nodding my head. I remember watching the first Wonder Woman movie and thinking: why does it feel like she is Wonderman in a dress? Is there only one expression of power, as physical superiority, and is this how women express their own power naturally? The author takes on this question with a full treatment that is worthy of your attention.  It is time that we all question the old narrative of power and take part in recreating a new modernized version.   © Audrey Helen Weber How, you ask?  The third part starts with a powerful quote: “When we deny our stories, they define us.  When we own our stories, we get to write a brave new ending.” The quote follows with practical advice on how you can start writing and rewriting what is missing from the stories of our values and society and what you already know in your bones to be true. Even though I believe that the ideas in the book are universal, and that the author goes out of her way to be inclusive of many cultures, it is definitely centered on western mythology and Judeo-Christian parables and tales.  When I was reading it I wondered again and again which stories would the author have chosen from the Arab story repertoire if she had made an effort to research what is left of it today. Is it ludicrous to be included in a book containing stories from Europe, Africa and India?  When I was reading it I wondered again and again which stories would the author have chosen from the Arab story repertoire if she had made an effort to research what is left of it today. Is it ludicrous to be included in a book containing stories from Europe, Africa and India?  A dangerous thing © Hayv Kahraman Thinking of stories about women from the Arab world in this context reminded me of a triad of books given to me by my grandfather as a teenager. They were about the prophet’s wives and daughters and mother.  I did not understand most of what I read but I was so curious about them.  Their author wrote under a pseudonym, which captured my imagination: “The daughter of the Beach” she called herself. When I asked why she couldn’t use her own name I was told it was because she was telling unconventional stories about the prophet’s women, not as ideal women who are obedient, pious and without fault, but as normal women: competitive, emotional, political, and outspoken.   And that was a dangerous thing. To tell stories about the prophet’s women as normal women, the author, a scholar with a doctorate from the Al-Azhar University, could not reveal her true identity. I wonder now after reading Cassandra Speaks, how deeply did that simple fact seep into my child persona and form who I am today?  How much of the stories you heard when you were growing up seeped into yours? © Samanta Tello I loved reading this book not only because of its feminist inclination or its entertaining stories, but also because it was truly an enjoyable read.  The author avoids academic theories although she is obviously versed in them, and approaches every point gently with kindness and grace. She leans on stories from her own life, and ones she heard over the years from people who attended the Omega Foundation, which she founded. It makes every point more accessible whether you are seventeen or seventy. Every chapter feels like a conversation you are having with an old friend over coffee in the kitchen, a friend who only wants to share instead of show off and guide instead of teach. The pages turn over on their own one after the other, and you think you are reading stories, and stories about stories, but when you put it down you realize you can’t get it out of your head.  You walk away transformed, and dare I say, even slightly empowered.