A Vision of Muslim Womanhood Rooted in Revelation and History
In our age, the words "feminine" and "masculine" have become entangled with cultural images that owe more to fashion and custom than to any sound principle. Where once a girl who preferred sport to sewing was merely called a "tomboy," today children question their very created nature because they do not conform to invented norms of what a boy or girl should be. Muslims, in confronting this confusion, have too often responded by clinging to a rigid binary of behaviour, imposing it upon all men and all women, and claiming religious sanction for it. Meanwhile, the "status of the Muslim woman" has been tossed from speaker to speaker like dough in the hands of many bakers: some forbid women the mosque, some urge them to surrender their God-given rights to financial independence, and others stray far from tradition by denying the obligation of ḥijāb and calling women to defy the fiqh altogether. Amidst this, women of faith are left asking: who am I, and what does my womanhood mean before Allah? The way forward is to set aside inherited assumptions and to look instead to the women mentioned in the Qur'an and to Muslim women across the centuries, so that a model of femininity may be drawn from Muslim women themselves.
Much of what passes today as "feminine" is in truth a foreign import. During colonial rule, Western governments and missionary schools carried their notions of womanhood into Muslim lands. Their image of the delicate, fainting woman stood in sharp contradiction to the courage of Ṣafiyya bint ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib (may Allah be pleased with her), who was known for bravery in battle, yet it seeped into local cultures nonetheless. The orientalist fantasy of the "harem" distorted what was in reality the ḥaram—a private space where women gathered freely to work without need of ḥijāb, for no men were present. After the Second World War, America invented the suburb, and social workers, as has been observed, "looked suspiciously on active extended-family networks." This dismantling of the extended family, alongside the imposition of a single narrow ideal of womanhood, brought grievous consequences: emotional needs left unmet, women's support networks dissolved, and the notion born that "women's work" was housework and "men's work" the office—a distinction the Prophet ﷺ never taught. When women later fled this emptiness into the workplace, they adopted, as one observer noted, "the acquisitive, competitive values" that turned them into "clones of men," and femininity itself came to be equated with weakness and failure. If the domesticated ideal is a false one, then the Muslim must not adopt tropes she did not define; rather she must return to the Qur'an and Sunnah.
The Qur'an is not empty of women. Within its pages we meet the single mother in Maryam (peace be upon her), whose confidence in her Lord was such that she instructed even her uncle the prophet, saying of the provision she received, "…Indeed it is from God, God provides for whom He wills." Alone in her labour, she was comforted by angels and a tree of fruit, and returning to her shocked people she relied not on flight but upon a miracle—the infant who spoke. In her we see courage, confidence, and commitment. We meet the married believer in Āsiya, wife of the tyrant Pharaoh who claimed, "I am your Lord, the Most High," yet she saved a child and held to faith regardless of her husband's cruelty. Alongside her the Qur'an mentions the disbelieving wives of Nūḥ and Lūṭ (peace be upon them), so that we do not imagine womanhood is inherently saintly; men and women alike must choose belief for themselves. We meet Bilqīs, the Queen of Sheba, whom Ibn Kathīr praises for intelligence, resolve, and wisdom in her reply to Sulaymān (peace be upon him), "It is as though it is the very same"—a capable ruler whose marital status the Qur'an leaves unmentioned as irrelevant to her faith and leadership. We meet the wife of al-ʿAzīz, who was overcome by desire yet came to repentance, confessing, "Yet I claim not that my soul was innocent—surely the soul of humankind incites to evil—except inasmuch as my Lord had Mercy." And we meet Zaynab bint Jaḥsh (may Allah be pleased with her), the divorcée whom Allah honoured with the words, "We joined her in marriage to thee," teaching that divorce is no mark of a failed woman.
Many others appear as well: the woman who complained in Sūrat al-Mujādila, Ḥawwāʾ (20:117, 2:30–38), the daughters of Lūṭ (15:71), Sārah (11:71–72), the mother of Mūsā who obeyed direct inspiration (28:7) and his sister who returned him to her (28:12–13), the wife of ʿImrān devoted to God, the Mothers of the Believers (33:28–34), the Prophet's daughters (33:59), and the wife of Abū Lahab, deserving punishment for her abuse of the Prophet ﷺ (111:4–5). If we were to define femininity by the Qur'an, we would speak of confidence, courage, and commitment—qualities disconnected from social or familial rank, and connected instead to God. Femininity, seen thus, is strong and powerful.
This same spirit is embodied in the lived history of Muslim women. Foremost stands ʿĀʾisha (may Allah be pleased with her), a historical anomaly whose contribution became part of the foundational canon of Islamic learning, who lived nearly fifty years after the Prophet ﷺ and founded a line of female scholarship unknown among other faiths. She and the wives of the Prophet ﷺ were named ummahāt al-muʾminīn by Allah: "The Prophet is worthier of the believers than themselves, and his wives are their mothers." The word umm is kin to ummah and imām, joining the meanings of community and leadership—for the imām stands in front, and so the mothers stand before the coming generation.
Her inheritance passed down through the centuries: ʿAmra bint ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, student of ʿĀʾisha, whose juristic opinion overturned a judge's ruling; Nafīsa al-Ṭāhira of Egypt, teacher of Imām al-Shāfiʿī; Fāṭima al-Fihrī, who fasted three years while founding the University of al-Qarawiyyīn in Fez; Malika bint Dāwūd, who granted an ijāza to Ibn ʿAsākir; Karīma bint Aḥmad al-Marwaziyya, the precise muḥaddith known as the "Shaykha of Mecca"; and Fāṭima bint Saʿd al-Khayr, who journeyed from China to teach in Damascus and Cairo. Six centuries, six women—none doubting their womanhood, all asking how best to serve their faith. So too Razia Sultan, Queen al-Adar al-Karima of Yemen, Bibi Raji of India, Queen Aminatu of Zaria, Mumtaz Mahal, the calligrapher Asma Ibre, and Nana Asmaʾu of Sokoto. And beyond individuals stood whole communities of women: the Otines of Uzbekistan who preserved knowledge under Soviet repression, the Aisyiyah of Indonesia founded in 1917, and the jingshi teachers and ahong elders of China who guarded Islamic learning for four centuries.
These women did not see themselves as women first, but as servants of the Merciful and inheritors of the Prophet's message. As Dr. Zainab Alwani has written, "nurturing the role of women in society is critical; they are the eyes of society that pinpoint the problem and help provide effective solutions." Their labour reflects the divine word: "Believers, men and women, are each other's reliable friends. They enjoin right and forbid what is wrong and establish prayer and give zakāh and obey Allah and His Messenger." Theirs was also a "mothering" of the ummah—rising by night and toiling by day to keep their child, Islam, alive—a courage and commitment far removed from Western images of docility. The question "What is woman's role in society?" is itself a product of globalized Western thought; the Muslim woman has instead asked, "What does society need from me?" and answered with power drawn from her faith. Standing in the shade of this legacy, she is called to enfold her community in that same commitment, courage, and service.