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flauntpage · 6 years

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The Nike Hijab is Either a Milestone or a Setback for Muslim Women

On December 1, the Nike Pro Hijab landed in the sports section at Macy’s. It can now also be found on Nike’s website and at other retail outlets. The release of the Nike hijab—the first sports hijab sold by a global brand—could be viewed as the culmination of an ad-hoc, grassroots movement inspired by Muslim women.

Three years ago, FIFA, the international federation for soccer, responded to an outcry from women’s organizations, as well as pressure from the United Nations, to lift its ban on head coverings. This past May, FIBA, the international federation for basketball, followed suit after Indira Kaljo launched a social media campaign that generated more than 130,000 signatures. Last year an American athlete competed on the Olympic stage wearing a hijab for the first time. Ibtihaj Muhammad took bronze in team saber.

“Anyone who has paid attention to the news would know the importance of having a Muslim woman on Team USA,” she told Time. “It’s challenging those misconceptions that people have about who the Muslim woman is.”

Nike has trumpeted the release of the light, stretchy, breathable headscarf with trendy black-and-white ads showcasing female Muslim sports stars. It has also released a video showing five female Muslim athletes who have achieved international success. The video is entitled “What Will They Say About You?”

It’s a legitimate question, and there’s no clear answer.

On social media, the response to Nike’s hijab has been mixed. The issue is not one of quality or style, but, rather, of cultural significance. Depending upon who’s doing the viewing, it becomes a symbol of empowerment, or of oppression. Or both.

Right or wrong, throughout the world, women and men take issue with Islamic dress. In the Islamic countries of Iran and Saudi Arabia, women are forced to cover their heads and bodies in public. But in France, a fiercely secular country, face coverings are banned—and the government continues to debate the use of hijabs, or headscarves. In New York City, six Indonesian designers presented headscarves and full-length abayas as part of their collections at Fashion Week in September. One of them, Vivi Zubedi delivered a message to the U.S. president.

“Mr. President,” the designer said in response to Trump’s attempts at restricting immigration from certain Muslim countries, “We are all the same, it’s about humanity.”

Competitive figure skater Zahra Lari, a practicing Muslim from the United Arab Emirates, views the Nike hijab as a step toward inclusion. One of Nike’s product testers and top endorsers, she is the first skater from the UAE to compete on the international circuit—and the first to wear the hijab on that grand stage. But, for Lari, the road to free expression hasn’t been entirely smooth. In 2012, at the European Cup, held in Canazei, Italy, she lost points because her headscarf failed to meet the approved dress code. She later met with officials of the International Skating Union and convinced them to allow the headscarf. Now Lari takes to the ice in a Nike hijab.

“[Nike] is a world class sports brand and to have them support Muslim women in sports is fantastic,” she wrote via email. “I cannot speak for anybody else’s opinion, I can only say that there are women that suffer from many forms of oppression all over the world, regardless of religion. I feel that the Nike Pro Hijab is about sport and athletics, and it is my honor to work with them.”

Lari, it should be noted, chose to wear the hijab at the age of eight. In Iran and Saudi Arabia, women who choose otherwise do so at the risk of beatings and imprisonment—a fact that forms the basis for some critics of Nike’s hijab.

Shenila Khoja-Moolji, a visiting scholar at the University of Pennsylvania, wrote in Al Jazeera that Nike, among other companies marketing these kinds of products, is selling “an imagined feeling of inclusivity to Muslim girls who often do not experience it in their daily lives.” She warned that this type of “tokenistic inclusion” could distract from serious conversations about social reform and reduce Muslims to a target market.

Iranian journalist and human rights activist Masih Alinejad was born in Iran and now lives in the United States. She’s the creator of the #MyStealthyFreedom and #WhiteWednesday campaigns in which Iranian women dare to upload images of themselves, sans hijab. Alinejad applauds Lari and Nike for helping the Muslim minority in America—but she also believes it could normalize oppressive behavior by regimes such as the one in Iran.

“If you want Islamophobia to disappear, you have to condemn any oppression that’s happening in the name of Islam,” she said. “[The Islamic Republic of Iran] is not only forcing women in Iran to wear hijab, they’re also forcing all international athletes to do it when they compete in my country. So it’s a global issue. That’s why I think you have to recognize the other side, the people who are forced to wear it. The government of Iran is saying, look, even Americans do it. [Nike] is normalizing hijab, and now [Mattel] is releasing a Hijab Barbie. Don’t they know that our government uses this dress code to oppress its own women?”

The laws are spelled out in Iran’s Islamic penal code. Article 638 dictates that “any one in public places and roads who openly commits a [sinful act], in addition to the punishment provided for the act, shall be sentenced to two months’ imprisonment or up to 74 lashes….Women who appear in public places and roads without wearing an Islamic hijab shall be sentenced to ten days to two months’ imprisonment…. Any vehicles carrying women without a hijab…will also be impounded and held in judicial parking lots.”

Alinejad said she believes that athletes who choose to wear the hijab should acknowledge that simply being able to make the choice is a privilege. “[I’d like to hear them say] that while they can choose to wear hijab, they know that millions of their sisters in some Muslim countries are forced to wear it,” she said. “Iranian women are getting punched in the face, put into prison, and getting lashes just because they say no to hijab. Those athletes should make it explicit that they stand for freedom of choice.”

Kulsoom Abdullah, a Pakistani-American weightlifter who grew up in the United States, chooses to wear the headscarf for what she calls “personal spiritual reasons.” Like Lari, she has had her struggles gaining acceptance. In 2010, she was prohibited from participating at the American Open while wearing Islamic dress. Only after she launched a social media campaign, which gained worldwide attention and received support from the Council on American-Islamic Relations, did USA weightlifting modify its policy on athletic attire. In 2011, Abdullah represented Pakistan at the World Weightlifting Championships, and became the first woman to compete wearing a hijab. She continues to participate while wearing a headscarf, long-sleeve shirt, and pants.

“Other women in positions of authority wear it. It’s something that’s already out there.” But Abdullah was quick to point out that she hasn’t gone through what Alinejad and other women in Islamic countries have experienced. “I grew up here [in America],” she said. “I was raised Muslim, but I was never forced to wear the headscarf.

“It’s not fair to make a woman wear it,” she added. But in marketing a sports hijab, she does not believe Nike is condoning mandatory headscarves.

All Nike is doing, after all, is fulfilling its own mission. It’s making money. Determining the cultural significance of its products is up to the rest of us.

The Nike Hijab is Either a Milestone or a Setback for Muslim Women published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

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amtushinfosolutionspage · 6 years

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The Nike Hijab is Either a Milestone or a Setback for Muslim Women

It’s a legitimate question, and there’s no clear answer.

“Mr. President,” the designer said in response to Trump’s attempts at restricting immigration from certain Muslim countries, “We are all the same, it’s about humanity.”

http://ift.tt/2j1yZwc

“Not to disagree with [Alinejad], but I don’t think Nike is normalizing headscarves, only because they’re seen in other places,” Abdullah said. Before the Nike hijab became available, athletes could buy headscarves from small, Muslim-owned companies such as Asiya, Friniggi, and Capster. “Other women in positions of authority wear it. It’s something that’s already out there.” But Abdullah was quick to point out that she hasn’t gone through what Alinejad and other women in Islamic countries have experienced. “I grew up here [in America],” she said. “I was raised Muslim, but I was never forced to wear the headscarf.

“It’s not fair to make a woman wear it,” she added. But in marketing a sports hijab, she does not believe Nike is condoning mandatory headscarves.

All Nike is doing, after all, is fulfilling its own mission. It’s making money. Determining the cultural significance of its products is up to the rest of us.

The Nike Hijab is Either a Milestone or a Setback for Muslim Women syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6

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frankcastorf-blog · 7 years

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Annie Laurie Daniel

Non Fiction Writing

14 November 2016

DBT: A dark comedy

(My Experiences in a women’s treatment facility)

Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, colloquially known as DBT, is a technique of therapy best described formally as: “a cognitive behavioral treatment that was originally developed to treat chronically suicidal individuals diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (BPD) and it is now recognized as the gold standard psychological treatment for this population. In addition, research has shown that it is effective in treating a wide range of other disorders such as substance dependence, depression, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and eating disorders.”

THE ONLY THING THAT ENERGIZES ME IS THINKING ABOUT MYSELF

The waiting room was harshly lit. My eyes were heavy and swollen, my throat sore from chain smoking on the curb minutes before and my nose dripping from remnants of DOC (drug of choice. DBT is filled with terms for all of our “trigger worthy” vices that land us in such intensive care.)The day after I graduated high school on June 12th, 2015 I was checked into a women’s residential treatment facility in Venice, California. I was eighteen, manic depressive and fresh off of a two year stint influenced by cocaine, harmful and traumatic sexual relations, liaisons and experiences and an overall toxicity that had me fifty-one-fiftyed too many times. A kind therapist and intake specialist had a thick clipboard with all of my information. I was crying, cold, and thirty pounds lighter than I am today. She went through a series of questions required for all intake’s into residential facilities. “Date of Birth?” “March 11th, 1997.” She paused. “Does that mean that you are seventeen?” No, I shook my head. It felt like a pumpkin that had been smashed by angry preteens, orange and rotting, seeds spilling out all around me. “I just turned eighteen.” She continued. “When was the last time you did a DOC and in what quantity?” The night before there were fifty of my classmates packed into my house in Bel Air. We had graduated from Le Lycée Français de Los Angeles less than 24 hours ago. I remembered all the thick white lines and the pink marble of my mother’s bathroom, several bottles of champagne consumed in my honor by myself, and the thick black smoke filled lungs heart and (soul?) before men used my body as their ashtray and I didn’t know how bitter other people and parts of myself could taste. Lonely and lost and very confused. Little to no self worth or inherent values or morals. Manic episodes weekly. Incredibly unstable, drug addicted, borderline alcoholic, uses sexual relations to fill the void and male figure left empty by absent father. “Cocaine and Alcohol, less than 12 hours ago. Moderate quantity.” She wrote it all down. “Why, aside from the obvious, are you here?” I remember shivering in that waiting room, although in the middle of June it must have been quite warm. She offered me a blanket and I accepted. Wrapped up like a baby. Poetry from the dirtiest of mouths makes them howl in delight. An atrocity committed for the amusement of others, a struggle to be heard amongst an unforgiving crowd. An attempt to connect to those who see the filth and hear not the words. “Sexual assault?” I nodded. “Suicide attempts?” A slower nod yes. “Well, then you’re in the right place.”

I checked into treatment alone while my family was on a two month vacation in India, many thousands of miles away. I checked out of treatment alone while my family was in France after their exotic adventure.

(The difference between a relapse and something you can get away with)

There’s something amazing about recovering addicts, regardless of the addiction. We were a small group of women in age ranging from eighteen to late fifties. We each had one roommate in separate room’s of two incredibly well kept houses on the West Side of Los Angeles. We weren’t allowed to use the phone or take a walk without permission from a “Community Consular”, one of the many qualified and over motivational 24/7 staff on location. We had curfews and set schedules and rules and requirements for every section of free time not spent in one of our many therapy groups including but not limited to: ACT (Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) is a unique empirically based psychological intervention that uses acceptance and mindfulness strategies), CBT (Cognitive behavioral therapy), Mindfulness, Art Therapy, etc. We were loaded into minivans and escorted everywhere we went. It was posh, expensive, exhausting. To be forced into a position and required to examine and evaluate your every flaw and how to potentially...fix it? Absurd. I was an adult, legally speaking, I knew that much. I had lived on my own since I was fifteen, I didn’t need to be babied at rehab. Silly thoughts from a silly girl. I was there for a purpose, for a reason. My extreme emotions that had fueled my art and every action I made in my life for years was now diluted and told to be quiet. Quiet your unquiet mind, someone is paying for you to get better. Someone is paying for you to be healthy and function. I didn’t want to be functional, and I’m not sure I wanted to be alive. Life can be a cunt with its whirring wheels, wheels that are not intact but never stop. That's not to say that there have not been sweet moments among the bitter and alone. There have been sunny afternoons and sleepy mornings and nights that shake steadily until the sun rises. There has been wine poured and champagne kisses that were fucked out of me in baths and showers and beds all across Los Angeles and Paris. Tormented by a love that we cannot grasp. Too much love for the things that hurt us, that fill us temporarily with a feeling of purpose and meaning. Indulging in emptiness and romanticizing pain. Windows open, arms outstretched.

Some really cool people that i met and were really cool to me but the world was a huge dick to them

My roommate was Yasmine. She’s still one of my best friends to this day, the other night we went dancing in Lincoln Heights and drank Gin & Tonics and smoked spliffs and cigarettes in her apartment in Hollywood and laughed and cried about our time in Venice together. We are both Hollywood women, not meant to be confined by the ocean, the salt in the sea only wishes it could mirror the salt in our tears. We stopped crying out of sadness and started crying out of happiness over the summer. On June 15th, 2015 she barged into the house we resided in during those months by the saltless sea off of Lincoln and Rose and screamed “I’mmm baaaaack !” I hadn't met her yet, but she had been temporarily discharged after her insurance failed. 9 years older, 7 inches shorter, beautiful brown haired expat raised in Saudi Arabia with a similar manic depressive bipolar diagnosis as my own. It was love at first sight. We painted in the evenings, and we smoked in the mornings. We waited in line together twice a day outside of the “medicine chamber” where our beloved caretakers would sit patiently as we choked down our cocktail of numbing mood stabilizers and antidepressants and antianxiety and a few others just for fun. We gossiped until early in the morning about our lovers and our dreams and she read “Tropic of Cancer” out loud to me as I wrote her letters in French. The world was unkind to her in Burbank where she worked by day as a “creative assistant”. Men used her body as they used mine and left her strapped into hospital beds hazy and manic.

Ann loved frozen bananas. She was in her early fifties but looked a decade older. A mother of many from North Dakota, she was almost always silent, a woman raised in a time where women weren’t allowed to take up space with their bodies or minds, especially when they were as unquiet as her’s. There was a smoking bench at the facility, a beautiful stone slab covered with vines. I’ve never met an addict (recovered or in process of) that doesn’t smoke, aside from Ann. She would sit with us while we smoked on breaks between groups, our only vice still indulged. We would bitch heavily about our group leaders, our therapists and the many rights we no longer had, choosing to ignore the fact that we were there for a reason and had willingingly removed the toxic black tar from our eyes and hearts. While we blew out smoke and tap tap tapped our hands against our heads, legs and into the dirt Ann would quietly smile and nod. She knew the tax of being a woman too loud for the men around her. There was a girl my age that came into the program in hellfire. Court ordered, a self proclaimed sex addict, borderline personality queen high on compulsive lies. She would regularly reach into the freezer and eat Ann’s frozen bananas. Ann learned to yell when she confronted the frozen banana thief. The gang of gals was sitting in our usual smoking spot waiting to be driven in a godforsaken Honda Odyssey to Pottery Therapy off of Venice Blvd when Ann screamed for the first time, standing up for herself and her stolen frozen bananas. She doesn't deserve to have an abusive husband or resentful daughters. She deserves to live far, far away from Bismarck, North Dakota, with as many frozen bananas as she wants.

I miss myself a lot

I didn’t need help. I was older. I was mature. When I was fifteen my parents moved back to the east coast, the dirty south my father hailed from. My parents always hated LA. When I was fifteen my mother gave me the opportunity to live on my own. He was 56 when I was born, the last after several marriages and children, and he was deeply uninterested in my existence. I was a pet in my parents home. I didn’t have the brains that landed my sister at The London School of Economics, and it was clear I wasn’t going to be following in their path of super-lawyers. “Annie Laurie is such a hoot ! You know she’s an artist ?” I lived with a boy named Max in Hollywood, he was 21, Swiss-Ukrainian, would wear a thick pea coat and scarf even in July and rolled his own cigarettes as he waited for the mail. I went to Lycée and would illegally drive my mother’s BMW to school. It was a charmed life. Shortly after I fled for France for good, elated to be free of smog and freeways once again. I went to school and I took the métro or sometimes the bus. I had a lover named Anthony and I read lots of poetry and I got drunk on Tuesday nights and sometimes smoked hash. I didn’t do any drugs and I didn’t sleep around. I went to all my classes and I made films with my friends on the streets of Paris and I wrote in my diary and slept in on Sundays and kissed a lot of my friends for fun. Independence is earned. I thought that I had earned adulthood by living without my parents, cooking and cleaning for myself in a small apartment, I didn’t ever think I would be a manic, drug addicted, suicidal lady of the night. When I entered treatment I knew that I needed something, but there was no clear self diagnosis. I went back to Paris for a long weekend in May of 2015. Somber and skinny, my friends contacted my parents and suggested something dire needed to be done. I don’t remember that trip very well except for crying on the train from Rennes to Paris. I suppose that’s the trip that saved my life, but I guess I’ll never really know.

Leave me alone;

To be 14 in the south of France

Holding hands with a Romanian girl who I swore was my best friend and who’s name I cannot remember after 3 cocktails, 2 mimosas and a tall Pacifico.

She had black hair and a laugh that was pure. Her hand was smaller than mine, and we laughed while running through traffic in the streets of Nice, before there was terror and her passport rejected by Sarkozy.

I had my first wet kiss, my braces thick and my hair frizzy without my western appliances. I left my purse on a beach in Nice and lost my phone, wallet, and self esteem with a man much older, the first of many to come.

I remember drinking clear liquid that resembled rubbing alcohol but was purchased from a French man in a liquor store that merely mumbled “put in in your purse, don’t tell the police you bought it here.”

My first cigarette in the park, a Marlboro Menthol stolen from my sisters pack. Finally, feeling apart my of my culture. Many men have said “but you’re not really french, are you?”.

No, I was not born there. My parents are not French, one a blue blooded Boston bred heiress, the other a southern gentlemen that worked his way from nothing into deep wealth and the miscommunication and distance that comes with it.

But yes, I respond. Drunk, almost always, do you want to see my EU passport? My father always hated LA and I suspect he’s always hated me. I’m not resentful or angry at my parents. They provided me with so much……..opportunity. They allowed me to fend for myself with a platinum Amex. That was all they knew how to do, burried in their work and their lives. They were happy that way.

DEAR DIARY: (THE CLASSIC OVERSHARER) (ARE ALL ADDICTS OBSESSED WITH THEMSELVES LIKE ACTORS OR JUST ME) Friday, June 12th, 2015: It is over. I am empty and alone. I am aware that this is the best thing for me but I am sad and scared. I am so deeply sad. Saturday, June 13th, 2015: They say that the first few days are the hardest. I believe it. I’m not allowed to make phone calls or leave this building until tomorrow. Play the game and try and get better. It’s all I can hope for. There’s one woman I’ve met that said she has a finacé and a boyfriend and has been in and out of treatment for over a year. Her mother told me that I look like I’m coming from the stables or a barn. Sunday, June 14th, 2015: Whenever I sleep I have nightmares. Wednesday, June 17th, 2015: The mornings here smell like ocean and grass and nice wood. We don’t have mornings like this in Bel Air. It reminds me of when I was a kid in the south of France, when I was little and very happy to be alive. Tuesday, June 30th, 2015: Today I feel frustrated, untrusted, apprehensive, nauseated. How’s that for mindfulness?

A question commonly asked in mindfulness: “When do you remember feeling loved? Happy? What brings you purpose?” I remember not feeling loved for six months in Echo Park. He was a sculptor, how ironic, as if I wasn’t already made of stone. I wanted him to see the value in me beyond my pussy but as he so often told me “If I can’t commit to my art, how can I commit to you?” I remember not feeling loved outside of dirty punk shows, a place I once considered a community had left me behind as a groupie and nothing more. Now that some time has passed I’m lucky that I escaped those dark sweaty rooms alive, they had nothing to offer me but toxicity and cruel partners with hard hearts and fast fast fast fucking guitars. I remember not feeling loved on the métro from République, raining quickly, my body moving slowly. Are these memories of wasted energy and soulsucking relations and using my body to validate my very existence to all men and mostly myself the reason I was in this situation in the first place? Reflection is key for a good memoir. While I had plenty of time to reflect on every poor life choice and abhorred interaction I had gotten myself into, there’s plenty of thoughts and memories that are still absorbed in the pink cloud of recovery. Sobriety is a mystical concept to me still. I’m livid that cocaine was done in my bathroom in my house a few weeks ago while I slept ten feet away. Friends don’t mess with other friend’s addictions, but my comfort and safety wasn’t a priority when a crisp 100 dollar bill was passed around by my classmates. When I was seventeen I was sleeping with a heroin addict. He was tall and skinny and very mean. YOU DON’T REMEMBER TELLING ME YOU WERE IN LOVE WITH ME WHEN YOU WERE SPEEDBALLING ON HEROIN THANK GOD YOU DON’T REMEMBER WHEN I SAID THAT I LOVED YOU TOO. I had to pull him out of my bathtub when he was nodding off one night at a party. He was wearing a red silk kimono. The dye had started to leak and melt off of his robe like blood. It got all over me as I carried his lanky body into my bed. I locked the door and cried as I put my cheek to his chest, cheek to chest, cheek to chest to hear his heartbeat. I took bumps of cocaine every time I made sure he was still alive. This was my senior year winter formal after party. I remember feeling very alone as I smoked a cigarette in my room waiting for him to wake up. The sun rose, and he eventually rose with it. Gave me a kiss on my face, did a bump of blow, and called a friend for a ride home. “You’re a good girl, Annie.” I nodded. I was a good girl, indeed.

Cocaine changed me in a way that I really liked. I lost a lot of weight and I sure did feel great ! Everyone I knew was a casual user. Most people I know still are. My year and a half sobriety is on December 12th, and I’m getting a cake. You can have some if you’ve never done coke in my house (most of my friends and one of my roommates did not pass this test.) I was aggressive and really happy at parties. I made myself vomit and I felt sublime. I slept through classes and broke into the bathroom at school to stop my bloody noses. I was happy to “function so well on such a great drug.” I had the money for it so I was fine. I was a compulsive liar, and so were all of my friends. I was satiated in my own misery and musically masturbated to my own crash. No one was stopping me, and the numbness that I lived in was far more enjoyable than living in a mediocre emotion of existence. Mundane rituals of Dicté and SAT prep were interrupted when punk boys in beat up cars would pick me up in Culver City and fuck me in dirty apartments in Santa Monica before taking me home to Bel-Air. I really missed my room in France. They didn’t like me talking about it very much. My connection to my home was pretentious and I was a bore. Cocaine made me interesting and more importantly, desirable (the drug and my constant possession of mass amounts kept my musicians happy and unkind.) I had shitty friends and no support system and no stability and that is the end of that.

THINGS MY MOTHER HAS TAUGHT ME:

NEVER TAKE YOUR PURSE OUT AT THE PIGALLE METRO STOP

HOW TO DRINK WINE WITH DINNER (AND AFTER DINNER AND BEFORE)

HOW TO REGULATE AND RESTRICT EATING. THE ONLY ACCEPTABLE CALORIES ARE THE ONES IN YOUR MARTINI

GUILT TRIPS

THINGS MY MOTHER NEVER TAUGHT ME:

HOW TO FORGIVE OTHERS AND MYSELF

HOW TO LOVE SOMEONE, FUNCTIONALLY

PUSSY IS SACRED, DICK COMES FOR FREE.

The first time I was raped was April 2015. Outside of a party in Palm Springs during Coachella weekend, I waited for my Uber. I was there with a man I had met at a party, we flirted a little and did lots of cocaine. That was it. It was warm out when a stranger pushed me against the side of a truck, pulled my pants down, and fucked me. I was in shock. I didn’t start crying until the next day, when my friends abandoned me at the festival. Alone, I drove home. Pussy is sacred, dick comes for free. It comes when we don’t want it. Now we live in a time where over wine me and my best friends talk about the first time we were raped instead of first kiss stories. Losing a part of myself the second time I was raped by an older student at CalArts, the third time I was raped by my older boyfriend the fourth fifth and sixth times I was raped and I started losing count. When my mother was seventeen in 1973, driving outside of Portland, Oregon her Jeep broke down. While she attempted to fix it herself, two men in their 20’s pulled over and offered to help her jumpstart her car. Instead, they took turns raping her on the side of the road. Against her car. Like mother like daughter, raped by strangers in the night. Strange men with fast hands and a female timidness that won’t leave my bones after years of instruction to smile and make eye contact and be friendly and inviting. Pussy is sacred, so sacred men are willing to do anything to take it from you. Sometimes people don’t believe that you were attacked because they saw you arrive and leave the party together, regardless of the fact that your dress was broken and you were falling everywhere and couldn't open your eyes and your shoes had blood on them and he said that we was going to take you home. He said he was going to take me home. He told my friends he was getting me water and would clean the blood. I hope my blood stained his sheets I hope it never washed out. He said that red was his least favorite color. Funny, because there were dashes of it everywhere (RED LIKE my blood my hair my blood my hair my blood my hair).

I could write about why I ended up where I did and how I got started and the first line I ever did and the first manic episode I ever had and every infuriating moment spent being babysat and driven around in a Honda Odyssey and all the things I couldn’t talk about and all the things that I did anyways. How my art is fueled by my traumas and elations. But for now this is enough and I am enough as I am at least for today. I hope you enjoyed your stay. Cumbacksoon.

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flauntpage · 6 years

Text

The Nike Hijab is Either a Milestone or a Setback for Muslim Women

It’s a legitimate question, and there’s no clear answer.

“Mr. President,” the designer said in response to Trump’s attempts at restricting immigration from certain Muslim countries, “We are all the same, it’s about humanity.”

“It’s not fair to make a woman wear it,” she added. But in marketing a sports hijab, she does not believe Nike is condoning mandatory headscarves.

All Nike is doing, after all, is fulfilling its own mission. It’s making money. Determining the cultural significance of its products is up to the rest of us.

The Nike Hijab is Either a Milestone or a Setback for Muslim Women published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

0 notes