Muslimah Stories

Hamza didn’t leave his room after that Friday afternoon. The door clicked shut behind him, and he stayed there, the walls pressing in, the air thick with his own silence. Her scream—Rida’s scream—still rang in his head, but it wasn’t just that. It was her ankle under his hands, the oil slick on his fingers, that pale stretch of skin he’d seen when her abaya lifted. Two, three inches, maybe—nothing to most people. Everythi...

(Hamza) Hamza, a 19-year-old Muslim boy from Afghanistan, was a product of both faith and culture, not just raised within them, but shaped by them. In his world, religion wasn't a part of life — it was life. From the moment he could walk, he understood what was haram and what was halal, what was shameful and what was pure. In his home, modesty wasn't a suggestion - it was a law, an unspoken yet absolute rule woven into th...

‘Asr Menos, a thin, rat tail of a man, glared at the hijabi, arms across his chest. He wore the same expensive tunic every day, thinking it made him look important, but deep down he was as dirt poor as everyone else in Bethlehem these days. He kept glancing at the altar to Zeus and Athena in the back of his stall, making sure the lamp was still lit. “It’s a sizable hole, Menos, what do you expect me to do?” Siroun demande...