“We still need to invent the woman who belongs to no one”. This is how Leila Slimani concludes her book ‘Sex and Lies’, and, despite focusing on Moroccan society, her statement resounded greatly with me. When I think of where I gather my strength as a woman, it is greatly from my opposition to all sexist expectations imposed on me: whether it is regarding my sexuality, my career path, my aspirations. And, in a way, the fact that my identity relies so greatly on my opposition to the patriarchy reveals the control it still has over me. We are yet to achieve a state of independence detached from destructive patriarchal norms. However, there is hope. The bravery displayed by the fourteen women Slimani interviews as they talk about sex, virginity and men- all, in some way, countering the expected narratives imposed on them – is a token of this hope.
Moroccan society, as Slimani explains, is leading a double life. One which, in the public realm, preaches morality in sex, and, behind doors, is suffering from ‘sexual deprivation’. Where, everyone is having sex, but no one is talking about it. According to Slimani, this is, fundamentally, a method for the state to control the female body. Women are subjected to “severe social control”, and, in turn, are prevented from reaching a fulfilled existence, one which fosters individuality. The question of sex is urgent; sexual rights are human rights, they are “fundamental needs and rights that ought to be inalienable and guaranteed for all.” They are central to women’s rights. And, finally, the right to control our sex lives, to shape our own desire, to pursue pleasure, is a political right. The state of secrecy and guilt around sex is an impediment to individual freedom. As Zhor, one of the women Slimani interviews, puts it: “We are keeping people frustrated. That way, their primary concern is how and with whom they’ll get a screw instead of starting a revolution.”
I used to think of my virginity as something precious and hopeful – like a flower that was yet to bloom. While, in some ways, there is beauty in this perspective, the concept that female virginity is something that must be safeguarded as a representation of female worth is completely damaging. Slimani unpicks the many myths around virginity, boiling it down to an instrument of social control, “intended to keep women at home and to justify their surveillance at all times.” Because, lets face it: female virginity is mythologised to the point where male virginity becomes a non-event. The hymen is a symbol of our purity, of our goodness. It’s “the female body’s capital city”, as Abdessamad Dialmy explains. It must be protected at all costs, until a man breaks it and becomes the new owner of our bodies. As a result, the unmarried women on earth are either virgins or prostitutes, and the ‘virtuous woman’ is set to an impossible standard. Her sex life is enshrouded in secrecy, plunging her into a state of guilt over her sexuality. Because breaking out against the norm is a threat to her reputation, and, in some cases, her life, she remains stuck in this vicious cycle of submission.
This is harmful to Moroccan society. The male/female sexual relationship is reduced to a financial transaction, whether it is a man paying for the ownership of his wife, or a man paying a prostitute, or a couple paying off the police for having non-conjugal sex. However, Slimani underlines that this is not a Muslim phenomenon; it’s a political and patriarchal one. In fact, denouncing it as an ‘Eastern’ issue is exactly where the problem lies. The recent wars in the Arab world, such the war in Iraq, has led to a feeling of humiliation and resentment of western cultural hegemony:
“The feeling of being pushed into modernity and globalisation reinforces people’s determination to keep alive the patriarchy, a symbol of the identity that’s under threat. The realm of sex becomes the only space where men can exercise their dominance… by setting up a Muslim identity founded on virtue and abstinence in contrast to a western culture of depravity, we entirely deny our own cultural heritage.”
And so, women become the symbols of national redemption and of Moroccan identity. Putting women on such a high pedestal based on ‘purity’ hypersexualises them and creates an impossible standard. It’s harmful to men too, who are viewed as either protectors or attackers. As Nabil Ayouch explains, in treating women as “precious stones that must be protected from the malicious gaze of men”, men’s self-image is lost to a series of patriarchal clichés, cultivating a culture of violence, intolerance and confusion.
Despite the heart-wrenching reality that the women in Slimani’s book face, it is far from a depressing read. In fact, the bravery, honesty, and sometimes humour with which they approach the system that controls every part of their bodies comprise the core of the book. By simply talking about the most taboo subject in Moroccan society, they are helping to dispel the guilt women feel about being sexual beings. As Slimani argues, “emancipation […] is first about raising awareness. If women haven’t fully understood the state of inferiority in which they are kept, they will do nothing but perpetuate it”. And so, by articulating the unspoken, these women are, one by one, breaking down the walls that confine women to the fixed stereotype of the ‘pure’ woman. Little by little, women are taking up more and more space in the public sphere and taking responsibility for their sex lives and their pleasure. And that, the act of reclaiming control of our sexuality, is truly liberating.
By Tess Mallinder Heron.
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