There is a stand. Maybe it’s marked by a booming black mic, a large maple podium, some tape on the carpet, an etch in the dirt. Perhaps it’s nestled under chandelier tears, framed Arabic verse, low sullen ceilings, or brisk open breeze. There is a voice. Maybe it’s English, Arabic, a combination, or none of…
The Toll of Muslim Masculinity: How It Is Pondered, Practiced, Perpetuated – and Poisonous
By Zoha Qamar