Author: Alya Mooro

British-Libyan journalist and forthcoming author Shahed Ezaydi has written for some of the world’s best known publications on everything from politics to feminism and culture – and especially issues that are marginalised and under-reported. She is currently writing her debut book The Othered Woman: How White Feminism Harms Muslim Women, described as “an essential addition to the intersectional feminism discourse, centred on gendered Islamophobia.” Upon reaching 100% funding, the book will be published by  Unbound, a crowdfunding publisher behind the likes of Nikesh Shukla’s award-winning “The Good Immigrant”. 

Here, she talks to author and writer Alya Mooro about the negative impact of white feminism on women of colour and how it differs for Muslim women, specifically, what she hopes readers take from the book, what it means to her to be an African woman, and much more… 

What was your relationship with your heritage like, growing up?

It was complicated. I don't feel like I'm properly British, but I don't feel like I'm properly Libyan, either. When I was a teenager, I found it hard because I wanted to fit in with my friends, and people didn't really know how to navigate language and heritage back then… Well, they don't really know how to now [either], but [back] then it was always, ‘Where are you from? Why are you brown?’ People would just outright say it. I would never really say Arabic words around my white friends [before]. At school, I'd train myself not to slip up, whereas now – I've got two housemates in London – words do just pop out, like ‘Alhamdulillah’ and they know what these things mean. It's still a bit confusing, but I'm just going to sit in the confusion because I'm like, well, this is my life; this is who I am. I wouldn't change it. And I guess you can just have two homes.

You’ve written for some of the most well-known publications. When and how did you first get into writing?

I went to university to do Criminology. I thought I wanted to do something in public policy or government policy, and then really quickly changed my mind [but] did a master’s in it anyway, because I panicked. I've always liked writing but I never thought it was for me, because I never really saw anyone like me doing it. I thought I’d do it as a hobby, alongside a paid job. I got made redundant in the pandemic and started pitching [to publications] around that time. I was like, ‘Well, it's the pandemic, I'm still living at home, I'm not paying that much in rent to my parents…’ so I thought I'd give freelancing a go, and that's when it kicked off, really. I started pitching more and editors started to get to know me.

How do you think your identity and heritage have informed your work and the stories you're drawn to?

A lot of people say journalism should be neutral – and some of it should be – but a lot of the stuff I've written hasn't particularly been from a neutral standpoint. I think that's beneficial in the sense that – people like me and you – we have a perspective that, say, a white, cis, middle class man isn't going to have, and won't see the world in the same way. Your identity can play a part in informing how you tell a story and also how people tell stories to you. When I interview Muslim women, [for example], they don't have to explain bits of the religion because they know that I already get it, so we’re not wasting half the interview being like ‘This is why I pray,’ or [whatever]. 

There's this idea that journalism is supposed to be objective, but there's no such thing as objective, really…

They say that we’re coming from a place of bias, but like, literally the majority of journalists’ platforms in [the UK] are following an agenda of who owns that publication. Even BBC News, which is public funded, some of the stuff that they've put together… One of the recent ones was to do with Palestine and Israel and how they use ‘conflict’ language. It’s like, ‘Oh, this is neutral,’ but it's not neutral, is it? Because that's not what's happening and you're telling the news from a very specific standpoint. How is that any different from me telling a story or writing an article from my own identity or standpoint? Identity politics has definitely been weaponized by a lot of people, but it does inform how we tell stories, and I would never change that. Even if people say I've been pigeonholed, it is what it is.

Tell us about your debut book, The Othered Woman: How White Feminism Harms Muslim Women. When did you first realise that this was an important story to tell?

I've always been interested in white feminism as a concept. There have been a few books [on the subject] that have been really interesting, but I always noticed they use the vague term "woman of colour" – which works in that aspect, because we can talk about the consequences and the harms it causes in that sense. But I was like, ‘Well, white feminism has a very specific harm when it comes to Muslim women that isn't particularly covered in these books. How have we got to 2023 and gendered Islamophobia and white feminism haven't been analyzed together?’

Obviously, you’re writing an entire book about this, but can you give us some insight into what the negative impact is of white feminism on women of colour and how it differs for Muslim women, specifically?

There are basically all these stereotypes about women who aren't white. Black women have their own stereotypes; they're seen as aggressive [which leads to things like] crocodile tears. [For example], if a Black woman says someone has made a racist comment, [white women] jump to defensiveness so quickly, or they'll start crying. That's kind of the way they keep those myths going...

The white saviour complex kicks in more with Muslim women because the stereotypes are completely opposite. Someone like me, [for example], is seen as submissive, or silenced, or inherently oppressed, just because I'm Muslim. That's not a stereotype that's attached to other women of colour as much. They see a hijabi woman and they're like, ‘Oh, I bet her husband abuses her,’ or, ‘I bet she's been forced to wear the hijab…’ But then that white savior complex doesn't kick in when a Muslim woman is like, ‘If you guys are feminists, how about you help me fight for my right to wear [the hijab in France, or in any of these countries where they’ve placed restrictions on it], as freedom of choice?’ Then it's silence, because it doesn't fit in with their version of womanhood.

White feminism and white supremacy are so interlinked, and white womanhood and this version of Western womanhood is so imposed on everybody else, that it’s working all the time. That's why I wanted to delve into that, because there are specific harms, and those harms translate into justifying wars and justifying colonialism and the way that Islam has become ‘the enemy of the West.’

In an article, you wrote that it's offensive to link misogyny to one religion. Can you tell us a bit about what you meant by that?

[Basically], people view Muslim men as having a very unique version of misogyny, which is different to all other men's misogyny because of the fact that they're Muslim. And yes, the thing with Muslim communities is that some Muslim men have co-opted Islamic language to further their own misogyny. It doesn't help the fact that white feminists are then like, ‘Look! We told you so!’ But then you've got people in America who are doing all these shootings, and a lot of these guys are incels and misogynists, but then people are like, ‘Oh, [they’re] mentally ill.’ But when it's the Muslim men it’s like, ‘It's the religion, that's the only answer.’

That helps no one because when a Muslim woman is going through domestic violence, or she has an issue – that isn't to do with her religion – and she reports it or talks to people who are not in her community about it, then they make it into a religion thing, so people stop reporting it and Muslim women stop talking about it. You’re inadvertently harming Muslim women by creating this myth around the men, saying that they have a unique version of misogyny. Misogyny does have relationships with race, with gender and with sexuality, but misogyny is misogyny. That is what it is, we should just call it that, no matter who's doing it, and not make it into an identity thing.

Who are you writing this book for and what do you hope readers take from it?

I want white feminists, or white women, to read it. With white feminism, some of it is well-minded, people who are setting out to do what they think is best, but they just haven't really read around feminism, or don't know people who they've had these conversations [with], so they think that they’re fighting for everyone's rights, and they're not. They're just fighting for people that look like them. 

If you don't go out of your way to research and find the right things to read, and you've just picked up what you've learned at school or from the mainstream media, it’s not surprising that that's the way they're thinking, and [that] they embody a white savior complex, maybe without even realizing. I hope the book unpicks the structures they've been raised in and [makes people think], ‘Actually, why do I think that? Where's that come from?’ If even one person does that, that would be great.

I want [the book] to be for Muslim women, too. The last chapter is going to be finishing on a hopeful note, interviewing Muslim women who are doing great things as Muslim women, but not [necessarily] to do with their religion.

The theme on AMAKA this month is Power and Action. What do those words mean to you?

Power to me is independence. Being able to move out of my family home and having my own money and being able to have my own job. l know it's such a small thing for the way the world is now but, like, literally 50 years ago, that wasn't the case. There's such power in the ability to choose because women haven't always been able to.

What does it mean to you to be an African woman?

I always say to people, ‘I'm from Libya, it's in North Africa,’ but I used to think of myself as Middle Eastern until literally like last year when I learned that Libya is actually not part of the Middle East – it blew my mind. The labels and borders are always changing, but I think of myself as Arab. I have always thought of myself like that, it’s such an important part of my identity.

Is there a woman from North Africa that you find inspiring right now?

Yassmin Abdel-Magied. She's from Sudan and has been doing all these Instagram reels explaining what's happening in Sudan at the moment in a really understandable way. I've been going to that instead of watching the news.

Follow Shahed Ezaydi on Instagram and Twitter, and help bring The Othered Woman to publication by pledging your support here. 

This is the third installment of the monthly Hakooli series, in which author and writer Alya Mooro speaks with groundbreaking North African women from across the disciplines and the diaspora, in an effort to spotlight and uncover all the brilliance the continent contains. 

Check out Alya’s picks of 3 more North African women writers in this month’s AMAKA newsletter.