Sexism and the State of Israel
THE INDEPENDENT: Driven by a theology that refuses to grant women equal rights, ultraorthodox Jews have begun to flex their misogynist muscles. But, says Catrina Stewart, a fightback has begun

As dusk falls in Mea Shearim, Jerusalem's most pious neighbourhood, black-clad and hatted Jewish men hurry home along the narrow streets lined by medieval-style houses where lights burn dimly in darkened windows.

Less than half a mile away, young Israelis mix in bustling bars in central Jerusalem, anathema to this religious ultraorthodox community that has tried its hardest to hide itself away from the temptations of secular life, and ensure a rigorous separation between men and women.

Ironically, though, it is the ultraorthodox community's efforts to impose its religious values on ordinary Israelis, particularly women, that many fear is undermining Israel's democracy, and which now poses the greatest threat to this community's survival.

When Tanya Rosenblit, a 28-year-old woman from Ashdod, boarded a Jerusalem-bound bus late last year, she caused a stir by refusing to heed the demands of a religious male passenger to move to the back of the bus. Many of the ultraorthodox – known as Haredim – believe that modesty forbids women to sit at the front of the bus with the men, and it is common to see segregated buses with women seated to the rear, often crowded in while seats remain free at the front.

Ms Rosenblit became a minor celebrity in Israel, but her stance was not without consequences, earning her death threats for daring to challenge the religious community.

"The Haredim has always received special treatment in this country and people thought it was okay," she says. "But something has changed... in the sense that they feel they are going to control this country. That's disturbing." » | Catrina Stewart | Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Syria's Division of the Sexes
BBC: Women in Syria enjoy a measure of freedom unlike women in many other Arab countries. But as Lina Sinjab explains from Damascus, tradition and religion still have a huge influence on some of their lives.

Damascus is getting trendier these day[s]. As Syria opens up, western-style cafes and restaurants are mushrooming.

Men and women gather together, sipping coffee and smoking and in the evenings, bars are filled with liberal-minded Damascenes gathering over a bottle of wine or Arak, the local aniseed-flavoured spirit.

Nights out may start with a lively debate about politics and end up on the dance floor.

But as common as such scenes are these days in the capital, in much of the country they are not the norm.

Women in most parts of Syria still live lives dictated by tradition, religion, and family.

You have to look very carefully to uncover their stories, because they are so often hidden away in this rigid society.

Shiny dresses

Some women's lives, I think, are like Damascene houses, buildings that may look obscure and dull from the outside, but inside the wooden doors, there are beautiful courtyards with brimming fountains.

In the outskirts of Damascus, 21-year-old Zainab is getting married.

She did not meet her husband in a bar or a restaurant. In fact, she did not meet him at all before they were engaged.

Like many weddings, hers was arranged by her parents.

She is used to doing what she is told. Zainab is a schoolteacher. She works a full day and then takes on another job when she gets home, cooking and cleaning for the family.

The sharp division of the sexes here extends to the wedding party itself. I saw this for myself at Zainab's celebration. As I entered the hall, it was filled with women, their hands and heads uncovered.

The bride sat in her white dress at the centre of the stage. Around her all the young girls, in long shiny dresses, danced to music. They clearly envied the bride and hoped, one day, to be in her place.

It looked like fun, and yet there was a traditional purpose to the festivities. The smiles and shimmies of the women were intended to impress the mothers of potential future husbands.

I looked around me, astonished at how blatant this was. The rows of chairs were filled with older women.

Their eyes scanned the stage and their hands covered their mouths as they whispered to each other, discussing the young women as if they were goods in a shop window.

"That's the daughter of Abu Mahmoud, the neighbourhood shopkeeper," one old lady said.

"The family is reputable and they are devoted Muslims. I am sure my son will be happy to have her." >>> | Monday, January 18, 2010