Before I am anything else, before being a communications strategist, community advocate, or student, I am a Muslim woman.
And I am proud to say that my understanding of justice, equality, and dignity for women is rooted in Islam itself, a faith that, more than 1,400 years ago, recognized women’s rights to education, property, consent, and spiritual agency. Long before the language of feminism existed, Islam established a framework that honored women’s worth and the labor they carry, both seen and unseen.
Many people assume that Islam and gender equality are at odds. But the tension has never been between faith and fairness, it’s between patriarchy and justice. Between human power and divine principle.
I grew up within a system that often claimed to uphold Islamic values but, in practice, distorted them. Women were denied opportunity and voice, not because of faith, but because of cultural traditions and authoritarian control dressed in religious language.
It was through observing this disconnect that I learned one of my earliest lessons in communication and leadership: how powerful narratives can be, and how easily they can be manipulated when justice is not the goal.
When I came to Canada, I expected to find equality realized, but the barriers simply looked different. As a single mother raising two children, I’ve lived the reality of carrying every role at once: provider, caregiver, leader, and advocate. My days have often been split between work meetings, homework help, and community organizing, all forms of labour, yet only one recognized or compensated.
Even within systems built for justice, such as unions or advocacy organizations, I’ve seen how racialized and immigrant women are often sidelined from leadership or decision-making. Yet, I’ve also witnessed the strength that comes from organizing, whether in mosque boards, neighbourhood campaigns, or civic spaces. Change always begins with people who refuse to accept invisibility.
Through my professional and academic journey, one truth has become clear: the world runs on unpaid labour, and it’s overwhelmingly carried by women.
Cooking, caregiving, emotional support, this work sustains families, economies, and entire communities. In Islam, this labour is not dismissed as “women’s duty.” It’s honoured as ibadah, an act of worship.
But over time, both secular and religious institutions have undervalued it. We began measuring worth by income, not impact, and in doing so, we forgot that nurturing others is not secondary to success. It is a success.
If we truly value justice, we must redefine what counts as work.
Equity begins when we recognize that care is a shared social responsibility, not a private burden for women to silently bear. Flexible work structures, access to childcare, and paid leave aren’t luxuries; they’re the foundation of a just society.
But the solution isn’t only structural. It’s also cultural. We must rebuild a collective mindset that honours unpaid labour as the backbone of humanity. In many Muslim cultures, we already have this ethos embedded in our traditions, of community kitchens, shared childrearing, and neighbourly care. These are not outdated customs; they’re blueprints for balance.
I’ve come to see that organizing, whether through unions, community groups, or faith-based networks, is an act of faith itself.
Change doesn’t happen because it’s deserved. It happens when people come together to demand it. But true justice requires that these spaces reflect the diversity of those they claim to serve, including women, newcomers, racialized communities, and people of faith.
Representation in leadership matters, but it isn’t enough. Justice must be built into the structure, into how we design our systems, policies, and narratives.
The framework I follow is not one of competition between men and women, but of balance, the kind of balance Islam envisioned from the start. A world where women’s roles are valued not in comparison to men’s, but in recognition of their unique and essential contribution to the fabric of society.
Women’s work, paid or unpaid, holds the world together. It deserves respect, recognition, and reward.
The future I imagine is one where no mother has to choose between her family and her livelihood. Where care is a collective act, not an individual cost. And where justice is measured not only by what we earn, but by how we live, care, and uplift one another.
Justice, after all, is not just a goal. It’s daily work. And like all meaningful work, it’s something we build together.
