What I overheard at the mosque

“We’re thinking of proposing to that girl for Ahmad. She’s marvellous — religious, well-mannered, modest, impeccable.”

The voice floated across the women’s section of the mosque after Taraweeh prayers, hushed but urgent.

“But her sister’s not quite right,” the other woman replied. “She’s always on Facebook, posting videos. Heavy kohl, bright lipstick. And didn’t they say she once loved someone?”

And just like that, in a single breath between two women on prayer mats, a young bride-to-be slipped from “perfect match” to “cause for concern” — not because of anything she had done, but because of the eyeliner of another woman.

I knew nothing about either lady, nor about Ahmad, nor about the girl in question. And frankly, I had no desire to intervene. I have spent enough time recently as fodder for Syrian “trends” to know how quickly friendly fire can turn feral.

Yet as I listened, a book I had recently finished came to mind. I had returned to reading in an effort to detox from the poisonous fog of Facebook. And there it was, in scholarly prose: in societies undergoing political upheaval, women’s bodies often become the battleground upon which national identity is renegotiated.

What happened in that mosque was hardly exceptional. In post-Assad Syria, where the dust of dictatorship is still settling, there has been a contagious eagerness to scrutinise women — especially those visible in public life.

The fall of a tyrant does not automatically dismantle the deeper architecture of power. Yes, the regime collapsed. But patriarchy, that most resilient of systems, did not pack its bags and depart. If anything, moments of uncertainty offer it fresh oxygen.

Across the country, Syria is in the throes of reimagining itself: its army, its institutions, its civic identity. Yet amid discussions of transitional justice, corruption, reconstruction and economic paralysis, one subject reliably ignites public outrage: women’s appearance.

Take the female activist who attends a political conference, holds a microphone, and asks serious questions about the formation of a national army and an inclusive Syrian identity. The next day, her image circulates online doctored so that she appears to be holding a cucumber instead of a microphone.

The message is unmistakable. It is the strategic deployment of sexual insinuation to strip a woman of political legitimacy. Reduce her to innuendo, and her ideas no longer require rebuttal.

Curiously, those who type such comments often wrap themselves in the language of virtue. They speak of safeguarding morality. They cite religious texts prescribing modest adornment — a simple ring, a touch of kohl — and denounce “modern cosmetics” for cheeks and lips as sinful excess, permissible only within the confines of the home.

Yet in the same breath, they violate the most fundamental principle of decency: dignity.

In societies emerging from dictatorship, something curious occurs. The fall of the “Father Leader” does not dissolve the anxieties he embodied. Instead, a collective unease surfaces.

Who protects us now?
Who defines our identity?
Who sets the boundaries?

And too often, the answer offered is: control the women.

As if national stability were determined by the length of a skirt or the shade of a lipstick. As if civil peace trembles at the angle of an eyeliner flick.

In Latakia, the debate over make-up escalated to such a pitch that a provincial governor reportedly issued a directive banning female public-sector employees from wearing cosmetics at work.

In a country where children sit in unheated classrooms because schools lack diesel, where reconstruction drags and livelihoods remain precarious, the urgent matter became mascara.

Why does lipstick become a battle for identity? Why are religious jurisprudence, satire and popular machismo summoned at once at the mere mention of red lips?

Sometimes I ask myself: if I were to appear tomorrow without kohl, would my words carry more weight? If I chose a darker lipstick, would my arguments weaken? Does the credibility of a woman fluctuate with the shade chart at the cosmetics counter?

If national identity were robust, it would not wobble at the sight of eyeliner. If civil peace rested upon justice and equality, it would not depend on the removal of mascara.

Instead, citizenship becomes conditional on the gloss of one’s lips. Public discourse, which should revolve around rebuilding institutions and ensuring accountability, is derailed into arguments about the “limits” of adornment.

The irony is almost theatrical. A society grappling with destroyed schools and stalled reforms devotes its energy to regulating foundation and blush.

When the paternal image of the all-powerful leader collapses, a vacuum emerges. And in that vacuum, there is a desperate search for something controllable. Women’s bodies, long burdened with symbolic responsibility for communal honour, become the easiest terrain upon which to assert order.

Control the kohl, and perhaps the uncertainty feels less frightening.

I folded my prayer mat and rose to leave the mosque. I took two steps towards the door, then paused. I turned back to the women and smiled.

I wanted to say: “Auntie, does Ahmad’s future truly hinge upon his sister-in-law’s eyeliner?”

Instead, I simply said, “May God accept your prayers”, and walked on.

But in my head, a tide of unsaid words surged. Words I will say here, plainly.

We are not the testing ground for a society’s insecurities.
We are not mirrors in which a nation measures its morality.
We are citizens.

And if there must be a battle over identity, let it be fought over justice and not over our faces.