Running Like A Girl: Sex-Stereotyping in the Olympics

Katherine Franke

Male athletes--think Armstrong, Phelps, jockeys--have "physical traits" considered responsible for superior performance, while elite female athletes are increasingly being tested and "treated" for "Disorders of Sexual Development."

Originally posted on the Gender & Sexuality Law Blog, Columbia School of Law.

As Mai
Ratakonda recently noted
last Wednesday, the International Olympic Committee announced the recommendations
of a panel of "experts"
the manner in which the Olympics should "handle" persons with "Disorders of
Sexual Development." They concluded that the IOC should approach female
athletes whose sex has been questioned, treat them as having a medical
disorder, and they will be referred to special clinics for diagnosis and
treatment, or as they call it, "management." The recommendations address
Olympic athletes whose "true" sex is called into question because they deviate
from a socially determined female norm. The meeting of experts was convened by
the IOC in response to the Caster Semenya case. (An earlier blog post addressed Semenya.)

recommendations raise a number of problems. First, it seems that for athletes
who wish to compete in the female division and who have had their "sex"
challenged, they will have to agree to examination and treatment in order to
remain eligible. "Those who agree to be treated will be permitted to
participate," said Dr. Maria New, an IOC hired panel participant, an expert on
sexual development disorders, and a controversial figure in the intersex world
insofar as she has been a strong advocate for genital surgeries for babies born
with "ambiguous genitalia."

"Those who do not agree to be treated on a
case-by-case basis will not be permitted" to compete. Dr. New suggests that the
best first step in identifying and treating athletes of questionable sex is
that "photographs of [those] athletes [be sent] to experts like her. If the
expert thinks the athlete might have a sexual-development disorder, the expert
would order further testing and suggest treatment."

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for a second, how this will work: a world-class athlete, such as Caster
Semenya, will have her female credentials questioned by another athlete —
likely someone who just lost to the athlete whose female-ness is being
questioned. That athlete will then have to remove her shorts, have her genitals
photographed, and then have those photos sent to Dr. New for review. Applying
what seems like a "know it when you see it" standard of abnormality, Dr. New
may then determine that the athlete be further tested and treated/managed for
her "Disorders of Sexual Development" as a condition of further eligibility in
IOC-sanctioned competition. This new procedure creates a climate whereby female
athletes who run too fast, throw too far, or jump too high "for a woman" stand
likely to have their sexual identity challenged, thereby exposing themselves to
the humiliation of genital photography and the shameful suggestion that they
are freaks. Look what happened to Caster Semenya and Santhi Soundarajan who endured a similar sexual
inquisition and attempted suicide as a result to know where this is leading.

Second, as
if the privacy and shaming of the IOC panel’s recommendations weren’t enough,
this new approach to policing the boundaries of women’s athletics smacks of sex
discrimination. Many of the world’s top athletes have some physical
"endowments" that explain, at least in part, their advantage over competitors.
Take Michael Phelps, who won an amazing eight gold medals in the last Olympics.
Swimming fans are in awe of Phelps’ disproportionately large "wing span"
(basically, really long arms), the fact that he is double jointed, and has huge

"His size 14 feet reportedly bend 15 degrees farther at the ankle than
most other swimmers, turning his feet into virtual flippers. This flexibility
also extends to his knees and elbows, possibly allowing him to get more out of
each stroke," wrote Scientific America in a special story
on Phelps’ physical endowments

Phelps isn’t seen as having a joint
or foot "disorder." He isn’t forced to have pictures taken of his body that
will be reviewed by medical experts who apply a loosey-goosey standard to
evaluate whether he needs treatment in order to make him more normal, and
thereby allow him to continue competing. No, he’s just built for his sport in
ways that give him enormous advantages over the average person. We stand in awe
of him, not in judgment.

Only those
endowments that are regarded as sex-related trigger an investigation into
whether a female athlete is eligible for competition in a women’s division. But
who’s to decide which are and which are not "sex-related?" Consider Lance
Armstrong’s exceptionally large lung capacity and low heart rate which are
looked to to account for his unbelievable success in biking (doping allegations
aside). Not only are his physical advantages not treated as disqualifying, his
body has been transformed into a lesson plan for high school biology classes.

maybe he should be referred to the sex police. Research shows that females demonstrate a somewhat
different and better pattern of cardiac adaptation to exercise than do men, and
as a result have better oxygen extraction by their working muscles due to greater
capillarization and more mitochondria. So, in effect, Lance Armstrong’s body is
more "feminized" as compared with the other male competitors. But you don’t see
him getting called out for being insufficiently male and from having an unfair
advantage over the other men in the Tour de France because his capacity to
process oxygen is more typical of female than male athletes, do you? His
endowments are not seen as sex-related, they’re just the envy of top cyclists.


So too,
small male jockeys or petite male coxswains aren’t seen as cheaters (girly men
competing in male sports) in the same way that Semenya was. Yet their light,
lithe bodies are prized in their sports precisely because they are smaller than
the average man. No sex police here.

Men, it
seems, can compete under the influence of abnormal hormonal levels or other
body functions so long as they use what "god gave them," but women, it seems,
may not. As Alice Dreger recently
 on the new

then, raises the apparently unconsidered question of why athletes competing as
women would be subject to such androgen-capping, while athletes competing as
men are not (unless they dope). If we women naturally make all those same
hormones — and we do — why do the guys get to keep all they naturally make, and
we don’t?

Good question. And it
raises a serious suggestion of sex discrimination in athletics.

Analysis Human Rights

Living in the Shadow of Counterterrorism: A Daily Struggle for Muslim Women

Kanya D’Almeida

In the second part of Rewire’s “Living in the Shadow of Counterterrorism” series, we look at how Muslim families, particularly women, are forced to confront state violence on a daily basis­­—from living with the stigma of terrorism, to repairing their broken homes, to navigating what they say is a brutal and biased prison system.

This is the second article in Rewire’s “Living in the Shadow of Counterterrorism” series. You can read the other pieces in the series here.

When Virginia native Mariam Abu-Ali was 14 years old, her life abruptly turned upside down. It was 2003, two years after the September 11 attacks and well into an era of counterterrorism tactics that were systematically hollowing out Muslim residents’ civil liberties and constitutional protections in the United States. But the Abu-Ali family never imagined they would be caught up in the dragnet.

Mariam’s then-22-year-old brother, Ahmed Omar, had been studying in Medina, Saudi Arabia, when he was arrested in connection with a series of May 2003 terrorist attacks in Riyadh.

In an interview with Rewire, Mariam says her brother, who was born in Texas, was held in solitary confinement in a Saudi jail for nearly two years without ever being charged with a crime. During that time, Mariam tells Rewire over the phone, there is strong evidence that he was tortured. Although defense expert Dr. Allen Keller, director of the Program for Survivors of Torture at the Bellevue/NYU Hospital, examined Ahmed and testified at his U.S. trial to the evidence of torture, an appeals court eventually ruled that Ahmed’s statements to Saudi interrogators were “voluntary.”

When, after months of legal pressure from his family, he was finally returned to the United States, a court for the Eastern District of Virginia charged him with multiple counts, including conspiring with an Al-Qaeda cell in Medina to carry out terrorist attacks on U.S. soil. Following a trial that permitted the admission of what Mariam called “a coerced confession,” he was eventually sentenced to 30 years in prison, and later re-sentenced to life.

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Yet as legal experts like Elaine Cassel, author of The War on Civil Liberties: How Bush and Ashcroft Dismantled the Bill of Rights, have pointed out, “Nowhere in the indictment [was] Abu-Ali tied to any terrorist event or action”—either in the United States or in Saudi Arabia.

Instead, his case fell under the shadowy material support statutes that have governed much of the United States’ counterterrorism operation in the years since 9/11, under the USA Patriot Act of 2001. This set of laws allows the U.S. government to preemptively prosecute individuals for engaging in terrorism based on their perceived predisposition toward violence, rather than their actions.

Over the past 15 years, hundreds of Muslims have disappeared in a warren of these convoluted laws; they are currently locked up in high-security prisons around the country.

A constellation of families, scholars, activists, and civil rights organizations have long challenged the effects of material support charges, as well as the unfair trials and the lengthy and harsh prison sentences that tend to follow them. Over the past few years, they have come together in a campaign called No Separate Justice, an attempt to unite far-flung groups and individuals who are working to dismantle what they say is a parallel and unjust legal system for Muslim residents in post-9/11 America.

Women like Mariam Abu-Ali have been at the forefront of the movement—along with Zurata Duka and Shahina Parveen, whose stories Rewire has previously reported on—advocating on behalf of their loved ones.

In the second part of Rewire’s “Living in the Shadow of Counterterrorism” series, we look at how families, particularly women, are forced to confront state violence on a daily basis­­—from living with the stigma of terrorism, to repairing their broken homes, to navigating what they say is a brutal and biased prison system.

“Dangerous” Minds, Draconian Measures

Mariam Abu-Ali says her brother’s case represents many of the civil rights violations that have marred the decade and a half since 9/11, a sentiment that is echoed in the final opinion on Ahmed Omar’s case penned by the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fourth Circuit.

In its unanimous decision to uphold the guilty verdict on nine terrorism-related counts against Ahmed in 2008, the three-judge bench wrote:

Persons of good will may disagree over the precise extent to which the formal criminal justice process must be utilized when those suspected of participation in terrorist cells and networks are involved … the criminal justice system is not without those attributes of adaptation that will permit it to function in the post-9/11 world.

While the opinion does not explicitly state what these “attributes of adaptation” are, studies on counterterrorism indicate they could refer to any number of legal practices that have become normalized since September 11. In particular, they could refer to the use of material support statutes, which have played a significant role in the prosecution of Muslim Americans like Ahmed Omar.

As FBI Assistant Director Gary Bald testified to the Senate Committee on the Judiciary in 2004:

It would be difficult to overstate the importance of the material support statutes to our ongoing counterterrorism efforts. The statutes are sufficiently broad to include terrorist financers and supporters who provide a variety of resources to terrorist networks. The statutes provide the investigative predicate which allows intervention at the earliest possible stage of terrorist planning to identify and arrest terrorists and supporters before a terrorist attack occurs. [Emphasis added.]

In short, material support statutes have enabled federal authorities to prosecute people based on suspicion of what they might do in the future rather than any overt criminal act. The statutes primarily refer to “support” for terrorist networks as weapons, arms training, or direct funding. Prosecutors, courts, and juries, however, have interpreted the laws much more broadly to encompass the sharing of religious or political texts online, casual conversations between friends, or charitable donations to organizations in areas controlled by terrorist groups.

In many instances, material support charges have amounted to nothing more than thought crimes, in which law-abiding Muslim residents have been penalized simply for expressing their religious and political views.

According to a 2014 report by Human Rights Watch, material support cases rose sharply in the decade following the September 11 attacks. Prior to 9/11, just six individuals had been charged under these laws in the United States. In the decade following, 168 of 917 domestic terrorism convictions analyzed by HRW fell under such statutes, accounting for 18 percent of all terrorism-related convictions in that time period.

Even a cursory look at some of these cases is sufficient to grasp the breadth of these laws, which have pushed deep into Muslim communities, tearing through many layers of social fabric along the way.

In 2012, the New York Times published an op-ed by Yale professor Andrew March on the case of Tarek Mehanna, a Pittsburgh-born doctor and community leader who was sentenced to 17 and a half years in prison because his opinions about Islam, expressed online, were deemed a form of material support for terrorist causes.

March wrote in the Times:

As a political scientist specializing in Islamic law and war, I frequently read, store, share and translate texts and videos by jihadi groups. As a political philosopher, I debate the ethics of killing. As a citizen, I express views, thoughts and emotions about killing to other citizens. As a human being, I sometimes feel joy (I am ashamed to admit) at the suffering of some humans and anger at the suffering of others. At Mr. Mehanna’s trial, I saw how those same actions can constitute federal crimes.

March’s op-ed illustrates a frightening truth about material support statutes: They allow for the preemptive prosecution of individuals who have not yet committed a crime but whom the government deems capable of possibly committing a crime in the future.

Other cases, such as the Holy Land Five, demonstrate a pattern in which material support laws have essentially criminalized charitable giving. The case involved the founders of the Holy Land Foundation, a Muslim charity that provided humanitarian aid to the needy, including women and children in Palestine. Though the government concluded that the Holy Land Foundation never directly aided a terrorist organization, it nonetheless prosecuted five of its members for funneling aid through charitable committees into areas controlled by Hamas, a designated Palestinian terrorist group, thereby violating material support statutes. Journalists called the verdict an attack on Islam itself, particularly the practice of zakat, which mandates that Muslims allocate a portion of their wealth or earnings for charitable causes.

Because cases based on material support statutes tend to paint the accused as extremely dangerous persons, they are often accompanied by harsh conditions of confinement, both pretrial and following a conviction.

From its very inception, the No Separate Justice (NSJ) campaign has fought this flawed notion, with mothers and sisters of the accused becoming the movement’s most prominent spokespeople. NSJ initially coalesced around the case of a Muslim American named Fahad Hashmi.

Hashmi had been working toward a master’s degree in international relations at London Metropolitan University when he was arrested at Heathrow Airport in 2006. In 2007 he became the first U.S. citizen to be extradited following the loosening of restrictions around the process after 9/11, according to an article by Jeanne Theoharis, a political science professor at Brooklyn College and co-founder of the NSJ campaign, who taught Hashmi as an undergraduate.

He was initially held in pretrial solitary confinement at the Metropolitan Correction Center (MCC) in downtown Manhattan. MCC’s notoriety was cemented in a 2010 New York Times article that quoted a former Guantanamo detainee, who was also held at the MCC, as saying the Cuban military prison was “more pleasant” and “more relaxed” than the federal detention facility in New York City.

Hashmi was also subjected to special administrative measures, government restrictions on a terror suspect’s communications that amount to a gag order on the case and their conditions of confinement. Advocates say these were drastic measures relative to the charges against him: Hashmi’s only crime, according to Theoharis’ article, was allowing an acquaintance to spend a night in his apartment, an acquaintance who would later deliver a suitcase of raincoats and waterproof socks to Al Qaeda members. This same acquaintance would later become a cooperating witness for the government in exchange for a more lenient sentence, and testify against Hashmi in a trial that ended with a guilty verdict and a 15-year sentence.

Stunned by Hashmi’s conditions of confinement, a group called Theaters Against War linked arms with Educators for Civil Liberties and the Muslim Justice Initiative to host weekly vigils outside the MCC in 2009. These gatherings, which continue to this day, form the nucleus of the NSJ movement.

“We wanted to build a coalition so people from different backgrounds could bring their institutional expertise and moral conscience into the same arena as family members, and create a space where people could express outrage at what was happening,” Sally Eberhardt, one of NSJ’s earliest organizers, tells Rewire.

At first, larger civil liberties groups kept their distance, possibly because “this isn’t exactly the most funder-friendly issue in the world,” Eberhardt suggests. But advocates persisted, holding candlelight protests even on the bitterest winter nights, singing songs and chanting poems in the shadow of the detention center. Those intimate gatherings formed the basis of what is now a national movement, encompassing multiple organizations and dozens of families.

Two outspoken leaders are the Sadequee sisters, Bangladeshi Americans who have been among the strongest advocates of prisoners’ rights and the most public critics of the government’s targeting of Muslim men—including their brother, Shifa.

From the Streets to the Prayer Rug: Pushing Back Against State Violence

Ehsanul “Shifa” Sadequee was born in Virginia and grew up in Atlanta, Georgia, the youngest of four siblings in a Bangladeshi-American family. According to his sisters, he was a curious and exceptionally kind child, who by his early teens had grown into a devout and diligent religious scholar.

In 2005, when he was just 18 years old, Shifa traveled to Bangladesh. In April 2006 he got married, but 12 days after his wedding, Bangladeshi authorities took and detained him, apparently at the behest of the U.S. government, for allegedly making false statements to the FBI at John F. Kennedy Airport on his way to Bangladesh the previous year.

Shifa’s sister Sonali, who is based in Atlanta, tells Rewire that this initial charge and arrest, which the High Court Division of the Supreme Court of Bangladesh later deemed a violation of international laws, was a terrifying process for the entire family. For days after Shifa was taken they had no news of his whereabouts. Fears that he would somehow wind up in Guantanamo, ensnared in the web of the “war on terror,” gnawed at the edges of their minds but the family pushed these aside, telling themselves that because Shifa had done nothing wrong, they had nothing to fear. With the phone ringing off the hook and the television on 24/7, they gleaned what scraps of information they could from CNN news reports.

It transpired that upon his arrest in Bangladesh, Shifa was stripped naked, wrapped in plastic, and flown via Alaska to New York, Sonali says, where he spent over three months at the Metropolitan Detention Center (MDC) in Brooklyn before being transferred to the federal penitentiary in Atlanta, Georgia. Shifa spent more than three years in pretrial solitary confinement before ever being formally charged with a crime, his sister said.

Once Shifa was inside the criminal justice system, Sonali explains, federal authorities quickly dropped the initial charges against him and began to build a case around allegations of material support.

At the heart of the case was Shifa’s renown as an Islamic scholar with a larger-than-life online persona—he had studied classical Arabic and the history of religion as a student in Canada and was a gifted translator, often sharing interpretations of Islamic or political texts on the internet. The Sadequee family says Shifa’s trial was riddled with shortcomings, including the use of previously classified evidence and the selection of jurors who admitted to having anti-Muslim bias—which Human Rights Watch says is a common problem. In addition, the prosecution used Shifa’s ideology as a brush with which to paint him as a fearsome radical, on the verge of carrying out a violent attack on U.S. soil.

Although Shifa, according to Sonali, never engaged in any actions beyond practicing free speech, he was found guilty on four terrorism counts in 2009 and, at the age of 23, sentenced to 17 years in federal prison. He represented himself at the trial, making him one of the first Muslim youth to do so in a national security case, according to his sisters.

Both Sonali and Sharmin Sadequee, who is based in New York, have been mobilizing on his behalf for over a decade. After years of shielding themselves from the backlash of isolation and Islamophobia that invariably accompanies charges of terrorism, the young women have turned their advocacy into an art form.

In an interview with Rewire, Sonali explains that when her brother was arrested, the women in her family developed an organic division of labor that allowed them to form a united front against the horror and uncertainty that had descended on their lives.

“I was already plugged into the social justice community in Atlanta, so I saw my role as tapping into that support network, bringing resources to my family to make sure we all understood the human rights issues involved, ensuring we had the skills to confront the media, which was bombarding us at the time,” she says. Her sister, meanwhile, dealt with the prisons, navigating bureaucratic visitation rules and ensuring Shifa had what he needed on the inside.

“Sharmin and my mother also reached out to the Muslim community, to mosques and other groups,” Sonali continues. “And the rest of the time, my mother was on the prayer rug. I don’t know how many hours she spent kneeling and praying.”

They built a website that is always fresh with the latest news about Shifa’s case and serves as a hub for their activism—they recently announced a letter-writing campaign to mark Ramadan, inviting more than 1,000 followers of a Justice for Shifa Facebook group to send greeting cards to Muslim prisoners. Countless hours are eaten up attending rallies, speaking on panels, or sitting with reporters, patiently unpacking the messy details of Shifa’s case.

The irony is that while the Sadequee sisters make a powerful team, they are constantly called upon to do what they say is the hardest thing of all: relive a time in their lives they would rather forget.

“I don’t like to do these interviews,” Sonali says bluntly. “I don’t enjoy them at all—but I recognize they have to be done. Only by sharing what happened to us, by talking about it, will others learn from it.”

They say they have been trying to create collective responses to state violence resulting from the “war on terror,” and hope to combat the government’s tactics of fear and isolation by building community power and resiliency. But this is easier said than done: Not only must the Sadequees contend with the lingering stigma of Shifa’s trial, but they also, until very recently, had to deal with the trauma of visiting their brother in a prison unit that has been described by former detainees as “Little Gitmo.”

CMUs: “A Religious and Political Quarantine”

Between 2009 and 2015, Shifa was imprisoned in the Communications Management Unit (CMU) at the federal detention center in Terre Haute, Indiana, a segregated portion of the prison comprised almost exclusively of Muslim men that has been the subject of a legal battle since 2010.

This past March, the Center for Constitutional Rights (CCR) urged the Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia to reinstate a lawsuit the group first filed six years ago challenging CMUs, which the Bureau of Prisons (BOP) quietly ushered into existence under the Bush administration—the first in 2006 in Indiana, and the second in 2008 in Marion, Illinois.

Conditions in these units, which house 60 to 70 prisoners combined, are harsh, according to the CCR: Although inmates are not held in isolation, they are banned from having any physical contact with family members during visits, and their calls are restricted to two per week, each for 15 minutes. By contrast, other BOP inmates are allowed 300 minutes worth of calls every month.

CCR claims the CMUs violate prisoners’ procedural due process rights, and argue that placement in these units is both arbitrary and retaliatory, with Muslim prisoners vastly overrepresented.

“Between 2006 and 2014, about 170 individuals filtered through these units and 101 of them—about 60 percent—were Muslims, even though Muslims only constitute 6 percent of the general federal prison population,” CCR Senior Staff Attorney Rachel Meeropol tells Rewire in a phone interview.

CCR reported in 2010 that in Marion, 72 percent of current CMU prisoners were Muslim, a 1,200 percent overrepresentation, while two-thirds of the CMU population in Terra Haute was Muslim, 1,000 percent higher than the national average of Muslim prisoners in federal facilities.

“We are challenging the lack of procedural protections before prisoners are placed in the CMU and also alleging that placement is in retaliation for protected political and religious speech,” Meeropol says, pointing out that inmates in the CMU are seldom given reasons for why they were moved into the units, and are routinely denied opportunities to earn their release into general population.

“CMUs are essentially a religious and political quarantine, the same kind of segregation that has supposedly been outlawed in this country,” she added.

In response to multiple requests for comment about these allegations, Justin Long with the Office of Public Affairs at the Information, Policy and Public Affairs Division for the BOP said in an email to Rewire, “The Bureau of Prisons cannot comment on matters currently in litigation,” and directed Rewire to the Bureau’s web page on CMUs.

In addition to being hard on inmates, Meeropol says CMUs are also “debilitating” for families, especially those with young children who cannot communicate with their fathers through letters, and often cannot understand why they are forced to speak to them through glass, using phones that are monitored by prison staff.

“Several mothers have told me that they’ve stopped bringing their children on visits because it was just too devastating,” Meeropol says.

The Collective Trauma of “Supermax” Prisons and Solitary Confinement

The alternative, some might say, is even worse. All over the country, Muslim prisoners are serving decades-long sentences in solitary confinement, which the United Nations has recognized as a form of torture. Advocates and relatives of terror suspects, or those incarcerated on terrorism charges, have long cried foul over these conditions of confinement, which they say is a form of collective punishment on entire families.

Zurata Duka, whose three sons, Dritan, Shain, and Eljvir were arrested in a manufactured terror plot by the government in 2007, is well aware of the toll of solitary confinement. Her sons have spent dozens of years between them in complete isolation, including long stints at the maximum-security facility in Florence, Colorado.

“My sons are strong—they never let us see them cry, even when their daughters are crying on the other side of the glass,” she says to Rewire. “But once my son Dritan told me he nearly lost his mind in isolation.”

Before his arrest, Zurata tells Rewire, Dritan had been very close with his youngest daughter. Every night he would put her to sleep, stroking her hair and singing lullabies. In those early days after he was taken away, the little girl would lie awake at night, calling out for her father. Unbeknownst to the family, thousands of miles away, Dritan was experiencing something similar.

“He told me, ‘Mom, I don’t know what happened. For three days I just lay there, stroking my pillow, thinking it was [his daughter]. I didn’t know who I was and I don’t know how I came back,’” Zurata recalls him saying.

His daughter was so desperate to see him that one day she penned a note to the president. It read: “Dear Mr. Obama. Today is my birthday. I am five years old. Please, if you can, bring my father back just for one day, so I can hug and kiss him, and then, if you want, you can take him back again.” Zurata says she mailed the letter to the White House. She never heard back.

Almost every family has a similar story. According to Mariam Abu-Ali, conditions of confinement often come up at annual gatherings of affected families, which she organizes in her role as director of the Prisoners and Families Committee at the National Coalition to Protect Civil Freedoms.

“About 90 percent of the attendees are women,” she says in a phone interview with Rewire, “and they bring a lot of pain and anxiety into the room. But I’d say the meetings are cathartic,” she adds. “It’s the place where we build bonds with the only people who know what we’re going through.”

Several women who’ve attended the conference in the past tell Rewire they are powerful spaces, offering families a rare chance to speak openly about their lives without fear of being misunderstood, judged, or pitied. It is also a moment for families, particularly women, to share in the collective nature of their trauma, especially the pain of incarceration.

In the 13 years that her brother has served, Mariam says she has come to the painful realization that prisons don’t just lock up individuals—they are a form of bondage on the entire family.

Because Ahmed Omar is imprisoned 1,600 miles from the family’s home in Virginia, in one of the BOP’s maximum-security facilities in Colorado, they only see him once or twice a year. Visits are limited to three family members at a time, meaning Mariam has not seen Ahmed in two years. He reserves his two monthly phone calls for his parents, so she can only hope to talk to him when she visits them. Even these calls are a source of enormous frustration. As she wrote in a recent op-ed:

My mom has spent every Tuesday and Thursday of the last decade, at home, sitting by the phone, patiently waiting for a call that sometimes did not come. And when the call does come, what can one even discuss in 15 minutes? Do you ask him how he’s doing? How can you even ask him how he’s feeling? Do you discuss his prison conditions? His legal case? How do you break the news to him when his aunt or grandfather has passed away?

“What you have to understand is that my brother’s case wasn’t just one devastating ‘moment’ in our lives—it’s a lifelong struggle,” Mariam tells Rewire. “This is not something you ever get used to, or accept. It’s about learning new ways of coping every single day, like living with a chronic illness.”

Each day brings fresh challenges, and tough decisions. For instance, Mariam used to maintain a website, manage a Facebook page, and post daily updates on a Twitter account all relating to her brother’s case. One day she felt she just couldn’t do it anymore.

“At a point you have to ask yourself—do I work full time and provide for my family or do I advocate full time on behalf of my loved one?” she asks. “This work, it’s emotionally draining, it’s a daily struggle and it doesn’t necessarily get easier with time.”

CORRECTION: An earlier version of this article misidentified the officials whom Shifa Sadequee had been accused of making false statements to. It was FBI officers, not immigration officials.

Commentary Media

Women’s World Cup May Seem Like a Feminist Fairy Tale, But the Fight’s Not Over

Shireen Ahmed

Despite the joyful ending for the U.S. Women's National Team and the increased media attention toward women’s soccer, there is far more to achieve and attain for equality within the game—including the need to address the sexism inherent in pay disparity for players and in commentary surrounding the sport.

The 2015 Women’s World Cup in Canada began with 24 teams, the most in tournament history, playing with passion and pride in order to achieve ultimate soccer glory. The exhilarating matches ignited discussion and debate while drawing attention to social issues surrounding the beautiful game. But despite the joyful ending for the U.S. Women’s National Team (USWNT) and the increased media attention toward women’s soccer, there is far more to achieve and attain for equality within the game—including the need to address the sexism inherent in pay disparity for players and in commentary surrounding the sport.

In spite of fears that the recent scandalous allegations involving the World Cup’s governing organization, FIFA, would hurt ticket sales, the Cup took off in thunderous form with host nation Canada already on its feet. The Canadian Soccer Association confirmed that attendance for this tournament would be a record 1.25 million people over the 52 matches. The final between 2011 World Cup Champions Japan versus the United States was watched by 25.4 million viewers, according to FOX Sports, making it the most-watched soccer game in United States sports history. From the initial blow-out matches, to the unexpected upsets, to the riveting and incredible football, to some teams’ heartbreaking endings, people around the globe were captivated by this World Cup.

The proof of importance of women’s soccer is in the pudding—or in the case of the USWNT, the World Championship. And was the country ever-ready to celebrate and revel in this spectacular win.

All of this might make the 2015 Women’s World Cup seem like a fairy tale, in which the ongoing success of women’s soccer might defeat the evil sexism that is so deeply rooted in organized sport. At Mashable, for example, journalist Rebecca Ruiz wrote that this tournament “was a victory for women warriors everywhere.” And while she is correct in asserting that watching the USWNT rise to glory has been an inspiration for many young girls and women, a World Cup win for the United States does not guarantee a “win” for female players on a global scale.

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Despite a grand tournament distancing itself from a governing body steeped in patriarchy and headed by the blatantly sexist Sepp Blatter, the financial outcomes for the teams, for instance, are not exactly shining. The world-champion USWNT received $2 million in total for their championship prize money. This is in stark contrast to the $8 million that the U.S. national men’s team received at last summer’s 2014 World Cup in Brazil. They were awarded four times as much as their female counterparts for only reaching the 16-team round—not even the quarter-finals. There was no discussion about the matter from FIFA; these were evidently just normal allocation procedures. As in all other industries, equal compensation for women athletes is a huge issue. In this instance, there is a dim silver lining: In the last week, discussions of gender inequality in pay have been prevalent in mainstream, male-dominated sports media that would otherwise not even discuss such topics.

Beyond pay inequity, female players are still inundated by sexist behavior in sports culture. The trophy ceremony at the WWC itself, for example, unnecessarily featured models in tight-fitting, black dresses to award the players their medals—unfortunately often considered the “norms” for such events by organizers. The Edmonton Sun, the news site of one of the host cities, posted an article during the tournament on the “hottest women at the World Cup,” unnecessarily drawing attention to the physical appearance of certain players. And in a horrible attempt to laud England’s women’s team for their solid third-place finish while beating the German team for the first time in history, the Football Association in England came under fire for a sexist tweet focusing on the players going back to being “mothers, partners, and daughters”—despite the fact that they do not stop being athletes at any point. The Lionesses ended a drought of pride in English soccer, only to be welcomed home with condescending compliments.

Sadly, this kind of behavior is not uncommon. Soccer can be the playground for a lot of misogynist behavior that is considered acceptable and even humorous. There are often incidents of male coaches, advisers to top football clubs, and players making ridiculous statements that can be discouraging and disheartening for women. And young players must endure tropes that often emphasize the physical looks of a player, instead of her skills. This adds undue pressure on young girls to not only perform brilliantly but to adhere to unrealistic beauty standards.

Sexualizing female athletes or a sport is common all over the world. Such behavior is unhelpful and potentially psychologically dangerous for women: Body image issues and eating disorders are already rampant for young female athletes. In addition, supporting the personal choices of a female player to dress a certain way is paramount. Some players, including USA’s Sydney Leroux and France’s Louisa Necib, enjoy wearing make-up while playing and that is their prerogative. Criticizing them for that choice is not acceptable.

To present the players in a demeaning manner is not a way to applaud their achievements. It propels a system of intimidation and misogyny in sports.

Perhaps this lazy sports journalism strategy is applied in order to attract more readers and viewers. Fortunately, there has been growing pushback to many outright displays of misogyny. The English Football Association deleted its aforementioned tweet after a social media outcry rightly cited the team’s strong, character-displaying performance in Canada. When Andy Benoit, an NFL analyst for Sports Illustrated, tweeted that he thinks that women’s sports “are not worth watching,” retribution was swift. Much of the Internet replied to Benoit’s comments with sarcasm. Comedian Amy Poehler, accompanied by her colleague Seth Meyers, spoofed Benoit’s remarks on “Late Night.” Ironically (and that is being very generous), Benoit supported his claim by arguing that TV ratings of women’s sports were low. As the USA celebrates its highest viewership ever and a World Cup championship, he might be in his man cave eating humble pie.

As we move forward, players, fans, and policymakers must continue to call out sexism in mainstream sports media, urge decision-making federations to support development of the game, and to recognize and act on the needs of female players, including where pay is concerned. During the Women’s World Cup, FIFA hosted a symposium on women in football, featuring former and current players, executive members, academics, and advocates. The objective, according to FIFA-appointed executive committee member Moya Dodd: to grow the game on every level. In order to expand women’s soccer, developing programs for young girls and women is critical—not only on the pitch but in all aspects of soccer. FIFA, for example, recently launched a program encouraging women to take roles in leadership: a move that can not come soon enough.

More than 30 million girls and women play soccer around the world. It is a sport that is revered across cultural lines showcasing different styles of play with charisma and love. This must be nurtured and supported, particularly in the wake of the Women’s World Cup, when different leagues and tournaments will continue to delight fans. At the same time, one need not look further for future sports heroines beyond our own schools and neighborhood parks. Equality in sports is an intersectional feminist issue. In order to support young players at a grassroots level, supporters must work to also make the game more accessible in marginalized or low-income communities; advocate for more visibility of players of color; and ensure women’s soccer does not remain, as former USWNT player and current ESPN commentator Julie Foudy called it, “a middle-class, white sport” in America.

One of the most compelling sentiments among fans from this tournament has been: “Can we just call it ‘soccer’ from now on instead of ‘women’s soccer’?”

We certainly can. We definitely should.