“On the four hundred and fifty-fifth night, she said: O auspicious king, the wise philosopher then asked the handmaiden, ‘Tell me of the first hem drawn across the earth.’ The handmaiden replied: ‘It was Hajar’s hem, drawn upon the ground out of modesty before Sarah, and thus it became a custom among the Arabs.’ The sage asked: ‘Tell me of something that breathes yet has no soul.’ The handmaiden answered: ‘By the dawn as it breathes.’ The sage then asked: ‘Tell me of pigeons, some perched atop a tree and others at its base. Those in the tree said to those below: If one of you comes to us, you will be one-third of our number; but if one of us goes to you, you will equal us in number.’ The handmaiden said: ‘There were twelve pigeons, seven perched above and five below. If one pigeon descended from above, the two groups would be equal; and if one from below ascended, those above would be twice the number of those below.’ At this, the philosopher tore his garment and fled the gathering.” One Thousand and One Nights, “The Tale of the Incomparable Handmaiden”
Every good story in life begins with another good story. For centuries, One Thousand and One Nights has been one of the Middle East’s enduring masterworks, perhaps the most powerful feminist narrative of its time, precisely because of the risks it dares to imagine. What inspiration and message can the girls of the Middle East draw from this ancient tale?
Scheherazade possessed neither weapons nor an army. She commanded no law, no system of power. Her wealth lay in language and words. Our sisters today in Afghanistan and Iran likewise have no weapons or battalions; the full machinery of law and governance stands against them. Yet Scheherazade, through courage and risk-taking, stepped out of passivity and devised a strategy for survival. She understood the magic of imagination, reason, and language, and from them forged a means of endurance. By executing each bride before sunrise, King Shahryar did more than turn the female body into an object of vengeance; he transformed it into a theater for the display of male power and sovereignty. Today, across parts of the Middle East, women’s bodies remain the terrain upon which regimes assert legal and ideological control. Decrees continue to emerge from the Taliban restricting women’s presence and autonomy. The most recent directive has granted men the right to physically punish their wives. This is the same Shahryar logic: a system that secures its authority through the erasure and negation of women. In the Taliban’s worldview, a woman’s body is dangerous; suppressing it becomes a spectacle of male dominance. What they fear most is the visible presence of “body and word.”
Yet Scheherazade, this archetype of storytelling, proved that real power resides in the mind and in language. In the classical Greek understanding, the human being is both a political animal and a speaking one. Endowed with reason and consciousness, humans speak, and if they fail to resolve conflict through words, they abandon both their political and rational nature. They descend instead into the realm of Shahryar: a world ruled by appetite, where existence revolves around lust, first the lust of the body, then the lust for killing.
Scheherazade saved her life through storytelling. But her triumph did not end there. She transformed Shahryar’s very thinking, prevailing over brute force. She symbolizes humanity’s capacity to create, to imagine, to transform. When human beings abandon thoughtful politics, they become destructive creatures driven by desire. Yet within humanity also resides the Scheherazade impulse: the power to innovate and to change the course of events. Its grandeur lies in daring to create something that at first glance appears mythical, yet rests upon wisdom that is entirely earthly and plausible.
The sisters of Scheherazade in the Middle East can, through this logic, prevail over wrathful and vengeful rulers. You may call this optimistic or naïve. But by Scheherazade’s strategy, it is not impossible. In Platonic thought, the highest virtue of reason and wisdom is courage, the courage to leave the realm of passivity, victimhood, and surrender. We must not forget that ancient stories remain redemptive guides, just as Greek philosophy continues to offer a wellspring of reflection and insight.
If Islamic and totalitarian regimes restrict the body and erase presence, the Scheherazade weapon, the word, remains available. One can narrate. One can reveal plurality, diversity, and existence itself. Truth emerges from these stories, from the lived realities of individual citizens. No one possesses the whole truth. By narrating, reading, and writing, you first affirm your own being; then you begin reform at its most intimate source, in the mind of a father, a brother, a husband. Regrettably, in many homes, there still seems to dwell a Shahryar, one who, in the absence of a Scheherazade, may kill under the sway of appetite and power. Be the Scheherazade of your own home. Be the candle of your small dwelling. Cities are built from these small homes and from individual lives. Do not consider yourself alone or insignificant. As Rumi wrote:
Do not say, “All are at war, what can my peace achieve?”
You are not one; you are a thousand. Light your own lamp.
