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I was visiting my mother when the idea struck me. I quickly acted on it and created a WhatsApp group called “Haremlik.” I didn’t spend much time thinking about the name; it fit the purpose of the group perfectly.
I come from a close-knit family. We regularly gather for celebrations and summer evenings together, and we are used to mix gatherings. In the countryside, there are countless mastabas, which are slightly elevated stone or concrete platforms built outside homes for sitting or resting. That is where the extended family usually gathers, eventually splitting into smaller groups engaged in side conversations. Even our family WhatsApp group includes both men and women.
But this title, Haremlik, carried a certain sense of distinction and independence, a quiet strength. It reminds me of an episode of the Syrian television series The Four Seasons (al-Fusul al-Arba’a), directed by Hatem Ali and first aired in 1999. In that episode, the women of the family decide to break free from male authority and announce they are taking a trip without the men in a resolute act of defiance. But our Haremlik would have a very different flavor.
“What if something happens to us?”
Historically, haremlik, a term of Turkish origin, referred to the women’s quarters in Ottoman sultan’s palaces and grand houses, heavily guarded by pages and eunuchs to ward off political intrigue. Our group, however, set out in rebellion against any kind of guardianship. It buzzed with plans aimed at unsettling patriarchal power, a bold declaration that we were perfectly capable of organizing a trip from beginning to end without their support or even advice.
At first, we were all excited. We laughed a lot during that first conversation. But as soon as I proposed a serious plan for the trip, each woman rejected the idea in her own way. Some dismissed it as unrealistic, and others objected that actually organizing such a trip was simply unfeasible. Those who were in favor suggested we go somewhere nearby, just in case something happened and we needed “male support” to come to our rescue.
The following day, I texted my husband to tell him about the plan. He was all for the idea, as was my father: “Sure, why not? Take your mother, she’ll enjoy herself.” My mother, however, protested: “I’m not going. What if something happens to us?”
We drew up a list of everything we needed to pack, just like we used to do for school trips, except this time we were the ones organizing everything, not our parents. “Don’t forget anything,” my aunt kept repeating. “This has to be a perfect trip. We don’t want to give our enemies the satisfaction!”
What no one had anticipated was that one of our relatives would back out from the trip, she and her daughters, after her husband simply said “No.” Even though he had first reassured her he was on board. What changed? He’d assumed it was a joke, or that the whole thing would fall apart before it ever had the chance to materialize. But once he realized we were serious, the no came soon after, with the justification that they could not go so far away without protection. Whenever one of them said that we’d have a driver with us, he would laugh and mutter, “That’s exactly the problem.”
When my uncle’s wife and daughters withdrew, several other women started to hesitate as well, though they never openly admitted why. Others then responded with impassioned speeches and encouraging slogans that convinced them not to back out.
When we finally arrived, we looked at each other with gratitude. Nature was welcoming us, waiting for us to make our own choices for the first time.
Going on the trip
Dawn arrived slowly, its light tapping on our doors, punctuated by the muted glow of phone screens. It was time to leave. We gathered in front of my grandfather’s house and climbed into the microbus, a small vehicle designed to carry a limited number of passengers. Our sons and some of our husbands helped us load the heavy bags, which the driver would unload again once we arrived. As we set off, we sang an old Syrian song, “Whistle, whistle, little train, take us to al-Zabdani.”
When we finally arrived, we looked at each other with gratitude. Nature was welcoming us, waiting for us to make our own choices for the first time. The decision of what to do had always belonged to the men, who would simply point somewhere and announce that that was where we would spend the day.
My aunt got out first to inspect several possible locations before returning to tell us which one she thought was best. After breakfast, we played cards, conquian, and laughed freely, without any inhibitions. The comments and comparisons kept coming throughout the whole trip. Someone remarked, “I always thought the young men who organized these trips were geniuses doing hard work, but as it turns out, we were able to pull it off effortlessly!”
“Don’t celebrate too early,” someone else responded. “Wait till the trip ends without any disasters!” While someone else delighted in the independence of it all—“If the men were here, we’d be running around nonstop, serving breakfast, making lunch, taking care of everyone’s needs…”
The joy we felt was boundless, and our dopamine levels surged. There were no taboos shaping our conversations or holding back any of our spontaneous responses. We ate exactly what we wanted to. It felt like a pink space that belonged only to us, and only then did colors start taking on entirely new meaning for me. The privacy we had gave us a kind of inner steadiness, which each of us had needed but hadn’t realized how much until we’d finally experienced it.
This space didn’t mean we were abandoning others. But it reminded us that we also owe something to ourselves. Setting aside responsibility and motherhood, even briefly, made it surprisingly easy to recover from exhaustion, emotional labor, and guilt.
This space didn’t mean we were abandoning others. But it reminded us that we also owe something to ourselves.
After the trip
The Haremlik gatherings continued every week throughout the summer. Again and again we found ourselves wondering, “Why didn’t we start doing this sooner?” One of us insisted that she personally had no objection to men being present. In fact, she thought they would enrich the conversation. But others disagreed, countering that this was a private space that recharged their inner energy. One woman even candidly admitted, “How could we possibly share our private jokes if one of them were sitting here with us?”
And we weren’t alone in this, either. Similar women’s trips are constantly being organized. I was also delighted when a women-only café called Rose opened in our area. I know how significant such a space is in our relatively conservative rural community, where a woman driving a car or starting a business can still be treated as though she has committed a serious offense.
I visited the café, and its gentle aesthetic perfectly reflected the idea behind it. Far from arguments about equality, and beyond religious or social rules, it offered something closer to a temporary independence that we deeply long for, the kind of relief that lowers our self-consciousness. There, we can speak without being interrupted, without unsolicited advice delivered from a position of superiority. We are free in how we dress, how we sit, how we talk. As I reflect on all this, I find myself asking, “Why should we have to justify having a space of our own? Isn’t it something to be lived and built from within?”
Perhaps if women occupied the position of the Self, we wouldn’t need all these justifications. As Simone de Beauvoir argues in the introduction to The Second Sex, woman is cast as the Other, subordinate to the male subject whom patriarchal society establishes as the center. It grants him the authority to transgress, interrupt, impose opinions, and monopolize decision-making. And so the question remains an urgent one: Are private spaces simply lived realities, or must they first be justified before they can be claimed?
