In a bright café and library in Baalbek, a city perched on the Syrian border, far from the pulsing heart of Lebanon’s capital Beirut, women gathered to share stories free from the presence of men.
“I used to sit for a long time and ask myself: ‘will I ever become a nurse?’ Until one day, I walked into my family’s home and found a white dress waiting for me. My family had decided for me. They took my childhood from me; my dreams dissolved, and I became a wife,” says one.
Another, sitting nearby, echoed her sentiments: “I knew nothing of childbirth or marriage when a clan decided my fate. I did not know my sexual rights; I believed everything was subject to a man’s will. Later, I discovered that I have a body through which I come to recognise all my desires.”
The speakers are from all walks of life, but have one thing in common: a desire to connect with other women in a safe space free from the confines of the patriarchy. This is what draws them to Mayli, a woman-only library café we founded in 2023. It’s the only such space in the city, named after a word in the Beqaa dialect that loosely translates into the phrase: “come visit us so we can talk and gossip.”
In Baalbek, women have little space of their own within the public sphere. Historically, Lebanese women have been excluded from cafés, gardens and other public spaces. We’re also discouraged from gathering with one another, as the patriarchal system regards such assemblies as threats to male control. As a result, the social and political act of “gossiping” among women has been relegated to the private sphere, censored from public view.
In her book Witches, Witch-Hunting, and Women, feminist scholar Silvia Federici traces the etymology of the word “gossip,” arguing that the term was originally a neutral one referring to bonds of friendship and affection among women. It only developed a negative connotation later, when society increasingly looked down on women gathering to share information.
In the Arab context however, “gossiping” has long been associated with sedition and discord. While the term isn’t explicitly gendered in Arabic, the concept of women’s talk itself has also always been frowned upon.
You can see this in the common phrase “women of the oven”, which refers to the idea that women belong in the kitchen and so our opinions are of little value. To reclaim the phrase, some of the women who came to Mayli decided to write it out in large print and hang it on the walls of our café, as a symbol of resistance against those who have attempted to silence us.
Of course, not everyone is supportive of our safe space. Once, a man passing by complained: “This is discrimination. A café only for women!” Layali, one of the Beqaa women who volunteers regularly with us, sarcastically replied: “And are you really ready to listen to our voices and our protest against you?”
Had we not opened this café and library, we would have never found a space to talk about the issues that concern us as women. The conversations we have are diverse; the participants too.
I remember a teenage girl speaking to her friend about her menstrual cycle: “I was happy with my body. I felt that I had matured, but at the same time I was scared.” Her friend replied that she too felt anxious, for everyone around her became suddenly aware that she was able to bear children.
“I heard phrases like ‘she has blossomed’ and ‘she has become a chicken,’” the friend said, adding that her mother told her to stay quiet and “hide it from the men in the family,” including her father and brothers. She was also told that sanitary pads were items that “must not be seen,” and given precise instructions about disposing them. “This fear still weighs on me.”
A woman sitting near our kitchen joined in on the conversation, sipping her lemonade and reflecting on the paradox of coming of age in our conservative society, where physical maturity does not equate to greater bodily autonomy. “You remain small as long as there is surveillance, but you become responsible when there’s work,” she commented wryly.
In Beqaa clans, teenage girls are expected to take on caregiving and household labour at an early age, but their behaviour remains highly restricted and surveilled. In short, they carry domestic duties before they’re able to carry their own choices.
In Mayli, we believe that a kitchen shouldn’t merely be a place for labour. It should be a social space where women can gather to exchange ideas, talk about their joys, disappointments and social or economic conditions – while cooking together, if they wish to do so. Unlike many small modern kitchens, we designed ours to be spacious to accommodate this vision. Everyone is welcome; we listen to them and, in turn, share details about our own lives.
Not long ago, a young woman with short hair entered our café and asked to speak with Mihad, one of the founders. She was direct: “I am trans, and I hide my gender identity because I am afraid they will kill me or assault me. Does this café welcome trans women?”
Mihad looked at her and said: “This is your place.”
The young woman confessed she had recently moved back to live in her family’s home after being driven out of Beirut by the city’s high cost of living and lack of job opportunities. She had taken pains to hide her gender identity while applying for jobs for fear of being discriminated against – but was still unable to find work. Here, she would be accepted as herself.
We like to call our space a “women’s factory” where relationships are woven and collective memory can be shaped. When visitors ask us why we organise communal cooking and other activities, we tell them that we see these gatherings as essential pathways for building friendships and creating areas for new experiences and exchanges.
The Italian philosopher Silvia Federici once said that “women are the weavers of memory.” In Mayli, we hope to create a space where women can forge new collective memories – and build a community that we can call our own.
Illustration by Elio Ferrario