25/03/2026
There is something deeply disturbing about the ease with which some men dismiss the need for female Muslim doctors, as though women’s bodies, dignity, and lived realities are abstract debates rather than urgent, human concerns.
Then you see a case like this. A doctor records himself licking his lips while speaking about inserting a catheter into a young female patient while the music in the background reportedly screams spreading of legs, reducing an intimate medical procedure to something suggestive and unserious. It is not just unprofessional. It exposes a mindset that many women quietly fear but are often told to ignore. And still, in the face of this, there are men who stand comfortably in public religious spaces and argue that female doctors are unnecessary.
How can anyone witness the realities of women’s healthcare and still hold that position without shame?
This is the reality of women, navigating systems where privacy is not guaranteed, where vulnerability is real, and where trust is fragile. In some hospitals, even non-medical staff move freely through spaces where women are exposed during treatment. There are accounts of male cleaners lingering in operating areas, taking advantage of moments when women are at their most defenseless. These are lived experiences.
At the very least, men should feel a sense of protective anger knowing that their mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters could be subjected to this. Even without invoking compassion, even without invoking respect, basic human instinct should be enough to provoke outrage. Yet what we often see instead is indifference, or worse, resistance to solutions.
Why are we still debating whether Muslim women should enter professions like medicine?
Why is the conversation stuck at whether women belong in the home, while women are struggling to access safe and dignified healthcare?
If the concern is truly about modesty, then the logical response is not restriction. It is provision. It is building systems where women can be treated by women. It is investing in female education, creating pathways, offering scholarships, and establishing women-led healthcare spaces that align with our values while addressing real needs.
But that requires effort. It requires collective responsibility. It requires moving beyond rhetoric.
In places like Nigeria, where maternal mortality remains alarmingly high, the stakes are too high. Women are dying. Muslim women are encouraged to bear more and more children, yet the same energy is not directed toward ensuring that they survive childbirth safely. There is relentless opposition to family planning, but far less urgency when it comes to improving maternal healthcare systems. That imbalance should trouble anyone with a conscience.
There are rural communities where women delay or avoid seeking care simply because there are no female doctors available. Some will only go to a hospital if they know a woman will attend to them. Others return home untreated, not because they are careless, but because they are trying to navigate their values within systems that do not accommodate them. By the time their conditions worsen, it is often too late.
And still, the outrage is not loud enough.
Instead of mobilising resources, forming initiatives, and supporting women who want to enter these fields, energy is spent asking whether they should be allowed to try at all, often measured against staying indoors or being a housewife. Unfortunately, some women seek the opinions of religious figures before making decisions that do not require such validity. As though the validation of a distant authority is more important than the immediate needs of the community.
When did personal responsibility for community development become so easily dismissed?
The role of a teacher is to provide knowledge and principles, not to control every decision of a person’s life. When individuals are conditioned to seek approval for every step, even in matters that clearly serve the public good, something has gone wrong. That kind of dependence smells like control.
And it has consequences.
Women who want to contribute meaningfully to society are held back, not by lack of ability, but by unnecessary barriers, not necessarily markers of piety. Meanwhile, the problems they could have helped solve continue to grow.
At some point, the community has to be honest with itself. This is not working.
If we truly care about modesty, dignity, and the wellbeing of women, then we should be at the forefront of building systems that protect them. We should be supporting women to become doctors, specialists, and healthcare providers. We should be funding institutions that ensure women are treated in environments that respect their values.
Anything less is negligence.
This doesn’t mean that this is the only sector where women are needed, but it is the subject of this conversation.
And for women who feel uncertain about pursuing paths that could benefit other women significantly, the reality is simple. Waiting for universal approval will only delay progress. As long as what you are doing is within the bounds of the Sharī’ah, and it serves a clear good, then it is worth pursuing.
No one else is going to build these systems for us.
And the cost of waiting is far too high.
