REVIEW: My body, my choice!, Maedeh Najafi, Adelaide Fringe ★★★☆☆

Three rows, two acts and one woman. Thats all that was needed for Maedeh Najafi to take us on a journey from the Middle East – to the West and everything that encompasses.  My body, my choice! is a masterful storytelling of faith, rebellion, grief, and survival. Cushioned with humour, her story unfolds—of a once-devout Muslim woman, breaking free, choosing herself, and the isolation that followed. A choice so radical, so unforgivable, that it almost led to choosing, well, nothingness. 

We open up to a… Phoenix? Fluffy wings on her back, beak on her nose and a pep in her step. Unexpected, yet understandable. A symbol of her own rebirth, forged in the fire of breaking cycles and generational trauma. She has risen, leaving behind the shackles of expectation, becoming a woman her younger self never imagined she could be. Stepping forward from the embers, Maedeh begins to tell her story—one that echoes through Middle Eastern and Muslim women, yet carries truths that resonate with women everywhere. A testament to resilience, strength, and, of course, the fucking patriarchy.

ACT 1 – Enter Khalto. For those unfamiliar, Khalto means Aunty in Arabic. Maedeh playfully calls on audience volunteers. We hold up a shimmering fabric—a veil between performer and character. Lace undergarments are tossed over, a cheeky farewell to the woman she was a moment ago. And then, she steps out. Khalto Layla. The transportation was nuts. Suddenly, I was back in Melbourne, in the home of my conservative Khalto, every detail achingly familiar. The hijab, the posture, the pursed lips of someone forever teetering between disapproval and devotion—Maedeh didn’t just act the part; she became her. 

A crucial knowing about this archetype is, Khalto Layla has spent a lifetime bound by expectations, rules and judgement passed down like an heirloom no one asked for.

“Her mission is to be a good girl. And all she has to do to be a good girl is follow the rules.”

She unfurls a scroll—it rolls and rolls, like a bowling ball hurtling toward its inevitable strike. The pegs? Not just obstacles, but boots pressing down on the necks of women’s right to exist. And the perfect strike? A class-A nice girl, so expertly conditioned by internalised misogyny that she polices herself before anyone else even has to.

“Do not speak in social gatherings unless spoken to.”
“Do not complain.”
“Do not let anyone know what’s wrong at home—even if it’s everything.”

These rules are stitched into the fabric of Middle Eastern and Muslim womanhood, a tapestry woven with the weight of culture, tradition, and faith. But make no mistake—this scroll does not discriminate. Its ink stains the lives of women across the world. Different words, different customs, the same suffocating script.

These expectations don’t just shape women—they carve into them, moulding them well into adulthood. Choosing to break free is an act of defiance. And defiance always comes at a cost. Exile from your community. The relentless gnaw of self-doubt. The violent rage of men who believe control is their birthright. Sometimes, the cost is even higher—death threats from your own blood, the unbearable weight of despair, the pull toward nothingness.

For Maedeh, it was all of the above.

And yet, she stayed. Not because it was easy. Not because survival was promised. But because one force outweighed the pain—her three-year-old son. The only thing stronger than the urge to leave was the promise of showing up for him. These consequences strike hardest when choices are already at their heaviest, like some big fat test no one signed up for. For Maedeh, that test was removing her hijab—not just a piece of fabric, but about reclaiming her body, her autonomy, her self.

To some, the hijab is a simple head covering, “sometimes extending to the shoulders, knees, and toes—knees and toes.” But for Maedeh, it was more than cloth. It was her mother’s devotion in whispered prayers. It was faith, belonging, the thread that wove her into her community. Taking it off was never going to be easy. But the storm that followed was nothing short of brutal. Why? Because she is a woman. And how dare a woman recognise her own power? How dare she claim control over what is rightfully hers—not her brother’s, not her father’s, not her community’s. Just hers.

Now, if she had been a man—oh, how different her story would be.

Because let’s be clear: the Patriarchy is not just a Middle Eastern affliction. It seeps into every culture like a disease. In the US, it looks like fucking outrageous anti-abortion laws—men in suits deciding what women can and cannot do with their own bodies. In Australia, it looks like one in five women experiencing sexual assault, while the perpetrators walk free. And in Middle Eastern cultures?

Men. Are. Kings.

They are worshipped. While women are the soundboards, the silent holders of their families’ pain. The yes women. The do not speak until spoken to women. The men get to live. To breathe. To exist without question. They get to chase ambition, to travel, to dream, to hope—all without consequence.

And for Maedeh? It meant carrying the weight of her mother’s grief as a child, whispering verses from the Quran as comfort. It meant that while she sat in the depths of despair, her brother—the golden boy—had the fucking audacity to throw a death threat at her like it was his birthright.

ACT 2 – Comedy. Unfortunately, this is where the show fell short. Here lives untapped space—to lean in deeper, to step boldly into the raw edges of her truth. To resist softening, whitewashing, making her experience more palatable. Trauma births the sharpest comedy—the kind that cuts and heals in the same breath. And with just a little more fearless ownership of her story, a little more preparation, this show could be unstoppable. A gut-punch wrapped in laughter. A masterclass in turning pain into power. But that’s just a continuation of this whole show isn’t it? Because sometimes womanhood is convincing a room you are totally okay with something you have every single right to be upset about. 

There is no doubt—Maedeh knows how to hold a room, to weave a tale that grips you by the ribs. She carries a story that matters, one that shifts perspectives, summons compassion, makes you laugh until your stomach aches—and then lingers, long after the lights dim, leaving you thinking. 

Maedeh’s story is not just hers—it’s the story of countless women fighting for the right to exist on their own terms. This fight of survival is not metaphorical. Women fight for this as if their lives depend on it—because they do. To every man reading this, you owe it to the women in your life to listen —Recognise that violence against women is not a women’s issue and step up. And to every woman who has carried the weight of expectation and shame reserved especially for us: choosing yourself doesn’t mean loss. It means shedding those who thrived on your self-abandonment. And that? That is freedom. My body, my choice! is a powerful call to honour your truth, to laugh, to learn, to rage, and above all—to claim your right to exist, unapologetically.

Recommended Drink: Shai bi Irfi. A Middle Eastern cinnamon tea that fells like a hug, because man – you’re going to need it. 

Performances of My body, my choice! have now concluded at Adelaide Fringe 2025.