At Rookwood Cemetery in Sydney's west, Islamic Burial Section 8 is by the telegraph tower and the train line.

As I pull over, I notice other people conversing quietly with God by the graves of their loved ones. It looks like a funeral has recently taken place. I remind myself, inna lillah wa inna illayhi raji'un: we belong to God and it is to Him we return.

I'm here to visit the grave of my mum, Salwa Haydar, who was just 45 years old when she was murdered by my father in 2015. She was preparing her dinner in the kitchen after a long day's work when he attacked her with a knife.

My sister, who was 18 at the time, fought him with her bare hands and was injured in the attack. My father's actions were cowardly, merciless and unrelenting: my mum died at the scene from about 30 stab wounds.

Arriving at my mother's resting place, I empty the vases that flank her tombstone and fill them with fresh water and blooms — daisies and dahlias — before turning to her neighbours.

In an adjacent row, 16-year-old Mahmoud Hrouk is buried. I take my spare flowers to him.

Mahmoud was sexually assaulted and murdered in 2015 by Aymen Turkmani who left his body in an abandoned house in Villawood. Turkmani was subsequently found guilty and sentenced to a maximum of 45 years in prison.

Mahmoud's youthful face is never far from my thoughts — his funeral happened soon after my mum's and the sadness of their two stories seems to have fused in my mind.

I notice that the lilies by his tombstone are still in the bud. I think of his mum.

Children without parents, parents without children. Who else is here because of male violence? ( Supplied: Amani Haydar )

I then wander towards the back of Section 8, where, right by the fence line, lays baby Omaira: "Born without breath, but not without love".

Omaira died at 5 months' gestation when her pregnant mother was attacked by her abusive male partner. Omaira's tiny, humble grave has been decorated with pebbles and rainbow windmills. I remind myself to bring more flowers next time.

Children without parents, parents without children. Who else is here because of male violence? I ponder the question as I drive away with a heavy heart.

Why don't we talk more openly about the effects of male violence on our families? For Muslim women in particular, the answers are complex.

Recently, however, I've noticed a growing number of us are standing up to the forces that keep us quiet and I'm energised by the community's willingness to listen.

The double bind Muslim women find ourselves in

In its ongoing series, ABC News has been investigating the role of religion in influencing the behaviour of perpetrators and victims of domestic violence in different faith communities.

The most recent piece reported on the confusion and harm being caused by popular translations of verse 4:34 in the Quran, which some Islamic scholars argue permits men to beat "disobedient" wives.

Such interpretations hinder the work being done by Muslims to tackle gender-based violence. Meanwhile, contemporary, non-violent interpretations of the same verse have not yet gained consensus.

There also appears to be a rift between what classical scholars and imams understand about trauma and gender-based violence and what victims, survivors, advocates and social workers know about it.

As the illustrator of that piece, I was tasked with visually depicting the nuances of the topic, which required me to engage in a delicate balance: to highlight the seriousness of the issues while also resisting both patriarchy and Islamophobic stereotypes.

We don't need another image of an angry bearded man or a downtrodden Muslim woman and, as documented by the ABC in previous pieces, the fear of contributing to these harmful stereotypes deters many Muslim women from talking publicly about domestic violence.

Such is the double bind Muslim women survivors and activists find ourselves in. Between the screeches of Islamophobes and the booming voice of patriarchy within our own community, there is little room left for Muslim women to share their truths freely.

We want to critique patriarchy, to talk frankly about how rigid gender roles and inequality fuels violence and abuse. But we're also worried our stories will feed the racists or invite family disapproval, victim-blaming and slander.

So, we self-censor, and contain our struggles to private spaces, where our power and influence is limited.

Despite our disappointments, the conversation is shifting

I witnessed this dynamic in the days after my mother's murder.

My father was not a religious man; his mosque attendance was restricted to funerals. He did not encourage hijab or any other overt displays of religiosity. Still, when my mum was murdered, Islamophobes wrote articles that ignored the reality of violence against women in Australia and reduced the incident to a caricature.

The Australia First Party proclaimed on its amateur website, "Muslim immigrant to Sydney murders his wife because she wouldn't pass the salt", while another source incorrectly referred to the murder as an "honour killing".

In these spaces, my mum's faith rendered her distinct from the 80 other women who lost their lives to violence that year.

Already contending with trauma and grief, and conscious of this broader context, I was paralysed at the thought of engaging with the media.

Speaking up after my mum was killed was worth the fear I confronted. And it was exactly what my mum would have wanted me to do. ( Supplied: Amani Haydar )

At the same time, I was frustrated by the lack of opportunities to be vocal about my grief within my family and community. I was able to give a speech at a mosque service that was held for my mum about a month after her murder — an empowering moment.

However, about a year later, I walked out of the same mosque, with my baby on my hip, in protest against an uninformed and harmful sermon in which the speaker shamed women who initiate divorce or 'embarrass' their (abusive) husbands by involving police.

When I wrote a long complaint to the organisation responsible, they responded with a one-line email telling me to telephone a sheikh directly. It left me feeling disappointed and exhausted.

I have come a long way since then, finding creative and empowering ways to share my mum's story.

But spaces for Muslim women to talk about sexism and abuse are too often limited by the hostility we face on the grounds of gender, race and religious identity.

Empowerment can only come if we feel safe enough to share our stories without being blamed and vilified.

Importantly, we're in the process of empowering ourselves

Over the past few years, I have noticed a promising shift as Muslim women stand up to male dominated religious institutions, misogyny and widespread racism and reclaim their rights.

I was inspired, for instance, when I attended a conference at the beginning of the year, where Muslim academics, activists and other professionals came together to discuss how Muslim women in Australia exercise agency and resist sexism.

I've been encouraged to have these conversations with my art and my words and have come to realise the healing power of storytelling. ( ABC News: Kathleen Calderwood )

Social media, too, is providing opportunities for women to find each other and express their concerns in safe spaces.

In the wake of the #MeToo movement, a culture of accountability is emerging whereby problematic teachings and teachers can be challenged publicly.

And a growing awareness of mental health issues is emboldening women to speak more openly about how their lives have been impacted by trauma. Our lived experiences are evidence of why change is needed and, with so many survivors sharing their stories, the narrative is slowly changing.

I've personally been encouraged to have these conversations — with my art and my words — and have come to realise the healing power of storytelling.

'Verily with every hardship there is relief'

My faith has also helped me rebuild my confidence and come to terms with the horror and sadness I've faced in the past three years: whilst religious coping may not work for everyone, it has documented benefits for many victim-survivors working to overcome trauma.

When I got home from the police station on the night of my mum's murder, shaken and drained, I calmed myself by reciting quietly under my breath, subhanallah, alhamdulillah, la Illaha illa-llah.

An expression of praise, an utterance of gratitude, and an affirmation of the one-ness of God, these words were a crucial reminder for me of what I had previously been given, what I still had, and what I could depend on.

In the excruciating two years that my sisters and I waited for a trial, I prayed for an outcome that would help us heal and feel safe again.

Amani Haydar and her sisters Nour and Ola accept a degree awarded posthumously to their mother. ( Supplied: Amani Haydar )

The Australian legal system does not give victims an empowered role in criminal trials and anyone who follows the news will have seen the frequency with which dangerous men escape full accountability or are handed down unsatisfactory punishments, especially when the victim is a woman.

As his Honour Justice Garling handed down his verdict on March 31 last year, I held my sister's hand. I could hear her whispering prayers as I listened to the judgment.

When my father was pronounced guilty of murdering my mother and wounding my sister, I cried tears of relief.

I went on to write a research paper about crime, punishment and forgiveness from a trauma-informed perspective with reference to Islamic texts and tradition.

By studying texts that give victims a voice, I found validation for my grief and anger, and learnt about how these emotions could be harnessed and directed towards positive deeds and advocating for change.

I found solace in descriptions of a grander justice that I could be a part of, and was uplifted by verses of resilience and hope, Inna ma'al 'usri yusra: Verily with every hardship there is relief.

Are men prepared to help change the story?

Patriarchy has taken so much from women. It has deprived us of freedom, personal safety, and political agency.

It chips away at our confidence and muffles our voices. It undervalues our time and talents.

Those of us who rely on religion or spirituality to navigate these challenges do not want to be told that we should also let patriarchy take our faith. To suggest that our faith makes us complicit in our own oppression and that we should therefore abandon it is victim blaming.

So where to from here?

My faith has helped me rebuild my confidence and come to terms with the horror and sadness I've faced. ( Amani Haydar )

The address I gave at the masjid after my mum's murder was brief, but in it I urged the men present to honour her memory by reflecting on how they might become better husbands, better men.

I knew my mum's death was still vivid and raw for those men. I could see them, they could see me, and I saw that moment as an opportunity to connect.

Despite the slow progress and frequent disappointments since, I believe that speaking up was worth all the fear and vulnerability I confronted in that moment. And it was exactly what my mum would have wanted me to do.

So, to the men who are annoyed at outspoken women like me, who tell me my faith is holding me back, that I cannot be a feminist: you cannot have my story.

To the Muslim men I used to know, those who are silent and complicit, and those who see religion only as a validation of their desire for power and control: you cannot have my story.

I stand for neither of you. Whether you are my brother in faith or only in humanity, if you are not ready to listen, to help change the story, you cannot have mine.

Amani Haydar is a lawyer, artist and executive board member at Bankstown Women's Health Centre dedicated to advocating for the health and wellbeing of women. In 2018 she was a finalist in the Archibald Prize and the Law Society of NSW Just Art Prize and is currently completing a Masters in Islamic Studies at ISRA/CSU.