We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir

by Samra Habib

Sonia and I were the same age and instantly liked each other. She had a mischievous way about her that pulled me in. She always smelled of oranges, her fingers sticky from sucking on slices of the fruit as the juices dripped down her chin and hands. She left a trail of orange peels everywhere she went. I was in awe of her pin-straight hair that could do anything she wanted it to but mostly rested on her shoulders, two vertical lines framing her gamine face.

My memories of Rabwah are also of the mountains, the open sky, and the streets lined with trees so tall I would cramp my neck trying to see their tops. The air smelled like pine, mud stoves, and henna waiting to dry. Because there weren’t any tall buildings to obstruct the views, everything felt open. The sky was always crystal blue. The kind of freedom I experienced in Rabwah during family visits was unlike anything I experienced back home in Lahore.

People who devote themselves to learning have always been my people, my pockets of safety.

What would it feel like to walk through the world daring to present myself without apology? Why had I never given myself permission to marvel at my body and appreciate how resilient it had been? How it had gently carried me through pain and trauma, and how for years I hid it under layers of shame. Because my femininity had often been exploited by others, used as justification for controlling and monitoring me, I didn’t want it to be looked at or acknowledged.

being queer, I learned, is so much more than who you sleep with. It’s who you are, whether that means rejecting traditional gender roles or embracing non-normative identities and politics.

I started to think about the incredible, lasting friendships I’d made over the years—with Andrew, with Abi and Megan. Maybe my friends—my chosen family—could be the loves of my life. After all, chosen families are a cornerstone of queer culture, especially for those whose biological families don’t accept them. As we grow into ourselves, we amass a network of friends who embrace us as we are and nurture us in ways we never were while growing up. My friends, my soul mates, see all of me—the messy and the tender parts. They know what needs to be celebrated and what still needs healing.

My friends wouldn’t have a platform to deliver a poignant speech about how we met, but they could show me how much they cared in other ways: checking in during their coffee breaks when I’m upset over a racist encounter, surreptitiously leaving a Polaroid of a moody Halifax sunset on my desk because it reminds them of me, an invitation to go for a quiet walk on the beach or simply to sit in the kitchen with them while they bake an apple pie because there’s a whisper of fall in the air. Being surrounded by great people isn’t a fluke. It’s almost like solving a math problem, finding variables, adding and subtracting to figure out a formula that works. Being surrounded by people who fuel you is intentional.

When I asked Zainab what advice she would give to young queer Muslims who are looking for support and community, her response gave me chills. I still turn to her words for motivation: “We have always been here, it’s just that the world wasn’t ready for us yet. Today, with all the political upheavals in the Muslim World, some of us, those who are not daily threatened with death or rejection, have to speak for others. They have to tell stories of a community that is either denied or scorned. Together, through facing distinct realities, we should be united—united in the desire to be, in the desire to enjoy being free, safe, and happy. It is not going to be easy and one may never reach a reconciliation with oneself (or with religion), but at least we should care for each other. In face of the challenges, our sense of community and our shared aspirations for a better world should make us stronger.”

“I get it,” she said. “You’re trying to make Muslims who are treated unfairly feel like they are part of Islam. That’s very Muslim of you.”