We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir

by Samra Habib

She was raised to believe that control was not something granted to women. Even with a tiny bit of control, there is always a caveat: you cover yourself up when conducting business with men; you get your husband’s, brother’s, or father’s permission before you travel; and elders are always right, even when they aren’t.

I too have lost my dignity because of these people as a result of circumstances I have no control over,

I found it unfair that women were expected to leave everything behind once they married, as though their lives before that point had never existed.

“Jab hona hoga, ho jayega”—whatever is meant to happen will happen.

In my world, you weren’t asked how things felt. Parents and elders made your decisions for you. I’d never imagined there was an alternative, that I would ever have the opportunity to make a case for what I actually wanted.

But often I spent time in the park alone, lingering among the rose bushes. The smell reminded me of lying in our lush garden back home, where I would water the roses during the hot summer months and think to myself, This is where I would like to die. Maybe that was a morbid thought for a kid my age, but not so surprising for someone who so deeply craved permanency—after all, what was more permanent than death?

In my world, every move was carefully inspected for any traces of sin, usually by my parents but also by other Muslims from the mosque who felt compelled to keep an eye on me,

Grown-ups, who are supposed to protect their children, are limited by what “best” has felt like to them, based on the circumstances they grew up in and the privilege they did or did not have. The lines between grown-up and child were often blurred between me and my mom. Her “best” did not look like mine; in fact, it looked like danger. It felt like surrender.

Growing up, I’d been taught that women weren’t supposed to speak their minds; Abi planted the seed that as a woman in this world it’s important to take up space and make yourself heard, even if it intimidates and offends powerful men.

There are many ways to come out. Sometimes the label comes first. Sometimes it’s through action or experience. Some people say they’ve always known, and for others the process of realization is gradual.

In truth, I had been afraid of who I might find and of realizing what I had denied myself.

“You’ll be surprised by the version of yourself you’ll meet when you travel,”

Perhaps that’s why people travel, to see the mechanics of everyday life from a different angle.

Maybe home was simply any place where you felt seen and welcome.

Maybe being a woman could be a source of power for me. 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.

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.

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.

“You have everything you need. I can’t wait for people to see what I’ve known all along—that you’re amazing.”

But for most of my twenties, Islam felt like a parent dishing out conditional love: I had no right to call myself Muslim because I’m queer and don’t wear the hijab.

After all, Islam is not a monolithic religion.

I tried to hold back my tears—for the first time I was witnessing a version of Islam I could be a part of. After being scolded and frozen out, I now felt that Islam was welcoming me back into its arms. It had been an awful lonely time, and I was glad to be in the company of people who didn’t ask me to change who I was in order to share space with them. I had finally found my people.

I was emboldened to think about what kind of relationship I wanted with Islam—something that had never been an option growing up. You were born a Muslim and had to abide by certain rules and standards if you were to retain your membership. For so long, I had lived under the glare of disapproval. The heady realization that I could still have a place in a faith that had previously rejected me felt shocking. I was witnessing that which I had only ever imagined: a queer utopia of sorts. A fantasy of being accepted and being seen.

I’d never felt more Muslim than I did among my fellow outsiders, who came from all over the world and who each practised Islam in their own individual ways.

I loved that we were questioning and reimagining not just what it means to be Muslim in the twenty-first century but how to apply Islamic teachings to our present-day lives.

In fact, it’s in the getting lost that you find yourself.

The images implanted a new hope in me that being queer can also be a cause for joy. That you can create a community for yourself when society denies you one.

But visual language is more easily parsed and a much more democratic form of communication. We’re bombarded with images through advertising, television, and social media—consuming images is part of our daily life.

“We have always been here, it’s just that the world wasn’t ready for us yet.

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.”

“Books are where you will find yourself,”

“Jaan, it helps to find solace in the larger universe, especially when your internal world isn’t hospitable,” she said, hoping that the advice would stick. “Sometimes that is how you come back to yourself.”

A person’s childhood home is the prologue to their story. It contains clues to the inner workings of their minds, their specific view of the world.

I don’t know if I expected him to understand, but his response, economical as it was, is something I won’t forget. “You can’t help it,” he said. “It’s just who you are.”

“Our safety, our survival, is routinely threatened in the name of some hypothetical greater safety that does not include us,” she told me. “What they are trying to keep safe is white supremacy, what they are trying to protect is their own power.”

“Islam in its purest form is simply a way of life,” she said. “From its teachings, I’ve gathered a deep appreciation and respect for the concept of inner struggle, and believe that this is the work every human needs to do to be healthy.”

“We exist,” she told me, “and we’re fierce as fuck.”

Recently, Bilal asked me, “Why do you need to call yourself Muslim?” Maybe it’s our age difference, but we’ve never really discussed his relationship with Islam at any great length. I thought about his question. Why do I feel loyalty toward Islam when, as Bilal sees it, Islam isn’t always kind toward Muslims like me? The reality is that this identity has shaped the way I see the world, and the way others see me, in a way that is beyond my control. Being Muslim is one of the only absolutes about myself I can be sure of. It serves as an anchor when I’m lost at sea.

Maybe this identity—this label I wear that defines me—is my house. And my voice was in here all along.