We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir

by Samra Habib

And that she in fact did not know best—for herself or for 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.

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

If it weren’t for having to read the Quran every day since as far back as I could remember, I would have believed I didn’t deserve to be happy, to be loved, or to have a choice in who I married. I would have spent my entire life believing that violence was just a given, a reality I had no choice but to tolerate. But Allah, my Allah, told me that I deserved better. So I would pray to him when I felt that no one was looking out for me in this world, not even my parents.

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.

His focus on the logistics was its own kind of support—the only kind he knew how to give.

I wouldn’t let the fact that I was coming out of a relationship with a man make me feel that I wasn’t queer enough—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.

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.

I now saw that I could carve out a place for myself that provided me with the spiritual nourishment I needed to weather life’s hurdles.

For me, practising Islam feeds my desire to understand the beauty and complexity of the universe and to treat everyone, regardless of their beliefs, with respect. My faith inspires kindness, patience, and self-reflection in my daily interactions.

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.

Our understanding of the interior lives of those who are not like us is contingent on their ability to articulate themselves in the language we know.

Representation is a critical way for people to recognize that their experiences—even if invisible in the mainstream—are valid.

But I knew the struggle all too well. I felt it every time I was in queer spaces and searched for faces that looked like my own.

“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.”

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.

Eventually I would find writers who were able to put my fears and insecurities into words, and artists who would inspire me to do the same, but for many years I was an outsider looking in, compelled by a mix of wonder and envy.

What if I could lessen someone else’s pain of feeling like they didn’t belong simply by presenting my authentic queer self instead of hiding?

Midterms were in full swing, and dozens of students were cuddling puppies in the courtyard when I arrived on campus.

Watching Laila and Saba made me understand how loving someone can be a radical act when the world denies you love. Suddenly, I longed to be loved.

Growing up, I wish I’d had access to queer Muslim writers and artists who saw, felt, and feared like I did. Who didn’t want to denounce Islam and instead wanted to see whether there was still a place for them in it. Who hurt like I did. Perhaps if I had, I would have sought comfort, company, and answers in their work when I was at my loneliest.

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. It helps me come back to myself, and it leads me to others who’ve struggled to reconcile seemingly disparate parts of themselves. For me, it’s not something I can put on and take off, like a garment.

Not everyone is equipped for activism in the traditional sense—marching, writing letters to officials—but dedicating your life to understanding yourself can be its own form of protest, especially when the world tells you that you don’t exist.