We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir

by Samra Habib

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.

As long as I was kind, like the Prophet Muhammad, I could have the life I imagined when I closed my eyes—a life where I would come home from school to a warm meal and parents who were proud of me no matter how I chose to express my true, unvarnished self.

When introducing myself to a person of colour or someone with an accent, I’d say my name in Arabic, how my mother wanted it to be pronounced. To those who refuse to shorten or anglicize their name, I offer mine as an act of camaraderie. But if I’m meeting someone who looks like they’ve never had to correct people three times before being offered a handshake, I just accept whatever rolls off their tongues.

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.

But Shireen looked like the queer Iranian action figure I would have wanted, if such a thing existed. They seemed to have made a mission out of proving there was no one way to be Muslim.

Mosques that are run by queer imams and welcome queer Muslims are not advertised on public forums or on social media. If you don’t happen to know someone who attends one, it’s almost impossible to know they exist, and for good reason: safety is a major concern for attendees. Many are refugees who’ve fled Muslim countries where being gay is still punishable by death.

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 more than a decade of deprivation, I was spiritually hungry. Although I maintained a private relationship with Allah, I longed for a non-judgmental spiritual community where I could meet others like myself.

After all, Islam is not a monolithic religion. Although all of us in that room viewed and experienced Islam through a queer lens, the version of Islam we each practised was very much shaped by what also set us apart: geography, culture, race, class, and history.

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.

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 started to wonder if it had been unfair of me to write off my religion because of how some of its followers, including my own parents, had made me feel. 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.

Much has been written in academia about queer Muslims, but often the ideas and findings are disseminated by scholars who have far more privilege than the subjects of their work.

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

My worst-case scenario never materialized: she hadn’t told me I was going to hell or tried to convince me that my queerness was just a phase, and she wasn’t going to cut me out of family gatherings. For the first time in my life, I felt the warmth of unconditional love.

“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.”

arrived in Istanbul shortly after Turkey banned Pride events under Erdoğan’s rule. Queer Muslims I met there were understandably disillusioned with Islam, since their rights were compromised by authorities daily.

Many Canadians who enjoyed the fruits of decades of activism did not see any need to advocate for the rights of queer and trans people of colour.

“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.”

she no longer had to decide between being queer and being Muslim, that her Muslim identity is inherently queer because she is.

“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.”

Would we always be fighting for a chance to be treated with compassion and dignity?

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.

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.