We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir

by Samra Habib

It would be far too easy to villainize my mother and her behaviour. But that is to assume she had the tools and the privilege to consider another future for her daughter.

Her experiences taught her that as a woman, fertility, purity, and beauty were the only currencies she could exchange for a better life.

Full House, one of the only American shows that aired in Pakistan.

My parents once sent me back to the bathroom to wash off all traces of a carefully applied layer of blue eyeshadow—my dad called it azaad. Azaad is a funny word in Urdu. In most instances, it means “freedom.” Freedom from your captors, war, and oppressive regimes. But when used to describe a woman, it is meant to imply that she is too wild to be tamed by those who have the right to tame her: her parents and all the men in her life whose honour it is her duty to prioritize before her desires. It’s also used liberally to slut-shame and put down a woman who shows any sign of autonomy or independence. One day I would wear the title of azaad like a badge of honour.

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. 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.

Brothers, sisters, mothers, daughters, sons, and cousins don’t speak to one another for decades over simple miscommunications, things taken a little too personally, sentiments uttered harshly, and bruised egos.

I suddenly found myself surrounded by ambitious kids who were all working incredibly hard to have a life different from their parents’. Their drive was infectious, and I put in the extra effort to maintain an A average alongside them. We may not have had the latest Nikes or the newest portable CD player, but we had grades to prove we were going somewhere. Doing well in school was a matter of survival for all of us, because education was our only hope. We didn’t have trust funds or parents with high-paying jobs.

they asked me how the science project Nicole and I had been working on was coming along. I was shocked at how much they knew about Nicole’s life and at how much support they provided her, picking her up from school and driving her to her various extracurriculars:

screaming matches with other fathers, usually in Punjabi, which has a broader vocabulary of vulgarity than Urdu.

I wondered if, by breaking myself out of the cycle that had imprisoned her and so many other women in my family, I had also freed her.

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.

But I understood that my need for closure with my father was a product of the culture I grew up in that placed so much emphasis on it. He didn’t have the tools to understand the psychological impact his parenting had on my life—I couldn’t expect him to

Kneeling on the spongy pink-and-green carpeted floor of the mosque’s dingy basement—the area designated for women while the men prayed in the airier and more welcoming space above—

fasting for just part of the day to feel a sense of camaraderie with the grown-ups, who fast until after sunset during Ramadan. Even now, nothing makes me feel more centred than listening to a beautiful recitation of the call to prayer,

a black trans woman in her twenties got up from the floor to give a beautiful recitation of the adhan,

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.

After months of emotional abuse, I’d left a girlfriend who regularly gaslighted me and made me doubt my own intuition. I felt betrayed that a woman could exhibit such misogynistic behaviour.

a new moon and a grounding perspective to weather life’s next string of challenges, to consider the smallness of the self and the largeness of the universe. Whatever has happened to you has happened before,

What was it like to grow up not having to worry about whether your parents could pay the next month’s rent, or put food on the table? How would the absence of fear have guided my life choices? Would I have taken more risks instead of seeking out the safety I so deeply craved? Am I better off for having struggled to figure out where I belonged?

Whenever a feeling of anxiety or fear creeps into my thoughts, I gently console the seven-year-old instead of the adult. “Don’t worry—it’ll be all right,” I say. “I’ll take care of you.” And I mean it.

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.