We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir

by Samra Habib

It was one of the first signs that her identity was disposable. Her free will was up for grabs, available to be stencilled over by my father and perhaps even by her children.

According to her, one of my first full sentences was “Stop staring at me.”

Being parents to daughters meant mounting burdens; it didn’t guarantee the prosperity that having sons did. Boys were free to go out and generate income for the family, whereas girls needed to be sheltered from the dangerous outside world until it was time to pass them on to their new guardians, their husbands. Daughters were additional mouths to feed, and dowries for them had to be accumulated before marriage.

He was the strict ruler of our household, and he’d made it clear to us—my mother included—that good Muslim women shouldn’t dance or laugh or be heard. “Allah hates the loud laughter of women!” he’d bellow, raising his voice whenever we fooled around or were noisy.

Not only did we have to find someone who would open up their shop, but also we had to spot a place that sold a crown that fit a five-year-old aspiring thespian.

So my mother came of age knowing abandonment and neglect intimately. Her experiences taught her that as a woman, fertility, purity, and beauty were the only currencies she could exchange for a better life. She understood that any hindrance to my ability to find a suitable husband made me as undesirable and disposable as her stuttering mother.

Our sect was founded in 1889 by Mirza Ghulam Ahmad, who wanted to reform Islam and remind Muslims of the beliefs laid out by the Prophet Muhammad. He emphasized non-violence and stressed tolerance of other faiths.

My father refused to add a fresh coat because that would signal his commitment to a place my mother desperately wanted to leave behind.

For me, seeing green was like getting a pat on the back—something I rarely got at home.

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.

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.

Ironically, it was she, the very person who’d gotten me into this situation, who also taught me the lesson that would ultimately set me free: that we all go through hardships, tragedies, and barriers, that they’re all part of life in a world that has always been incredibly unfair and cruel, but it’s what we do with those experiences that allows us to leave our mark.

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

I figured if I had to dress modestly and cover myself, I might as well look chic doing it.

He had highlighted words that he found problematic: sex, kissing, and love. I’m sure there’d have been even more yellow on the pages if his English had been better.

I wanted a different kind of life. A life where I wasn’t afraid. A life where I didn’t have to ask for a man’s permission to read, to go to university, to drive a car. But I feared that the feminist ideals I had learned from books, teachers, and peers at school wouldn’t register with my parents.

I just wanted to be told that I was worthy, I was smart and I deserved good things happening to me.

After seeing an ad on a cereal box, I called a youth hotline from a telephone booth.

Andrew appreciated digging deeper for meaning and always emphasized the importance of pausing to just look, savour, and listen when the world demanded that.

“You can tell a lot about a person just by their shoes,” she said.

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.

In truth, I had been afraid of who I might find and of realizing what I had denied myself. Now I understood that there was a whole world I’d been hiding from, and I was finally ready to discover it.

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

It was surreal to be in a gay bar in Tokyo speaking in my native tongue with a gay Pakistani man from Beijing—like finding a missing puzzle piece under the coffee table while spring cleaning.

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.

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.

Understanding why that place means so much to me was the key to understanding who I am at my core.

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

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

Representation presented another challenge: historically, photography has been prohibited within Islam. Prophet Muhammad has been noted as saying, “The most severely punished people on the Day of Resurrection will be those who make images.”

“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.”

veronicas that flower in early summer,

“Books are where you will find yourself,” my mother would say whenever she sensed we’d lost our footing.

“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.”

The kind of home I imagine—one that offers stability and encouragement and the space to learn and grow as an individual—is a luxury I never had growing up.

For the first time in my life, I felt the warmth of unconditional love.

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