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Being a young Muslim woman in today’s society can often be an anxiety-provoking prospect, but if you’re queer, the pressure is even higher. Queer Muslim women and femmes are some of the most vulnerable members of their faith, yet too often they go invisible within the larger queer community. Many endure harassment and marginalization both from society at large and from their fellow queer people, meaning they often feel the double sting of isolation from two communities they can call home. It’s a hard psychological burden to carry on top of the increased risk of discrimination they already face.
Ahead of Ramadan, we asked five young queer Muslim women about navigating their faith and their sexuality. While most of them have chosen to remain anonymous, each story makes a compelling case for the importance of recognizing and accepting queer women within both the queer and Islamic communities, and the hardships that they face within each.
N
As a closeted bisexual Muslim woman, life isn't all that it seems. At religious and social functions, I feel out of place. Being the most diverse person in the room gives you the worst feeling. I love my sexuality and I know it’s valid, I just wish my family could understand me.
I can't change, even if I want to. I can't hold back or suppress my feelings without causing another disruption. Love is the key, but is it only the key when it fits into someone else’s guidelines? The biggest thing I remind myself of is that Allah is the only one who can judge me, and who can truly know that I am like this. Neither my family nor my peers will ever understand it. Maybe even I don’t, but I love my sexuality. I love myself. I love women just like I love men. Love is just love. It doesn't discriminate, it just brings joy.
Y
As is the case for anyone else, my social identity — my Muslim faith, womanhood, race, ethnicity — determines how society treats me. As one might expect, it isn’t “easy” in the slightest to be a brown hijabi teen in the South. So one could only imagine the hypervigilance that accompanies being closeted and queer on top of all of that.
Falling in love has arguably been the greatest challenge of my existence; it simultaneously conjures the most gratifying feelings and the most terrifying ones. Not a single moment passes that I am not considering the interplay of my identities. After all, members of both the LGBTQIA+ and Muslim communities claim my intersections are a paradox. Each day of my life I wonder: do I have to choose one? If love is my “sin,” can it be as punishable as murder? Is love even a sin?
When you’re Muslim, Bangladeshi, and queer, every act of love is seen as a rebellion; it’s essentially a matter of choosing love for Allah, love of Desi culture, or love for my partner. I may never figure it out, but I’m hoping that someday I’ll truly believe that they don’t have to be mutually exclusive.
L
I came out to my closest friends as queer when I was 19 years old, which was relatively late compared to my peers. I believe this is due to my upbringing and lack of queer Muslim representation I viewed growing up. When I came out, I was the first queer Muslim I knew.
I have four older siblings, and my mom is a very religious Palestinian Muslim woman who reads the Quran every day and wears a hijab. Letting my mom know I am queer is not an option. Not because I fear for my safety, but it is something I know she will never be able to comprehend. The “don’t ask, don’t tell” mentality is highly prevalent in the Muslim community and something her views align with. Having said that, I came out to my two older sisters a few months ago, which made me very proud of myself.
Regardless of my sexuality, I will continue identifying as Muslim and defending my community against bigoted assumptions and acts of terror that attempt to demonize Muslims for existing. I wish the LGBTQ+ community spoke out against Islamophobia more frequently and was more inclusive in their representation. I wonder if that would have empowered me to embrace my full identity at a younger age.
Being a hijabi, there can be a bunch of requirements that are forced upon you simply because you’re covering up. Being a queer bisexual hijabi is so hard because sometimes I have to choose between my faith and sexuality. Islam as a faith isn't homophobic, but the culture I have grown up in certainly is.
My first girlfriend was also a hijabi, and it was so hard to be together. One day we would be holding hands, but the next, we would pretend we hated each other so nobody would ask any questions. When I came out to a cousin of mine, they told one of my siblings. I tried to deny it, but when they found out the truth they told me I was no longer their sister. It broke me to pieces. A few hours later, I attempted suicide.
Queer hijabis feel like they are an abomination for being queer, and it doesn't help us when queer people are Islamophobic. I wish the queer and Islamic communities could both understand that queer Muslims exist. It's so hard to come forward because neither community understands us. They don't understand we will give anything to be accepted and how much we can’t speak up because we feel unsafe. Just because I'm a queer hijabi doesn't mean I'm not proud of being either of those things. One does not cancel out the other — they both make me proud. I just wish I was accepted.
Amal Amer
I trust my body. As a hijabi, I was taught to conceal it all, but still, I held it sacred. And when I felt desire for a girl, I knew to trust my body. I never had much of a crisis deciding how I can be Muslim and queer, because I feel Muslim and I am unquestionably queer. When I read people’s fitful assertions online that one can’t be both queer and Muslim, I laugh. How can they deny Allah’s own work?
I slip, chameleon-like, from hijabi to drag queen to my everyday feminine masculinity. While my gender presentation changes daily, my underlying gender identity is nonbinary. Angels in Islam are genderless, and they’ve helped me visualize and validate my own identity. I draw them constantly and imagine them supporting me and guiding me even before I could name my queerness. I feel like they’ve been whispering “you can do it Habibi” to me since I was a child. My guardian angels aren’t just the unseen ones, but also all the other Muslim queer folks who have touched my life. I believe that true healing happens when we are together and I’m held by my brown and black sisters and nonbinary siblings.
Visit Amal's website or follow them on Instagram @youcandoithabibi.
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