QUEER UMMAH: A Visibility Project

From Northampton, Massachusetts, USA:

“Reasons why my life is worth living right now (in no order of importance):

- Learning more about and honoring the lives and mission of Ahlul Bayt

- beginning to harness and appreciate my voice in a musical context

- unraveling anxiety and trauma, pushing myself through necessary and thrilling healing

- connected more deeply with other people of the book, especially those of color, who share a radical vision of life and the future God will empower us to make - meeting my ancestors for the first time My Islam _is_ my Blackness, and my queerness. Submission to ﷲ has meant ceasing to struggle against the nature They gave me, has meant stopping the hatred of the body They gave me, has meant living in the present of Their reality and striving to hear Them when they speak desires to me, through whatever source. There’s the ritual of submission,  following the Prophet ﷺ and his family, loving and honor them and the traditions they brought to us as Muslims, but submitting to God runs deeper, I feel, than the ritual. I could not have learned to love my Blackness without first submitting to God, without being Muslim. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to pursue transition without meditation on my self guided with of Qur’an; Being Muslim is... natural. Just like sinning is natural and breathing is natural. This may not be true for everyone, but my Islam, the peace and submission come through centering myself *in* myself in ways that I couldn’t do when trying to operate in any other spiritual context.”

From Queens, New York, USA:

“I was raised a homophobe in my mother's Muslim household. I remember absorbing a lot of hate speech, automatically separating myself from the victims of her prayers. She would always hope that they could all go to their own island and leave the rainbow alone... Darker tones than that though. I left her household in 2014 and moved back to Queens.

It wasn't until college that I removed the default label of heterosexuality and called myself a 'philosexual'. I loved anyone who would love me, that I could feel from afar and reciprocate warmly. They happened to be 75% girls. And I was still a virgin, so sex wasn't even part of it until much later. I only was in love with one boy, but my soulmates were my sisters. One Muslima who felt the way I did, one trans boy who taught me to feel ways I never did, and one younger lesbian who just wanted to love every aspect of me.  

I realized they were me. They all showed respect and empathy that you don't always get from outsiders. The level of understanding was different.

I have married a man (the boy I was in love with) who now understands that one reason he's so lucky to be my husband alone, is that I can only love another woman after being hurt, manipulated and disappointed by so many men. He still isn't on board with the whole movement to bridge homosexuality and Islam. It is a touchy subject in the house still, but we're both growing.

I didn't want to be forced to marry just anyone, to ‘save me from the hellfire’. I see the depression in sisters who come out too early, still under their parents' control. I feel blessed to have explored on my own, and coming out to peers in my own time. A lot of people remember me being really adamant about not being touched, especially by a woman. A lot of that emotion was fear of the pain of rejection. I was an honor roll student and I barely got recognized as such at home because that is what was expected of me. My name means ‘female leader’ so every time I fucked up, it would definitely be my doing that my sisters would follow in my footsteps. How could I make my younger siblings gay by letting a girl feel me up in the locker room?

To be honest, I still don't stand by the crude methods of young lesbians influenced by the dumbass boys we went to high school with... Them boys ain't get no cheeks and we all hated them. What kind of example?

But when I got older and met more mature members of the LGBTQ+ community, I felt like my more complex emotions were simplified... I learned that I wasn't set to one fate because my hijab dictates my piety. In actuality, my hijab has gotten me alone with more pretty girls than my mom would think... so yikes.

She still feels a way about the community, but she notices the change in my demeanor... that I'm a lot sweeter, more patient, and loving than before. I was not taught this love at home. I learned it through loving women, softly. By being cautious with a sensitive man's heart, caringly.

Knowing Allah helps me see things differently. I've been depressed with regular existence things for the latter half of my life... dissociating often and not giving my heart the proper attention, because I live above my own head. But I know Allah loves love. He built the whole universe on love. And if there would be a punishment for love, it would be for withholding love from another and replacing it with hatred and enmity. How do you justify greeting a beloved part of Allah's creation with disgust when all they exude is love? My mom says ‘love what Allah loves and hate what he hates,’ but Allahu ar-Rahman, so who has the right??? I have the right to love in all directions and still pray in one. I am capable and always open to sweet love. Surface love or deep love. The ummah should teach peace and understanding, because the hatred and abandonment of pure emotions will distract anyone going through them from faith. We love one another, but we only really need God's love. The type of tough love homophobic parents show their LGBTQ+ children makes them feel exiled. InshaAllah we will be more receptive than our parents, and let not stigmatized views of personal values be in the forefront of our faith. We don't take sex to the masjid or the prayer rug anyway.

Let there be true peace. InshaAllah.”

From Florence, Oregon, USA:

"Growing up, I wasn't very secular in my religion or anything. I went to church, but that's about all I did. I began my first studies of Islam when I was young, but was quickly discouraged by my rather Islamophobic upbringing and reactions of family. I didn't truly find courage to revert until I was 18. I began studying Islam harder than ever before. I didn't know what drew me to Islam exactly. For so long I was put off by the Western media's view of Islam and interpretations on queer and trans people in Islam. So for a while I still felt as though I was out of place. A gay Muslim, then coming out as trans nonbinary and wearing hijab. It was all so overwhelming, as well as liberating and uplifting. To find such a deep spiritual connection in Islam, to the Qur’an and to Allah SWT, and to embrace my transness and my queerness is truly a blessing to me. I strive to make a future that's bright and hopeful for siblings in the queer ummah. I am in the process of creating a masjid inclusive to all sexual orientations, genders, etc. Everyday is a fight, and to live the lives we live are not easy. But to have the queer ummah strong and resilient is important! To support and uplift and love and validate each other in the name of Allah SWT. SubhanAllah." 

From Michigan, USA:

“When I was 17, I knew I was queer. I had been sure for about 3 years. In the same tender year, my AP Literature teacher read my class a Rumi or Hafiz poem every Friday.  I became very attached to Rumi in particular and went to a bookstore some weeks later to steal a small book of Rumi poems. I kept that little book close to me at all times, meditating on his words and filling the book with pink sticky notes. One year later, I abandoned Christianity and decided that I there was no way for me to be religious and gay. Those years of hard secularism were the most confusing and as much as I tried to remain steadfast in godlessness, I turned to Rumi for comfort and guidance. I bought more Rumi books and came across a passage about living a life for Allah. And for the first time, I thought if I wanted to understand Rumi, I should learn about Islam. From there, I fell in love and was filled with love. I am privileged enough to have a powerful queer Black Muslim in my life to show me that queerness and Islam can live harmoniously in the same heart. After years of anger expressed through secularism, I am now at peace in Islam. I’m still new, and I sometimes hesitate to call myself Muslim because there is still so much I have to learn. Additionally, I’m afraid of being called illegitimate because of my newness and queerness. 

One day, inshAllah, I will live out my given name: Faith.”

From East Texas, USA:

“The majority of my life was spent trying to suppress who I was. Then, when I finally realized I couldn't hold it in any longer, I had to live my truth. However, living freely can often mean the difference between safety and fear. I spend my days as a closeted pansexual, cisgender woman. However, I always try to remind myself that I am who I am and I don't have to be ashamed when I'm with those who truly know me. Part of learning to accept who I am was really onset by amping up my confidence and surrounding myself with loving people. Later on, it helped to connect with other queer Muslims who knew what was going on with me. At the end of the day, stay strong. Remember that no one can tap into your mind, so always guard your mental energy from draining people and things. At the end of the day, we all have to decide if we want to live free and in fear or content and closeted. I want to live in a world where we don't have to make such a tough decision, but that's often the case. We can always fight for change, but we still have to exist in the moment. So choose wisely, and stay safe.” 

From Belleville, Michigan, USA: "Where I live, it's really hard for me to be proud of who I am. I live in a small conservative Catholic town where everyone I went to high school with grew up at the same church. I don't feel safe talking about being trans or gay or Muslim here. When I was younger, my parents told me and my brothers they wanted us to figure out what we believed for ourselves, but as we've gotten older, sometimes it feels like even they condemn faith. My dad talks about how foolish believing in God is. My mom says there is no way to know. I usually pray in my bedroom with the door shut. There is also a strange relationship between interacting with the LGBT community and being a person of faith. A lot of my friends have had bad experiences with religion and dislike religion as a whole, so sometimes I feel like in LGBT spaces I'm supposed to 'turn off' being Muslim. In Muslim spaces, I feel like I'm expected to hide my LGBT identities. It's difficult to navigate and neither space feels safe for all of me. A safe space should not require you to erase parts of yourself. College is the first place I met other queer Muslims and is the main reason I finally felt like I was allowed to call myself Muslim. As someone who has had doubt in Allah, someone who is transgender and gay, and who has a history of substance abuse and suicide attempts, I felt like maybe I wasn't really allowed to be Muslim. But I read the Quran. I pray, when I have the energy to get out of bed. I want to be my best me in the eyes of Allah SWT. The most important thing for me to remind myself is that my faith is between me and Allah alone. Islam is not a performance. Alhamdulillah."

From Ypsilanti, Michigan, USA:

"Most of us can agree that God transcends gender. If Allah doesn't fit into a binary, why should I?"

From Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA:

“There has been some grief, the occasional angst-riddled moment, but to be completely honest for me my queerness has brought mostly joy into my life. Whatever grief I have suffered comes as a result of other people's internalized trauma and their need to lash out, which is separate from my queerness and my faith.  I feel most open and spiritually connected with Allah (SWT) when I hold myself to my truth. And I believe that in resisting colonial cisheterosexual patriarchal norms of interpersonal relationship building, I have the ability to strive for dismantling abusive power structures and thus more caring interpersonal relationships. I am blessed to always be surrounded by love and I am eternally grateful for it. My family who, regardless of their level of knowledge regarding my queerness or lack thereof, has helped build me up to the strength I have now that allows me to be honest with myself. The friends, and community of support I have around me always has my back and I feel honored to serve them in whatever way I can. And with the woman I love, a queer Muslim herself, I learned what it means to love without expectations, to truly be unselfish.”

From Detroit, Michigan, USA:

“As a Black trans woman, I was used to shrinking myself to blend in, especially in religious settings. I once participated in a church leadership course a couple of years before I took my Shahada. The pastor asked each participant to share the moment that they knew God was real. In my experience, I always knew that Allah knew who I was before I knew, so I decided to share about the spiritual experience that facilitated my outer transition. The response from church leaders in the group was nothing short of what I expected and experienced in the past. That church trauma caused me to be less open about my intersections after I took my Shahada and starting sharing community with other Muslims. I hid my identity as a trans woman when I navigated masajid. Not because I was afraid or ashamed of my trans identity, but I had finally reached a point in my life to where I was tired of explaining my transition to cis people. I was tired of my body being used as an excuse for people to treat me inhumanely. Islam gave me the opportunity to navigate a sexist society without questions about my body. I fell in love with myself and gained so much body autonomy while I covered, I felt so free from the pressure to pass based on my appearance.  My covering became the shield that protected me from catcalls and unwanted advances from cisgender men, or so I thought. Other Muslimahs rushed to match me with other Muslim men without my consent. I felt trapped and betrayed. Once again, I started to spiritually feel separated from Allah.  I stopped going to the masjid and decided to start praying at home.

A couple of months later, I got invited to a week long Queer Muslim Retreat. While there, I heard stories from other queer Muslims about their journey navigating Islam from around the world. Sharing space with other queer Muslims gave me the strength to continue on my deen and finally define what Islam (Peace) means for me. As a Black, queer, Muslim of trans experience, faith shows up for me in a different context, given the level of bias associated with my various intersections. How was I going to show up authentically as a Black, queer Muslim of trans experience? What is preventing me from showing up? Is it Islam? And if so, how is it bringing peace to my life? A very special queer imam in my life once told me that ‘You can’t wash your face with just one finger.’ We cannot find true Islam clinging to one part of our identity. We are intersectional people, so our faith must be intersectional.

Alhamdulillah.”

From Detroit, Michigan, USA:

“Being Black, femme, lesbian, and Muslim has caused a lot of distance between myself and the community. I don't get close to any of the women at my center and when I meet sisters in the street who want to hang out or have a play date, I just don't contact them because I don't think it'll be comfortable for them to be around me if they knew I was a lesbian. So I don't have much of a community because even the Muslims I know that would hang out with me I don't want them to get ostracized because of affiliation so I save them from me by not engaging. 

Being femme has different effects because my expression isn't read as ‘femme’, it's read as ‘I’m straight and have children’. So I realize when people talk to me on the street they are assuming I'm heterosexual which makes more people reach out to me. On the other hand, the Muslims at my center know I'm lesbian, but feel that because I'm feminine I'm not really a ‘dyke’, just lost. Contrarily, Islam has affected my romantic relationships with other Black lesbians. Many Black lesbians that I know gave negative opinions about Islam and religion in general, as it has been used to harm and isolate so many LGBTQ+ folks so they 1) don't like that I am Muslim and 2) don't like that I follow any religion at all. Honestly, I don't think I've ever felt safe being a Muslim and a lesbian.  I've felt safe being lesbian in queer spaces and safe being Muslim in pro-Muslim places with people who didn't know me. Never at the same time.

But it's had no real effect on my relationship with Islam because that's a personal relationship between Allah and myself. Islam is the belief that forgiveness and peace are always possible. Fasting has taught me that I am stronger than my desires. The Qur’an reminds me to be patient with myself and others. Zakat has taught me that activism happens in small daily unannounced giving. And sometimes, more often than not, just being aware that Allah is watching keeps me from slapping idiots. It's so funny that most of the people that assume Muslims are violent extremists benefit off the fact that Allah don't want me to swing.  All things considered though, Islam reminds me how small I am,  how short my time is and that reminder stops me from getting overwhelmed with life.”