#queermuslims justmeandallah

[queermuslimproject]

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Saba, Durham, North Carolina

I'm an American Queer Muslim Southern artist and those identities influence my work. For a while, my art practice revolved around painting portraits that aimed to humanize, make visible, and uplift American Muslim women. Then I got to a bit of a breaking point, where I felt really annoyed at the fact that “humanizing Muslims” was considered groundbreaking, and felt resentful of this pressure to send a palatable and “respectable” message. So I started to really let go and shed those burdens. My work became darker, more grotesque, and more intuitive. Now, I feel a lot less pressure to make things “make sense” to others, and allow myself to get lost in radical imaginings of revolution (or apocalypse) and the future.

A while ago, I had an idea to make hybridized burqas made of “western” materials. My mother is an incredibly talented seamstress, and I had very little sewing experience at the time, so I asked for her help. It was a pretty amazing collaborative process. I had a clear cut vision, and she had the skills and the experience to make it come to life, and was able to pass a lot of those skills onto me. We were working together, understanding each other (mostly), but literally speaking different languages to one another. We mirror each other in so many ways, but sometimes it feels like there is an ocean between us. There was a distinct intention on my part to also just connect with and spend time with my mother. We both love to work, so to be creating together was one of the best experiences I’ve had with her.

In the original performance with the burqas, myself and two other Muslim women wore the garments while standing silently on pedestals. We thought a lot about power and the white gaze in constructing the performance. The audience was instructed to ask for permission if they wanted to touch the garments, and upon asking, they were given a nod or shake of the head. Most people received a no from the women.

I love wearing the hijab. I love how it looks, how it feels on my head, and I love that it makes me feel so connected to my Muslim identity. I’ve worn it off and on for some time (just when I felt like it), but since Trump has been elected, I have been wearing it every day when I am in public. It is a bit counterintuitive, in that it draws attention to my Muslim identity and thus potentially opens me up to harm (as hate crimes against Muslims have significantly increased over the past year), but it feels like an act of defiance and oddly makes me feel safer.

I think right now, like many folks in America, I am balancing a lot of different feelings. There is fear for what this administration is going to do, and how that will impact me and the people I love. I’m scared about hate crimes, about healthcare, about same-sex marriage and reproductive rights being negatively impacted, about voter suppression, Muslim registries, and deportations. It is a really sobering time, seeing how power is operating in this country and how important it is that we get organized so we can take that power.

I’ve been in North Carolina my entire life. There are a lot of challenges and fears, to be sure, but I love that I am born and raised in the South. As I’ve gotten older, I feel more deeply that this is my state, and that makes me dedicated to stay here and make it better.

The night of the US election, I went to sleep around midnight. The next day I was incredibly tender, I had to run a few errands and I was crying off and on through the morning. There was a gathering in downtown Durham called “Not My President.” We had conversations around belonging, anger and fierce love, had space for folks to smash stuff. There were a ton of new faces, indicative of how galvanizing this moment has been for so many.

I reached out to friends, and called on folks to come to the Durham Artists Movement (DAM) to make art together as a healing exercise.

DAM is an arts collective that is predominantly made up of queer people of color, with a mission to uplift the creative voices of marginalized people by providing a safe space to create, exhibit, and be in artistic community. Thus far we have offered public workshops, hosted performances and exhibits, art salons, and reading circles. It was healing to just be together, and powerful to turn that into creative energy.

My partner Laila is also queer Muslim. It’s amazing to have a Muslim identity in common, and it’s lovely to make Muslim jokes with a partner who understands although we come from really different backgrounds. I am a non-black person of color, first generation American who grew up in a bubble of class privilege and those things in particular have really impacted my experiences, and are in clear contrast to her experiences. It’s those differences that keep us growing. She’s able to challenge me and also lift me up, and is a role model for me in so many ways.

Check out Saba’s work.

[queermuslimproject]

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Assaad, Linkoping, Sweden

I grew up in the outskirts of Stockholm in a suburb called Husby. In Sweden, there's already a struggle being a black person, imagine being black and Muslim. There was a time when I distanced myself from Islam because first of all I didn't feel accepted in that community and secondly because I was ashamed. All the prejudgements about Muslim people got the best of me and now I feel quite bad for letting the white people take that away from me. I've also experienced all the forms of racism and Islamophobia there is since I was a child. I experience hidden racism in school and when I'm searching for jobs. People don't wanna hire a guy named Assaad here in Sweden. But I've also experienced direct racism, I've been called "nigger, nigger-faggot, suicide bomber, monkey, etc." And this is not only by people around my age, this is from authoritarian figures such as teachers and bosses. So growing up as a Muslim person of color was quite difficult, but hey, here I am, didn't let them get the best of me.  

My relationship with Islam while growing up was quite traumatic. I never felt like I fit in, but at the same time it was a part of my identity. So I was always, and still am, in limbo. During my high school years, I felt like an outsider because I was seen as "the Muslim" in an all-white school. In my Muslim-circles I felt like an outsider because I didn't fill the requirements of how a Muslim should act and be. Even as a child in Qu'ran school, I never felt comfortable and it gave me anxiety and depression at an early age. The traumatic experiences came mostly from home, where I was constantly in a battle because of my sexual orientation and my identity. My parents, who are conservative practicing Muslims, still don't accept who I am and my only option was to detach myself from my family and start my own life.  

To be honest, my relationship with Islam as a queer person is quite elusive, I don't practice Islam in any form or way, but I see it more as a part of my identity and it's more spiritual for me. I don't pray five times a day, I don't go to Salat al-Jumuah, I don't fast during Ramadan and I don't celebrate Eid. And this is something most Muslims I meet give me shit about but I feel like religion is free to interpret, so it's more of a spiritual-identity to me.

The day I cut ties with my family I realized that I finally could choose what Islam meant to me, and not let anyone choose that for me. I remember so clearly that I thought of the12-year-old Assaad, that I did this for him, that the hope for a better place he always wanted could finally be achieved, that he wouldn't cry himself to sleep because the Islam he knew condemned him, that he could finally choose his own path. I cried during the whole trip from Stockholm and finally, I truly felt free. I finally had achieved my epiphany, Nirvana or whatever you want to call it. I finally was happy with Assaad.

[queermuslimproject]

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Ari, Paris

I arrived in France from Algeria with my family when I was 4. In Algeria, we had a small house on the beach but then the civil war happened because of radical Islam. Both of my parents had a fatwa issued against them because they are intellectuals. That's why my relationship with Islam is complicated because my parents had to leave Algeria because of radical Islam. Both of my parents are still traumatized. They're against women wearing the veil because it reminds them of women being asked to wear the hijab in Algeria, which led to radicalism. My dad thinks wearing the hijab is oppressive. I've never been against the hijab because I'm a feminist. I think the debate over Muslim women wearing the hijab in France is incredibly racist. You have old, white bourgeois cis men deciding what Muslim women should wear without consulting the women about how they feel. It's about a deeply rooted kind of racism in France. All of this has made me re-claim my faith in Islam. I call myself Muslim because of solidarity.

After getting my masters in Gender Studies, I decided to become a dancer. I've always been dancing. I've worked as a background dancer and have always performed in clubs here in Paris. To me, it's about visibility because of the body I have and the way I look. It's part of my activism. When I dance, I get feedback from fat people, from queer people and from people of color. They're inspired by the confidence I exude on stage. I've gotten really involved with the vogue ball scene here. It's everywhere in Paris and it's mostly people of color. To me, it's a great place to merge my activist life and dance background. I'm trying to queer it up. There are a lot of trans people and butch queens. Now I can experience the dance life with people of color.

[queermuslimproject]

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Biser, Brussels

When I was 20, there was a 17-year-old guy in my village who was also gay. We never spoke about our sexuality because in my small community in Bulgaria, being gay is taboo. But we always knew about each other. Men in the village knew that if they wanted to have sex and couldn't find a woman who would sleep with them, they could just go to him. They took advantage of him. When he turned 17, his mother decided to marry him off to a girl. I knew that he never wanted to be with a girl. But he could not say a word. A week after the wedding, he committed suicide. Everyone knew that it was because he was gay and didn’t want to live a straight life, but no one said anything, neither did I. Years after I realized that I made a big mistake. I did not support him. I'm talking about this today because I feel strong enough to stand for something that happens in my country. I hope gay men will feel empowered to stand up for themselves in my community.

I grew up in a small village in North-Eastern Bulgaria in a Roma Muslim community where my grandfather was the imam and had an  important social position. I am the only son in a family of six children, I have five sisters. Until I turned 34, I never talked about my sexuality with anyone from my community or family but then I decided to unload the burden and share with my parents. They asked me to keep it secret from our community.

I now live in Brussels where I've met many gay Roma boys from Bulgaria. Some of them enjoy the freedom here while others have been pushed into prostitution because of poverty and for not having any support from their families. Brussels is a place where I can be Roma, Muslim and gay. Together with a few friends, we have established a small NGO to help provide support to queer people who move here from Balkan countries.

[queermuslimproject]

Who: Yunique, Brooklyn

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Even though I don’t look like a traditional Muslim, I am still super modest in the way I dress. I’d like to think my style is a bit eccentric but is still influenced by Islam. When Muslim women look at me in my Brooklyn neighborhood, they know I’m Muslim. I want to be able to identify with them and have a desire to say “Peace be upon you” and feel that connection. But I feel like I can’t because of my queer appearance.

Islam was first introduced to me when my mom and her brother would always go to this place called mosque. I was happy for her, she seemed completely submerged in a spiritual happiness I hadn’t seen in a while or ever. It seemed like she found something bigger than herself. She sat me down one day to finally tell me what she had been up to. She told me about the Prophet Mohammad and invited me to come to the mosque with her. By letting me decide whether or not Islam was for me and what religion was going to look like for me, she gave me a platform to choose my independence at 12 that has progressed throughout my life. I felt proud to be Muslim. I wanted to investigate how queerness applies to me and to find self care within my beautiful black identity.

For a while, I even converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints with my mom's support. But I learned that there is a lack of black identity and inclusion within Mormonism (although I did discover Jane Manning). Being Mormon was a good segue from being a Muslim. They have somewhat similar beliefs but queerness is what caused me to leave Mormonism and to go back to the Muslim faith. Allah never left me. I never left Allah. In my day-to-day life I hold Allah close to my heart. I feel the guidance, and that’s my relationship with Islam: Allah guiding me through my everyday life.

My mother also introduced me to some astonishing black female musicians when I was younger. Tracy Chapman is a prophet to me. Her music gave me critical thinking, made me reflect upon the world as a whole and one self. She’s meant so much to me in so many different eras of life. She made me realize I was gay. She taught me that I’m cool even if others disagree. That I’m black, I’m dark-skinned and I’m good. Her music helped my mom and I bond. My mother had me at a very young age so I think it was her way of saying “hey listen to these words as I’m learning them for myself”. We would sing her songs together and it helped us both grow. Rita Marley, Anita Baker, Patra, Grace Jones, Lady Saw, Missy, Nina and Lauryn Hill were all influential. Hill was also very transformative for me, she has a lot of subtle references to the Nation of Islam and that made me feel connected.

As an immigrant queer Muslim woman of color, I feel non-existent, sometimes even within my queer community. There aren’t many like me who are out there and visible. But for now I’m content with that, I’m still trying to figure myself out first and taking this new collected visibility one step at a time. In Brooklyn, I have supreme people of color around me. I feel like we’re storming through the oppression. We were slaying separately and now finally, we're slaying together.

[queermuslimproject]

Who: Christelle, Paris

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

People question how I can be queer and Muslim or why I don't have a Muslim sounding name or don’t cover myself. I’ve even been asked how I can be black and Muslim because of how Arabs treated Africans during the Arab slave trade. People want you to think your whole identity is haram but hey, it's just between me and Allah.

I grew up in a family that is half Evangelical and half Sunni Muslim. Some of my non-Muslim family is really Islamophobic. My Muslim family members had to practice Islam secretly because they didn't want to be rejected by my non-Muslim family members. I recently saw some of my family members after 15 years because they didn't want to have anything to do with us, the Muslim part of the family while I was growing up. My cousins weren't allowed to stay at our home during the holidays because their parents were afraid that they would come back Muslim. A lot of the Islamophobic behaviour included physical abuse.

Both sides of my family are really religious but I've only felt ready to come out to the Muslim side of my family, not the Christian side. What made me feel ready was how the Muslims in my family express their tolerance towards queer and trans folks. I'm glad that I finally came out because they accepted me as a queer Muslim.

Growing up in Paris as a teen, I felt lonely for a very long time as a black, queer mentally-disabled woman. I feel part of the black community and the black womanhood community but I don't feel part of the LGBT community in Paris because it's really, really white, mainstream and dismissive of non-conforming genders and other sexualities from the BTQIA+ spectrum. I only know a handful of other queer Muslims in Paris and I met them recently.

I’m an art enthusiast and I love photography. I'm an activist and a social worker trainee. My main goal is to make people more aware about intersectionality, including ableism and mental disorders that are often considered very taboo to talk about  in black communities. I’d also like to  work towards helping provide housing to abuse victims and sex workers.

Follow Christelle on Twitter @_afrofly

[queermuslimproject]

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Mona, Berlin

I'm a poet, a writer, a performer, a social pedagogue, and a nurse. Currently working on my doctoral thesis. Invested in healing. Mine and others'. Oldest daughter in a Jordanian-German religious Muslim family with two brothers and three sisters.

Germany is still very segregated. The names we are now called might have changed. But deep down. Same. And getting worse. Everywhere. Attacks in all shapes. Some fatal. Racisms of all kinds is part of this country's fabric. Since way before this country's current form. I worry. A lot. About family and siblings. Biological and chosen. And the state of the world. Still hopeful, though. Islam plays a big part in that. You know that one love that could have been, had you been more mature at the time? And the circumstances different? Sometimes Allah and Islam feel like that. In my early 20s, I took and got a second chance with both. Allah as love. Islam as expression. Been growing into it for the last ten years, free-styling my Islam.

[queermuslimproject]

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Shazad, Toronto

I was born in St. Albert, Alberta, Canada. I grew up with a lot of extended family around me. We were semi-religious but everyone fasted during Ramadhan and we all celebrated Eid. My parents divorced when I was 11 and that's when my family dynamics changed. My mom raised me and my sister and did the best she could. She believed in God and taught me how to pray Namaaz but never forced us to be religious. She believed that just because you follow the five pillars of Islam, it doesn't automatically mean that you're a good person. Having a heart trumps being religious.

During my parents' divorce, I tried to cling to Islam because I felt scared and conflicted. I thought I was a bad person and would go to hell for being gay and that coming out would stress my mom out even more. This continued until I learned about reconciling my sexuality with my religious beliefs in university. I stopped being scared. It didn't make sense to me that I would burn in hell for loving a man.

It wasn't until I moved to Toronto after graduation and was living on my own that my relationship with God changed from being based on fear to being based on love. Moving allowed me to reconcile my faith, South Asian culture and sexuality through community building by creating a chosen family. I have a very supportive community around me. My love for Bollywood and passion for community building within the queer context spawned the queer South Asian dance party Rangeela, which I run with two friends.

I enjoy watching Bollywood movies, Daria and Golden Girls. I love to travel and enjoy exploring spirituality through reading, prayer and meditation. I work at the Alliance for South Asian AIDS Prevention, promoting gay men's sexual health.

It's challenging to be queer and Muslim, no matter where you are in the world. It makes me happy to know that at least there are groups such as Salaam Canada in Toronto that provide space for queer Muslims, where we can be ourselves without being shamed while sharing stories and building community.