When I tell people that I’m queer, I’m typically bombard with a cacophany of questions. Are you out to your Pakistani parents? Are you still Muslim? Are you sure that God accepts you? Do you know for sure? These responses make me feel like queerness and Islam can’t sit at the same table. I’m grateful to have found acceptance in online communities. On my Instagram, you’ll find photos of my girlfriend and me, the pride section at every bookstore I’ve visited, and all of the articles where I reflect on my intersecting identities. It’s a privilege to be a queer Muslim in the public eye, especially knowing that I have the support of my family. In the process, I’ve found a digital community of other queer Muslims who have asked me about their coming out journey, and we’ve also shared stories about our first loves, awkward first dates, and the chosen family that have enabled us to accept ourselves.
But how much does acceptance online follow me outside of my corner of the internet? What happens when I close my laptop or phone and venture out into the real world? Does my safety follow me in those moments? Although I can talk about my girlfriend openly on social media, I can’t guarantee that cousins or family members won’t judge me. Heteronormativity still runs rampant, and I’m always weighing the consequences of my existence as a queer Muslim.
In reality, my identities as queer and Muslim are not at odds – at least that’s what I believe based on what I’ve learned about Islam. My interpretation of Islam stems from my relationship with my grandma. She moved to the U.S. a month after I was born just to take care of me while my parents were working 36-hour shifts during residency. Rather than a series of rituals or an obligation, my grandma taught me that religion was an invitation to be kinder and empathetic. This liberated me to ask myself, “What practices from my religion are relevant in this day and age? I pursue religion on my own terms, especially because I’m not the typical Muslim who prays five times a day, nor do I feel the need to cover my legs or abstain from getting tattoos. The same goes for thoughts on being a queer Muslim – I would think that if God wants us to unconditionally love each other, then God would love us in the same way. I’d like to be seen for what I to empower women of color to feel more confident telling their story.
I know that there are folks who will question me, simply because they don’t actually know queer folks. My grandma doesn’t have a bigoted bone in her body, but she probably never met a queer woman growing up in Pakistan. But in the words of Michelle Obama, it’s hard to hate up close. If I exist in the flesh and blood, that’s not up for dispute.
My existence as a queer Muslim isn’t an anomaly, but a reality. There's no one way to be a Muslim, and there’s no right way to be queer either. And if you want to be an ally to folks in the LGBTQIA+ community, read and amplify their stories. Call people out on their heteronormativity. And when someone tells you their coming out story, believe them without centering your own experience. Don’t frame queerness as a choice or a lifestyle or impermanent moment.
If my existence is resistance, then I promise to keep showing up every single day – I owe that to myself. I also want to unpack the ways that I’ve found support through digital communities, but that unconditional love doesn’t always follow me into the real world, which results in covering (hiding my queerness in the workplace) and being fearful to hold my girlfriend’s hands out of a fear of violence.
Guest writer Aleena Ansari is a writer focused on highlighting the stories of women of color, people with disabilities, and LGBTQIA+ folks, as well as people behind code and user interfaces in the tech space. She graduated from the University of Washington in 2019.