How Queer Muslims Are Reconciling Their Sexuality And Their Faith Post-Orlando

Ali is not my real name. Outwardly, I’m your run-of-the-mill Gen Y sort of guy. I happen to be Muslim and I also happen to be Queer. You should read about the history of the term ‘Queer’, especially if it makes you wonder why so maligned a person would choose to use a pejorative word to describe themselves. There are many reasons why I choose to remain anonymous. Unfortunately, they tend to involve my safety and that of those whom I count dear.

Last Monday, when the news of the shootings in Orlando started coming through, I was just getting up to have my pre-dawn meal. The early morning meal is a tradition during Ramadan is a tradition. It’s something I’ve looked forward to since I was a kid and started fasting. As I placed my bowl down, I opened up my Facebook news feed on my phone and I saw all the terrible details flashing before my eyes.

I was shocked at first. I didn’t really know how to express my feelings. I didn’t want to express them too much, lest I wake up my poor partner dreaming away in bed. The tragedy hit me right in the guts. The shooter was Muslim. And the victims could have been me and my friends. At a club. At Mardi Gras.

I was certain that the killer’s motive had something to do with his disfigured faith and hatred for Queers. Even though I’m nowhere near Orlando and I’ve not been clubbing for years, this drove home the reality of it all. The closeness of it all. It made me cry.

The senseless loss of 49 precious, innocent lives at a Queer club in Florida was the worst mass shooting in US history. Ever. And this was less than a day after a point blank shooting in the exact same city. It was directed at people like us. There were undoubtedly a number of factors that drove the killer to his actions, although we may never truly know what they were.

But for me, maybe for all of us Queer Muslims, we know all too well what was fed down his throat. When I mention his disfigured faith, I refer to the rhetoric being fed to him by those around him, and by religious leaders who seek to simply cast us Queers as deserving of death without an iota of understanding.

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Growing Up Queer And Muslim

I grew up in a different society, where the steps in life were pretty much laid out for us. Grow up, study, get married, have kids and continue the cycle. But early on I knew I was different. Whilst everyone else was talking about the girls in class, I realised my attraction drifted to the boys instead.

Even then, I tried to convince myself that this route in life that involved marrying a woman and having kids was the only way to go. This was what I was taught to do, especially as a good Muslim. I tried to fall in love and be in relationships. But at every point, I realised I liked boys. What was I to do? Life might not have been difficult outside but inside it was like being clawed at day in day out.

I went to religious classes outside of secular school. Each time I prayed, I would ask God to please just make me normal, make me straight. I hated this affliction. I hated not being like everyone else. I hated being a looming disappointment for my loving parents. But it never happened. Trust me when I say I was sincere in my desperation. I really meant it, asking for Him to change me.

When I was a bit older, I discovered one of my former schoolmates, a boy, was in a relationship with another boy. Never had I known someone personally who was gay and happily in a loving relationship, let alone a good friend of mine. I felt that I couldn’t deny myself anymore.

From then on, my relationship with my Creator was different. Now each time I put my head to the floor in prayer when I was closest to God, I would ask for him to just put me on the right path whatever that path may be. Only He would know. I began to be more at peace with myself.

But the tribulations didn’t end there. For the world was still the same. The overwhelming majority of my community would still not understand our struggles. I continued to witness derision and threats for being gay, still so commonplace. On top of that, I get questioned by my fellow Queers and even loved ones who ask, “why accept your religion when it doesn’t accept you?”

They could not understand the depth of personal faith and how being a Muslim was as much a matter of identity as it was a matter of faith. I face constant bombardment from both sides. I almost have to put a mental shield up to defend myself every time I speak of my personal life.

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On Accepting Imperfection And Difference

The truth is we cannot change. And we will not change, whether we want to or not. That’s just the reality of it. My dear brothers and sisters in Islam, shoving the story of the tribe of Lut down our throats as if we have not heard it ten times before does not change us. It is just a fact that we are a bit different from you. You should not seek to claim the higher moral ground, either. To be told to pray to God ceaselessly to change us, make us ‘normal’ and remove our ‘afflictions’ is exactly like asking for the colour of our skin to change.

We read the holy Quran and we learn the narrations of our beloved Prophet. Most of us are probably as knowledgeable as the next Muslim. I count some of my closest Queer Muslim friends as being much more familiar with the tenets of their religion than others. But we strive to accept that God is not one who would want us to suffer in such a way all through our lives.

Our religion is not perfect. Let me please say that. It is subject to the interpretations of imperfect men, as is so evident today. God, by definition, is perfect. We hold our Muslim community close to our hearts. The suffering of children in Syria, Palestine and Iraq is always invoked at Friday prayers, and we are beseeched to work to end their suffering. It does not belittle their suffering for us to sincerely consider the internal struggles of those close to us too.

Right now, at this very moment, there are Muslim kids tearing themselves apart at home, not knowing if who they are is right or wrong. The Orlando massacre is a further reminder that accepting themselves means that the World is that much more unsafe. Their families will by and large not be open and will seek to ‘fix’ their ways. But the families are vulnerable and fearful themselves, living in societies unwelcoming of sexual and gender diversity within their faith. It does not help that false hopes of change are given to them. If anything, it should be a sin to cause such pain.

I did not choose to have it this way but being Queer has defined my whole adult (and teenage) life. But so has being Muslim. If each of us as Muslims can contribute to something positive out of this tragedy, it is to radicalise and deepen the conversation for the better, whether they may be in our inner circles, in our mosques or in our homes. How twisted is it that your sons and daughters are subject to hatred, physical threats, scorn and disdain, especially when they have to contend with being told that they are destined for suffering in the afterlife anyway? Positive change can only start from within.

I exist as Queer and I exist as Muslim. These are just two facets of my identity. Neither negates the other. I know full well that my struggles will not end, but I am touched by messages of support in recent days by Muslims understanding our suffering.

I am wary, but it gives me hope that I don’t have to hide my identity, just as I have hidden my name, for too much longer. God willing.

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Feature image via Peter O’Connor on a Flickr Creative Commons licence.