We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir

“It would be far too easy to villainize my mother and her behaviour. But that is to assume she had the tools and the privilege to consider another future for her daughter. She was raised to believe that control was not something granted to women […] Her experiences taught her that as a woman, fertility, purity, and beauty were the only currencies she could exchange for a better life.”

Habib gives a nuanced view on guilt and blame within their memoir, introducing the theme of Healing Intergenerational Trauma. Larger, sociological structures are to blame for the lack of scope their mother had. In Yasmin’s mind, “fertility, purity, and beauty” are the only tools she can use to protect Habib. Habib uses pathos by considering Yasmin’s position and realistic options in order to counteract unwanted takeaways about their parents.

“Hiding that I was Ahmadi, as my parents had taught me to do, became part of my everyday reality […] I learned to see being quiet as a virtue.”

The persecution of the Ahmadiyya (See: Index of Terms) fundamentally alters Habib’s attitude toward authenticity and safety. Quietness is associated with virtue. Quietness in this sense is figurative; Habib uses it as a stand-in for being unobtrusive and undemanding and quelling their own personal desires for the sake of safety.

“The truth was, despite the possibility that my father could be killed or taken to jail if we stayed, I didn’t want to leave. I loved Pakistan. It was all I knew. I loved my family, my cousins, my grandmother. The smells of the country still haunt me to this day—I seek them out in other places and people.”

Habib uses repetition to stress the depth of their family’s connectedness to Pakistan. The repetitive familial elements help humanize a place that often receives overtly negative and critical attention in the anglophone world. Her longing for Pakistan and status as an immigrant also reflect aspects of the theme Found Family and Finding One’s True Identity.

“In my ten-year-old mind, war and persecution didn’t exist this many oceans away from home. Bodies weren’t disposable.”

Habib’s naïve hopes as a child are shattered quickly once the family reaches Canada. The pithy phrase “bodies aren’t disposable” unites war and persecution as acts with a similar view of human bodies. As Habib and their family discover, their bodies are precarious and, thus, disposable in Canada in different ways than they were disposable in Pakistan.

“[To] me it seemed we’d simply traded one set of anxieties for another. Sure, we were no longer afraid of being killed by religious extremists on our way to school, but not knowing whether we’d be able to make next month’s rent didn’t ease my mind either. We had our asylum and our government-issued blankets, but I still didn’t feel free to be a child.”

Habib’s inability to be a carefree child feeds into their idea that being quiet and hiding who they are is a virtue. If Habib is not free to be a child, then they must necessarily feel forced to be older and more responsible, such as when they translate for their parents and do their ESL homework or when Habib sells flowers in the park.

“Ironically, it was [my mother], the very person who’d gotten me into this situation, who also taught me the lesson that would ultimately set me free: that we all go through hardships, tragedies, and barriers, that they’re all part of life in a world that has always been incredibly unfair and cruel, but it’s what we do with those experiences that allows us to leave our mark.”

Habib’s relationship with their mother is nuanced and sometimes contradictory, reflecting the theme Healing Intergenerational Trauma. Their mother puts them through the arranged marriage yet becomes their biggest supporter later in life and gives them the ideological tools they need to claim their autonomy. Habib makes certain to humanize their mother throughout the episodes of their life where their mother hurts them. The sympathetic light attached to stories of their parents is an example of the rhetorical device of pathos. This pathos ensures that their parents do not become two-dimensional antagonists to the reader.

“For years afterwards, my mother would remind me of how I signed the nikah papers that night without any hesitation. The fact that I didn’t resist was an indication that I was okay with the arrangement, and this belief absolved her of guilt and shifted some of the accountability onto me […] I carried the guilt within me, holding myself accountable for not saying anything earlier, even though I felt that I couldn’t.”

Their mother’s stance on the nikah papers (i.e., the marriage contract) is another example of Habib’s silence being prioritized in some way. Habib’s mother construes Habib’s signing of the papers “without any hesitation” as consenting to the match of her own free will. The reality is far more complicated, with Habib bowing to familial and cultural pressures in a way that leaves her feeling “guilt” even years afterward.

“I hung up on him, having made up my mind that there was no way I could ever stay with someone who thought it was okay to hit his wife. I refused to repeat the cycle of abuse and violence that had plagued the women in my family. I wanted a different kind of life. A life where I wasn’t afraid.”

Nasir’s views on domestic abuse push Habib to change their relationship to silence. Habib’s commitment to breaking the intergenerational trauma of their family is antithetical to silence as a virtue, which their life has instilled into them up to this point. The conflict with Nasir is a conflict between the desire to break intergenerational trauma cycles and the desire to remain silent and unobtrusive.

“My mom suggested that we give Nasir a makeover, as if this would solve everything. To her, his lack of style was his only shortcoming.”

Habib’s mother’s lack of scope in life makes it difficult for her to understand Habib’s feelings. While comical, Yasmin’s lack of scope pushes her to place Habib back into the family’s cycles of violence because Yasmin doesn’t see any alternative. Habib’s family’s intergenerational trauma is a result of women having their scope of what is possible narrowed down to a small range of actions that perpetuate this familial trauma.

“I was frustrated with myself for still not being free of her hold. I had thought I was now independent, but it took only one phone call to learn that I was still my mother’s child.”

Habib’s inability to cut their mother loose foreshadows their eventual reconnection with their biological family. First, Habib needs to find their chosen family of LGBTQ+ friends and partners before they can fully heal the connection with their parents, as explored in the theme Found Family and Finding One’s True Identity. However, Habib’s two different families, biological and chosen, fulfill two different functions in their life. The two styles of family are complementary to one another.

“There is power in giving off the aura of belonging.”

Andrew teaches Habib to be seen with confidence. Habib expressed themself through fashion while in high school, and Andrew shows them how that love of fashion can open them up to newfound confidence. Pretending that they belong contrasts sharply with Habib’s high school habit of sneaking around and tentatively dipping their toes into new social situations.

“I wondered if, by breaking myself out of the cycle that had imprisoned her and so many other women in my family, I had also freed her […] I was her window into a thrilling new world.”

Habib metaphorizes themself as a window for their mother, making Healing Intergenerational Trauma possible. Yasmin has had a narrowed scope of vision her whole life; Habib acting as a window allows her to broaden her range of vision. Vision itself is used as a metaphor for broad, complex understanding of the world within Habib’s memoir. Yasmin’s previous harm of her child is portrayed as a lack of access to broader understanding and not as deliberate cruelty.

“There are many ways to come out. Sometimes the label comes first. Sometimes it’s through action or experience. Some people say they’ve always known, and for others the process of realization is gradual. It might not be a single big moment but rather an accumulation of little ones.”

Habib’s memoir is a gradual accumulation of small events, feelings, and situations that lead them to Found Family and Finding One’s True Identity. Habib uses short, simple sentences to convey a reassuring tone when discussing coming out. Habib’s audience may include people who struggle like they once did with their identity; their reassuring tone offers reassurance to the target audience.

“I was thrown off by [my father’s] intuition and sat silent for a moment, staring at the face that looked so much like my own. In that moment, I recognized that I was a part of him.”

Habib’s moments of reconciliation with their parents relies on language of identification. Habib identifies with their parents and sees themself in their mother and father. Habib and their father are joined through their identical faces; this literal similarity signals a deeper, metaphorical similarity between the two. Habib’s repeated identification with their parents illustrates the deep importance of family within their life.

“Most importantly, in Abi and Megan I saw an example of how I could live my life differently from what I’d been told, and an example of what a queer relationship could look like for me. Before I met them, love had felt suffocating, a chore, something you had to give up your freedom for. Theirs was a true partnership […] Through observing them, I realized I didn’t have to pursue a ‘conventional’ life. My aspirations didn’t have to be to get married and have children; finding myself through exploring the unknown was a much more worthy ambition.”

Found Family and Finding One’s True Identity and Healing Intergenerational Trauma both rely on representation and role models. As Habib acts as a window into an “exciting world” for their mother, Abi and Megan act as windows for Habib into the LGBTQ+ world. Seeing the possibilities of diverse human expression is key to both of the memoir’s central themes.

“I wouldn’t let the fact that I was coming out of a relationship with a man make me feel that I wasn’t queer enough—being queer, I learned, is so much more than who you sleep with. It’s who you are, whether that means rejecting traditional gender roles or embracing non-normative identities and politics.”

Habib defines queerness as a sociopolitical identity. Queerness is antithetical to the cisgender, heteronormative standards under patriarchy. This definition allows Habib to claim their queerness in spite of the heterosexual-presenting relationships they had been in up to Chapter 10. This definition privileges internal feelings, outward expressions, and political commitments against what is “traditional” and “normal” in sexuality and gender. Similar definitions are often used by many LGBTQ+ people who identify with queerness (See: Index of Terms).

“I started to think about the incredible, lasting friendships I’d made over the years […] my chosen family—could be the loves of my life. After all, chosen families are a cornerstone of queer culture, especially for those whose biological families don’t accept them. As we grow into ourselves, we amass a network of friends who embrace us as we are and nurture us in ways we never were while growing up. My friends, my soul mates, see all of me.”

Habib uses strong language connoting vulnerability and closeness when describing their friendships (“grow,” “embrace,” “nurture,” “celebrated,” “healing,” etc.). The repetition of connotation strengthens their assertion that their chosen family can fulfill the “soul mate” function of a marital spouse and are the true “loves of [their] life.” This passage celebrates Found Family and Finding One’s True Identity.

“Relearning how to pray—focusing on the words and the prayer steps, such as kneeling in front of God in sajda—taught me that completely surrendering yourself to something you love is a gift. In fact, it’s in the getting lost that you find yourself.”

Habib’s ability to conceptualize voluntary surrender as a gift signals their healing and growth over the course of the memoir, making way for Reconciling Faith and LGBTQ+ Identity. When confronting their mother about the arranged marriage, they remark that their mother’s “best” feels like “surrender” (50). Habib’s understanding of surrender is now multifaceted, allowing for voluntary surrender through love as an extremely personal gift to another person or thing. Surrender was previously equated to silence and loss of the self; now, Habib equates it with love and finding themself.

“To me, friends and acquaintances who’d grown up with parents who were active in their communities, who took them on summer vacations and hosted backyard barbecues, were as rare and foreign as movie stars and Olympic athletes—I listened to their tales with awe. What was it like to grow up not having to worry about whether your parents could pay the next month’s rent, or put food on the table? How would the absence of fear have guided my life choices?”

The simile of movie stars and athletes exoticizes the concept of a functional, integrated, and stable family. This simile highlights the socioeconomic gaps between Habib and the other people they grew up around in Canada. By exoticizing the “normal” family experience, Habib stresses how differently one’s life can turn out based on these factors.

“Although not everyone has the privilege or the need to declare their queerness, for me it felt incredibly liberating, especially because not many Muslims come out—many suffer horrible backlash and danger for doing so. For once, there was a term that summed me up like nothing else had before. I thought: What if I could lessen someone else’s pain of feeling like they didn’t belong simply by present my authentic queer self instead of hiding? Perhaps merely daring to exist openly was a radical act.”

Habib’s purpose for writing their memoir and existing as a public figure becomes clear in Chapter 11. Representation is central to Habib’s memoir, and they now wish to be a potential guiding light for other LGBTQ+ Muslims who may be struggling and suffering in silence. In Reconciling Faith and LGBTQ+ Identity, Habib hopes to draw attention to a marginalized group.

“More and more attendees shared their stories and fears [as LGBTQ+ people]—it became clear that people were hungry to spend time in the company of others like them. And so that day, as we had before and surely would again, we began the long process of healing.”

Habib conceptualizes healing as community. The presentation at the University of North Carolina serves as a temporary community space for LGBTQ+ people. This conception of community reveals the function of Habib’s own found family. Habib, who was “hungry to spend time in the company of others like them,” surrounded themself with LGBTQ+ people. Healing, community, and found family are all strictly interlinked concepts for Habib.

“I could feel the electricity between [Laila and Saba], even when they were at opposite ends of the room. Watching Laila and Saba made me understand how loving someone can be a radical act when the world denies you love. Suddenly, I longed to be loved.”

Habib’s examples of long, stable relationships are sparse in the memoir. Before Laila and Saba, they only had their parents and Abi and Megan to understand committed relationships. “Electricity” here represents the dynamic, intense, and powerful connection between the two women, something Habib did not learn about or witness growing up.

“Sufia told me about how, at this point in her life, her Muslim identity was a political one. Moving to Durham and finding other queer Muslims had had a profound influence on her relationship with Islam. Through building connections to her newfound community, she learned that she no longer had to decide between being queer and being Muslim, that her Muslim identity is inherently queer because she is.”

Both Muslim and LGBTQ+ identities are made into political identities within the memoir, reflecting the theme Reconciling Faith and LGBTQ+ Identity. At the intersection of these two identities, LGBTQ+ Muslims face particularly harsh politicization of who they are. Sufia’s discussion of her identities and how they interact is an excellent example of intersectionality (See: Background).