Queer Muslim Weekly
Welcome to the magazine nobody asked for but every queer Muslim teen secretly needed.
Ya Hussain, Ya Hussain. A dark room and hooded figures of women chanting these words. Imam Hussain was a leader of truth, having sacrificed his life, his family and his children for the cause of being on the straight path.
I looked at the figures chanting, one of them being my mother. She was crying, and asking Hussain for forgiveness. I wanted to ask her why.
My family was Shia, and the year was 2003. We were a family of six, living in a two-bedroom apartment in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. My siblings and I had been told not to tell anyone of our minority identity- with the legitimate fear that we would be deported, or executed.
But keeping this secret as a child was hard. I wanted to share it with close friends. But whenever I did, their touch became cold and their warm gaze became distant.
In the small crammed up one-room spaces in Riyadh, I felt closeness I could never access outside. But it came with a cost. Just like my mother, I had to cry, and show my sorrow for a leader I only knew through stories. Despite how it sounds now, it didn’t seem distant, or strange. In fact, it was an outlet for many moments. One time, in the gathering, I cried because I had a fight with my sister. The next year, I cried because I was supposed to wear the hijab. The year after that, and after that, I remember crying because I really, really liked my best friend and wanted to marry her. And she was Sunni.
Dear diary,
wHaT iZ hApPeNiNg?? WELL, GUESS WHAT– I’m not in Saudi Arabia [not Kansas, lolol] anymore!!! I’M in Kashmir, cuz mom and dad couldn’t handle being away from their parents. Sigh. Why can’t they be like me?? I’m so independent. HAHA.
I miss everything and everyone sooooo much!! I miss mah bestiezzzz–Shaheen, Afreen, Pinkyyy. I will NEVER GET to eat shawarma anymore!! I’m so sad :(((((((
I had a HUGE fight with my mom and dad– they think I’m being dramatic but I hate it here, why can’t they understand??? Why do I have to wear salwar kameez when I meet my male cousins?? I HATE salwar and mom knows this!! She never let me wear it in Saudi but here she’s like ohhh it’s different like different how??? ADULTS ARE SO HYPOCRITICAL.
I met my cousins and they’re nice but ALL of them look and dress the same!! And they talk the same!! When I ask questions, they make fun of me!! Then they ask me to speak in Kashmiri like why??? They KNOW I don’t know how!! But their houses ARE HUGE– I explored soo much.
I MISS AFREEN SO MUCH. I added her on Facebook and talked to her. But I can’t go back. Why?
Analysis: If you picked…
Mother: You think your mother thinks of you as lazy and unappreciative of the sacrifices she makes.
Father: You think your father hates you and that’s why he won’t live with you in India.
Sister: You think your sister understands you but she is leaving for college soon.
Afreen: You think Afreen has forgotten you. Even you have forgotten yourself. Who are you?
Yourself: You are a good-for-nothing sinful person. You have sinful thoughts and you are such a loserrrr. Nobody likes you in school and nobody likes you at home. Nobody wants to be your friend and your only friend in Saudi Arabia is mad at you for leaving. Why did you go???????????
“I’m Shehnaaz, and I use they/them pronouns.”
Eyes slid to me and I struggled to keep my voice less amused. Pronouns? Was there something as simple as this? I stammered and said, “I’m Hameeda, and I use…”
I paused, thinking about all the times someone called me “she”.
“….she/they pronouns.”
Everyone in the intimate gathering of young queer people smiled. The words felt foreign off my tongue, and I felt…naked. Out of habit, I touched my hijab to see it was still in place. Yes, it was the only thing that mattered.
The nervousness I felt soon gave away to manic elation–someone talked about a girl they knew the way I knew Afreen. Someone gave a crash course on ‘queer childhood’- “Remember how we ALL liked Buffy the Vampire Slayer?” Many nodded eagerly when I said I felt shy around women.
After the gathering, Shehnaaz came up to me and offered me a cup of tea. “You’ve had a beautiful childhood. You must have been so curious.”
I smiled with wide teeth, thinking of the tea as the pink, sweet candy. “Yes, I was.”
