A few years ago, when I launched this photo project, I had no idea how it would transform my own life. What I didn’t realize at the time was that through listening to other queer Muslims’ stories and asking questions, I was trying to find the courage to share my own. I saw parts of myself in my subjects’ stories, whether they were refugees from Iran or kids from Brooklyn dealing with Islamophobia in their daily lives. Although I spent years behind the camera, collaborating with others on how they wanted to share their stories, I feel ready to share my own. Thrilled to share that Viking Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House Canada has acquired the rights to my memoir, We Have Always Been Here. Because we have. I wrote the kind of book I wish I had access to growing up as a queer Muslim kid. Looking forward to releasing it into the universe June 4, 2019.
Preorder link:
https://www.penguinrandomhouse.ca/books/565780/we-have-always-been-here-by-samra-habib/9780735235007
xo
Samra
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.
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.
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.
Photography and interview by Samra Habib
Who: Raissa, Brussels
My family knew that I was transgender since I was a child in Mali. They had forbidden me from doing things associated with being a girl like playing with dolls. Growing up, I was kept hidden by my family so that no one would know that I’m trans. When guests would ask about me, my parents would lie and say they didn’t know where I was. I got really good at school because I couldn't have a social life. My teachers loved me because I was really good at school. They actually really respected me and didn’t mind that I’m trans. I was one of the top students. I studied economics and statistics in Cameroon. The LGBT movement in Cameroon was really powerful and it inspired me to become an activist when I went back to Mali. I started working as a statistician for the government. During my transition, I was researching hormones that were the best for me. My doctor and almost all the pharmacies refused to help me. Finally, I found a pharmacy right by my house that gave me all the hormones I needed to help me with my transition. At this point, I was still working for the Mali government. I started feeling more and more comfortable with my body. I loved wearing dresses and accessories when going out. That’s when the police started harassing me. One night, more than 20 people started beating me in a club because I’m trans. I thought I was going to die. An older guy saved me by putting me in a taxi. I was too afraid to stay in Mali so I fled to Brussels where I’m currently seeking asylum. I can’t imagine going back to Mali.
When I was young, I went to Quran school. I thought it was strange when the imam said that LGBT people would go to hell. I thought why would I go to a place that doesn’t welcome me so I started praying by myself at home where I felt safe. I still pray to Allah and recite prayers from the Quran privately but I just want to feel like I’m accepted in Islam as a trans woman. In my heart, I’m still Muslim. My regular reading of the Quran brings me peace.
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.
Photography and interview by Samra Habib
Who: Leila, Berlin
I was born and raised in Paris, France with two sisters and two brothers. I just moved back after living in London, England for a few years. I am a blackarab, meaning that my mum is North African from Algeria and my dad is Caribbean. I didn’t grow up Muslim, as we were practicing Buddhism with my dad. My mum used to fast during the month of Ramadan and it’s the only time we practiced Islam. Even though my mum was born in a Muslim family, politic of assimilation in France was running the life of people with a Muslim background while she was growing up.
I have always been a spiritual person and the first time I got to know a bit more about Islam was when I was 16. I was in the library and picked up the Qu'ran and read the French translation. I read it in three weeks. I talked to my Muslim aunty about it and she gave me some books about the life of our beloved Prophet Mohammad (sws). I started reading more and more about Islam and fell in love with it. When I was 20, I decided to become a Muslimah. I started wearing the hijab when I was 25. That was a big decision, especially in an Islamophobic country like France. I am a social worker and a special needs educator and it became a struggle to find a job in Paris. My life in France became hell on earth.
As time passed, my hijab was more than a symbol of faith, it became a symbol of resistance and a political symbol. My hijab is political, my hijab is resistance. I am covered in tattoos so when people see me with a hijab, they’re always shocked. Some non-Muslims like to tell me that I shouldn’t have tattoos or dress this way. They’re becoming the Mufti of Paris. I just want to say “it’s between me and Allah!”
I never wear my hijab the same way, just because my mood changes all the time. I love the turban, I love the Arab style hijab, I love wearing a simple woolly hat and I love wearing a nice Panama hat. Covering my head is a part of me. And just to disturb the Islamophobic system I would keep doing it. I also decided to shave my head. You wanna see what’s under that hijab? Sorry boo, no long black hair soft and shiny like you may imagine in your 1001 Nights fantasy. I’m not Jasmine from Aladdin.
Since a young age I knew that I was queer and to be honest it never caused me any problems, maybe because I didn’t mention it and it was not even necessary. I started asking myself questions growing up in my Muslim community. When you hear things from people that you share the same faith with who reject a part of you, it hurts.
Being queer and Muslim is not a disease. We are lacking a safe space for us. We are meeting up a lot in really small groups but it’s still not enough. Some of us are scared and it’s not easy.
I have three kids and they know Islam, the same way they know about the oppressive system that we are living in. They know the queer community, the anti-racist community. They come to all the protests with me and their dad, who is my ex-husband and is the best ally that I could dream of. He knows about my queerness and has always been supportive and protective.
I am a health advisor and a sport instructor. I love sports, fashion, art, dancing (especially kizomba) and food. My life is full.
My dream would be to create a space for young queer people of color. A space where they can be themselves and grow up feeling proud with no guilt or no crap like that.
Photography and interview by Samra Habib
Who: Harry, Brooklyn
My mom was born and raised in Damascus, Syria to a Syrian Muslim father and a Lebanese Maronite mother. My dad grew up in Brooklyn and was born to two Pontic Greek parents from the Macedonia region. I vividly remember September 11, 2001 being a huge turning point for my mom and her Muslim sisters. In public they went out of their way to look and act as “American” as possible. They plastered American flags all over their cars and lied to strangers when they were asked about their accents. At home though, they became more intentional about teaching my brother and I about Islam, they read the Qur'an regularly, and started to fast and go to the mosque during Ramadan.
I asked my mom to buy me the Allah pendent I’m wearing in the photos during a family trip to Brooklyn we took when I was in middle school, shortly after September 11. As cheesy as it may sound, it makes me feel safe and protected when I wear it. I’ve also learned it’s a great way to gauge whether someone is worth talking to or not based on the questions they ask or statements they make about it. I don’t remember dealing with much homophobia in high school, but I’ll never forget the racism and Islamophobia I experienced growing up. It had such a profound effect on me that I was too afraid to walk home.
I came out to my parents when I was 13. I wrote a note to my mom in Arabic and left it on her bathroom mirror when she wasn’t home, and went to a friend’s house to spend the night before she saw it. I’m eternally grateful for the love, acceptance, and support my family has always shown me. When I was in high school, the only queer representations in the media I remember were white, skinny, hairless, and rich, which I obviously couldn’t relate to. I remember wanting so badly to meet other queer Arabs and Muslims, to be able to relate to someone on that kind of level was a huge deal for me. I eventually found an amazing group of social justice oriented queer Arabs and Muslims after I moved to New York, and it almost feels surreal to look back on the time when I didn’t have that kind of support in my life.
I’m very social and I enjoy being around people I love no matter how boring what we’re doing might seem to other people. Scary movies, Arabic pop culture from the 40s-60s, (attempting to) dance, and smoking argeeleh are some of my favorite things in the world. I love helping and working with other people, which is how I ended up in social work. I’ve worked with homeless and runaway LGBT youth, and I’m currently providing preventive services to Arab families in Brooklyn.
I’ve been living in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn (where my parents met) for a little over a year. There’s a huge Arab and Muslim population here, and I love walking out of my apartment every day and hearing my native language being spoken by so many people around me.
I think one of the biggest challenges facing queer Muslims in America is decolonizing our mindsets. There have been more than a few times where I’ve seen or heard other queer Muslims regurgitate some very disgustingly racist and Islamophobic rhetoric against visibly religious (and presumably straight) Muslims under the guise of “protecting oneself.” How can you claim to fight against racism and all the other -isms on behalf of others when you perpetuate it against your own?
Photography and interview by Samra Habib
Who: Shima, Toronto
I was born and raised in Shiraz, Iran. My family and I moved to Canada about three years ago after living in Malaysia for a while. We left Iran before my brother was forced into military training and to escape the increasing pressure my father faced from the Islamic Republic government. Aside from being a defence lawyer, my father held workshops teaching human rights. Because of him, I developed an awareness and sensitivity towards social injustice around me.
Growing up in Iran was a contrast of happiness and anxiety. I had sunny days in gardens eating pomegranates and reading poetry with my large and colourful family, all of whom loved me dearly. But I also had mullahs lecturing me on how I should be covered when I was a child.We travelled often and spent a lot of time with extended family and family friends. I was a defiant kid but I was studious and mostly happy.
I was brought up mostly secular and encouraged to think for myself. I slowly came to terms with respecting and being fond of some aspects of Islam while being critical of others. I knew my Islam wasn’t that of my teachers. Like most other Iranians who have a hard time with Islamic governance, my family’s relationship with Islam is a complicated one. I remember my mum giving my dad the stink eye when he’d say blasphemous things. To him God is in everything but my mum had a more traditional view of the religion. She has since become a lot more secular and open minded. They sometimes make fun of me for calling myself a Muslim, maybe because they think Islam doesn’t have a place for people like me.
Today, Islam is a source of solace for me. An identity I get to define on my terms. At 11, I picked up the daf and studied under a great master. Exploring Tasawuf has been the spiritual introspection I yearn for.
As a kid I day dreamt of being suited up and kissing my wife goodbye like the white couples on TV did. As a preteen, I cut my long hair short to look masculine because I thought of masculinity as being synonymous with having power and liking girls.
Roller derby is my favourite past time. In roller derby, I have found a community that accepts me for exactly who I am and encourages me to better myself. I did speed in line rollerblading in Iran and have been doing all kinds of skating (sans ice) my whole life. I started derby because I wanted to skate and become fearless. Derby offers the kind of queer space that isn’t focused around drinking or sex which I am very grateful for.
I picked up skateboarding two years ago and found out that it is much more convenient and fun than walking. I enjoy going to metal and punk shows and dream of being a good enough daf player to start a taqwa core band.
In my opinion, stigma and misplacement are some of the biggest challenges facing Queer Muslims today. Islam is incredibly misunderstood and the queer conversation is only just beginning. We can be rejected by both queers and Muslims. The supposed juxtaposition of Islam and queerness is only made more complicated by the North American hostility towards Muslims in a climate where Muslims strive for acceptance and visibility.
I hope to be able to return to Iran and help make things better for little girls who feel what I felt. I hope to help move Iran towards acceptance and support of its queer people. I dream of the smell of orange blossoms and sunny mountains of Shiraz.
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.