By Mina Khan

In a video I recently watched, a Muslim woman asked a Muslim gay man why he doesn’t stop being Muslim. That question made me cry. Not because I found it hurtful that the Muslim community (my community) is often still not accepting of queerness (also my community), or that I found the question ludicrous or ignorant. I cried because it made sense to me, and I didn’t want it to. That question epitomised the idea that nonconforming sexual identity and Muslim identity cannot peacefully coexist in the same person; that this dichotomy of identity is so volatile that the only route forward is to cut one out.

Queer culture, particularly in the West, often advocates wearing your heart on your sleeve, wearing your sexuality as a proud badge at the forefront of your identity. While I enormously value the importance of being loud about queer identity, this can often be difficult to embrace for marginalised queer groups. Being able to distinguish one’s identity is incredibly powerful and can imbue a person with a sense of belonging and understanding that may have evaded them before. However, there are limitations to the idea of ‘identity’ when certain identities are socially undetermined.

Identity is defined as: ‘the fact of being or feeling that you are a particular type or person’. Essentially, if you’re queer then that’s who you are, and the same goes for being Muslim. But since queerness is seen by many as a sin in Islam, can you really be a queer Muslim? Then again, there are a range of sinful acts in Islam, such as drinking alcohol or eating pork. While these activities are seen as sinful, a Muslim person who occasionally drinks alcohol usually wouldn’t think of themselves as having a sinful identity as an ‘alcohol drinker’. Some of my friends who are Muslim do or have drunk in their lives, and rarely think of this as a source of an identity crisis.

Of the Muslim queer people that I know, this conflict in identity is often very tangible. This conflict may be, at least in part, down to the fact that queerness and religion are identities rather than simply two facets of a person’s complex life and sense of self. While identities can help us to navigate society and present ourselves to the world, these can sometimes oversimplify our intricacies and make us question whether we can really contain multiple identities at the same time.

I sometimes feel that thinking outside of the boundaries of identity helps me to see queerness and religion as simply two pieces of who I am. These – in combination with my culture, experiences, relationships, loves and hates – make up my true identity. In this context, queerness and Islam don’t have to contradict. I don’t have to choose between them; they can simply and peacefully coexist. I’m slowly starting to realise that our identities are not mutually exclusive. I can be queer and Muslim without compromising either.

My father has always said, as long as you believe in Allah and are good to others and help those in need, you are a Muslim. I never really questioned this until I realised my queer identity. While nothing has changed since my childhood in terms of the ways I practise my faith, being queer has suddenly, in my mind, discredited my Muslim-ness. I feel the need to prove to myself and the rest of the world that I am a ‘real Muslim’, that this isn’t something I’m simply claiming down to familial and cultural heritage.

Since my home surroundings with my girlfriend are inherently queer, I often feel pressure to reinforce my religion to preserve my history, beliefs and culture. While a part of this stems from a genuine desire to reconnect with my religion, I don’t want to do this out of guilt at being queer. A quote on a page by the organisation Advocates for Youth helped me to understand this – ‘You can be queer and still be whatever type of Muslim you want to be’. Queerness does not have to influence the way one relates to their religion; identities are fluid.

Growing up, I didn’t once see a queer Muslim, let alone a queer Muslim who had succeeded in consolidating their identity and living in acceptance. Representation in the media is an issue that is not unique to any marginalised groups – I didn’t see much representation of even my ethnicity in the media growing up, either. However, in recent years, I have seen a gradual shift.

One groundbreaking example of this is the rise to fame of Queer Eye star Tan France, one of the only openly gay Muslim men to appear on television in the West. The simple fact that a person like Tan France exists and is broadcasted across nations is an enormous milestone and comfort for isolated queers, particularly Muslims, who may otherwise feel that they are alone and entirely peerless.

Some queer Muslim characters I have particularly enjoyed in fictional TV include Ayesha from the Channel-4 hit, We are Lady Parts and Aneesa from the teenage rom-com, Never Have I Ever. In neither case is an enormous saga created out of their queer and Muslim identities, which is critical when it comes to promoting an attitude of normalisation and acceptance, rather than focusing on experiences of hatred, challenges or invalidation. As someone who has only met a handful of queer Muslims in my life, it means so much to at least see TV personalities and fictional characters who validate my experiences.

Navigating the complex facets of any identity can be a challenging and confusing journey, one that is often hindered by rigid societal norms and the expectations of others. The duality may be confusing for some, but we don’t have an obligation to be less confusing. The more queer Muslims that populate global spaces, the more normalised this identity will become. And to that woman who asked why queer Muslims don’t simply stop being Muslim, I say: just like everyone else, queer Muslims have a right to simultaneously practise our faith and embrace our sexualities and gender identities.