![](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5fc4a461a772ae50fb2ac2a8/97409781-8dfa-4ff9-8165-e66593702248/pexels-anastasia-shuraeva-8749779+%281%29.jpg)
‘Can You Really Be a Queer Muslim?’: Intersectionality and the Complexity of Identity
![Class Struggle, Education and Social Mobility: A Silent Family Rupture](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5fc4a461a772ae50fb2ac2a8/1657708303769-PUMCG9U3KO1XKK95H8NI/pexels-airam-datoon-10341675+%281%29.jpg)
Class Struggle, Education and Social Mobility: A Silent Family Rupture
‘Do your homework and listen in school. Otherwise, you’ll clean up after others for a living,’ my mother would say. This was the leitmotif of my childhood, repeated so many times that I would recite it in a whisper when she started uttering the first words. Since she was twelve, my mother worked as a cleaner. When she later got pregnant, she brought her child up by herself – just like her own mother before her…
![‘Without a Mother, I Don’t Know How to be One’: A Personal Reflection](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5fc4a461a772ae50fb2ac2a8/1648401535317-542AP1KU0JQ1RYXJJCTS/pexels-darya-sannikova-5965263.jpg)
‘Without a Mother, I Don’t Know How to be One’: A Personal Reflection
I was caught in a constant spiral of picturing what I could never have – running my hands over a bump, holding a newborn. Seeing mothers with small children was like being stabbed and watching anyone act a birthing scene on TV was like drinking acid. I told myself it was biology, hormones, being almost forty. Time was running out, that was all…
![I Am No Longer Subjugating My Queerness: My Struggle Against Internalised Homophobia, Class Anxieties, and Compulsory Heterosexuality](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5fc4a461a772ae50fb2ac2a8/1622494664648-8HRARY5TIAAPXKLA0DZ5/pexels-cottonbro-4974366.jpg)
I Am No Longer Subjugating My Queerness: My Struggle Against Internalised Homophobia, Class Anxieties, and Compulsory Heterosexuality
I often experience my internalised homophobia as a kind of funhouse. As I walk through and try to find a way out (or rather, a way to come out), trick mirrors and shifting floors suspend me in a state of endless motion; I lose my path, unable to stare issues directly in the face, constantly ricocheting between and turning from them.