Introduction
I never knew that the story of Ibrahim and Ismail was the basis for Hari Raya Haji that we celebrate in Singapore every year until I read Hijab Butch Blues.
The memoir surprised me by opening with a verse from the Quran:
And when Ibrahim said, “My Lord, show me how You give life to the dead.”
[Allah] said, “Have you not believed?”
[Ibrahim] said, “Yes, but just that my heart may be satisfied.”
– The Quran, 2:260
After explaining that the above is her favourite verse in the Preface, I loved how the author continued with the religious theme by referencing various figures from the Quran all throughout the book, and explaining how she related to them as a queer Muslim.
My favourite parts of the book
I think my favourite chapters are the ones referencing the prophet Nuh and how his persistence through the years paralleled the author’s, and the very first chapter referencing Maryam and how the author was startled in Quran class when the verse was recited:
And the pains of childbirth [of Isa] drove her [Maryam] to the trunk of a palm tree. She said, “Oh, I wish I had died before this and was in oblivion, forgotten.”
(19:23)
The author was stunned because as a teenager, she too, wanted to die.
“Like Maryam, I don’t want to kill myself, I want to be in oblivion, forgotten. I want to die.”
Lamya H, Hijab Butch Blues
My sense is that many a queer teenager, depressed from a lack of agency, might feel the same way.
As a queer person of faith myself, I certainly did.
Perhaps that’s why this book is so inspirational. I think that her eventually finding herself gives one hope in the darkness, small as that unstable, flickering flame might be.
Finding one’s tribe
I really resonate with her stories of seeking community but finding it wanting.
Lamya H found it difficult to be Muslim in queer spaces, and to be queer in Muslim spaces. It was only after finally landing in a queer Muslim space that she finally found her “tribe” as it were, and a queer Muslim mentor to boot.
Queer Sacrifice
In the chapter titled “Hajar”, I was particularly touched by how the author’s partner, Liv, concealed her identity, and tempered any overt displays of romance, to celebrate Eid al-Adha with the former’s extended family.
I think the concept of sacrifice is familiar to many in the queer community, and I found that the author’s decision to centre Hajar in her chapter, instead of Ismail or Ibrahim, very touching.
An enslaved woman, cast aside by her husband. A single mother, protected by God, who takes care of them.
Tying it all together, the author ended the chapter on a stirring note, addressing God directly, asking God:
“Will You take care of me? Will You protect me like You did Hajar? Will You raise a village, a community around me like You did for Hajar? An ummah of my loves, this family that I am building with this woman, with this chosen family of Billy, of Manal, of Zu, of my queer Muslim friends, that I want to cultivate and bloom in this city that I call my home? Will You raise this out of nothing? It’s for You, God, that I make this sacrifice. In You, I put my trust.”
This chapter brought tears, unbidden, to my eyes.
Conclusion
Finally, I found it particularly poignant that the author chose to publish this title under a pseudonym, for the sake of her safety and privacy.
It is understandable for in Singapore, my queer Muslim siblings also have a tough time simply existing, for choosing to be authentically themselves.
I highly recommend this book to everyone, and I give it 5 stars out of 5.
Looking forward to Lamya H‘s next book!
If you enjoyed this book review and would like to support Queer In Asia and help keep the lights on, do drop a tip over at: https://ko-fi.com/queerinasia.
This is not a sponsored post. For sponsorship opportunities, please drop us a note at our Contact page.
Leave a Reply