Hijab Butch Blues: A Memoir

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It feels the same when the author writes about being in an LGBTQIA+ centre for a poetry event, and two women ask how Lamya identifies in terms of sexuality. Thankfully, Lamya manages to avoid the question, but the couple then patronisingly thank them for being “such a good ally”. Lamya’s story provides a beacon of hope as she does not give up her seeking for the community. She attends various LGBTQ+-friendly Islamic events in which she is introduced to a plethora of people who are like-minded. Lamya finds her people – the people who love and accept all parts of her, the people she always yearned for.

At one point, Lamya contemplates the whale that swallowed Prophet Yunus and offers the interpretation that, rather than a punishment, it may have been a means of protection – “a brief respite, a shelter, a resting place. Protection, for the time being.” She then describes how her pseudonym serves a similar purpose: “A whale that allows me to keep fighting, to fight with my writing.” When she is young, Lamya and her family moved from South Asia to the Middle East where she spent many of her formative years feeling lost and out of place, desperately wanting to belong and fit in. At an early age, she knew that she didn’t conform, but did not have the language to define how she felt. However, one day in Qur’an study class, she came across the story of Maryam that begins her journey of true self-discovery and belonging. From then on, we as readers go on this journey with Lamya as different religious stories from the Qur’an are shared. Her reinterpretations of them guide her understanding of herself as well as how to navigate the world around her. And yes, I get that coming out to the public, especially when you're in a very homophobic environment, is terrifying. It's a big risk, I know. But comparing "Mom, I actually like vagina" to how a Prophet liberated his people from a tyrant is...dude, what do I even say? Hijab Butch Blues might be Lamya H’s first work of autobiography, but they have been publishing essays on queer Muslim subjectivities and prison abolition since 2014. Moving from academic longform to first-person narrative was a learning curve for the writer. Trust and faith are major themes in the story, and Lamya parallels the necessity of trusting ourselves and others during periods of doubt and isolation to the physical and spiritual journeys prophets undertake to achieve enlightenment. In Hijab Butch Blues , Lamya takes us on a trip through time and space as we follow their complex relationship with sexuality and gender.From that moment on, Lamya makes sense of their struggles and triumphs by comparing their experiences with some of the most famous stories in the Quran. She juxtaposes her coming out with Musa liberating his people from the pharoah; asks if Allah, who is neither male nor female, might instead be nonbinary; and, drawing on the faith and hope Nuh needed to construct his ark, begins to build a life of her own--ultimately finding that the answer to her lifelong quest for community and belonging lies in owning her identity as a queer, devout Muslim immigrant. Written with deep intelligence and a fierce humour, Hijab Butch Blues follows Lamya as she travels to the United States, as she comes out, and as she navigates the complexities of the immigration system – and the queer dating scene. At each step, she turns to her faith to make sense of her life, weaving stories from the Quran together with her own experiences: Musa leading his people to freedom; Allah, who is neither male nor female; and Nuh, who built an ark, just as Lamya is finally able to become the architect of her own story. A masterful, must-read contribution to conversations on power, justice, healing, and devotion from a singular voice I now trust with my whole heart' It’s like the chapter for Maryam [Mary]. You positing her sapphism was great, because Maryam is so often desexualised. Lesbians and queer women, unless they’re commodified within a pornographic framework, are desexualised too. I love that you reintroduced sexuality to Mary, who is positioned on one side of the dichotomy a lot of the time. I know first-hand how easy it is to feel alone, and for a time, I wondered if I was the only one out there – the only lesbian on the planet who wore hijab and prayed five times a day.

I admire Lamya’s courage when they come out to their Muslim doctor – an “aunty doctor”, in Lamya’s words. Events, culture and spaces centring the butch identity appear to be having a ripple effect. It was the combination of a group trip to Butch, Please! last February and a screening of Rebel Dykes that helped inspire Bristol Butch Bar. Silver first went to Butch, Please! while still working out his identity, and now performs there. Social media has also created new ways to be together. “The pandemic did have a part to play in those spaces being taken away,” says Benjamin. “A lot of young people in particular were like: ‘Hang on, we need these spaces.’ So it’s created this surge of enthusiasm and support.”This book is not written by a Muslim, and if it is, may Allah forgive them. This book is a total and absolute shattered portrayal of Islam, if you are non-muslim, then know that this book should not even be on Goodreads. This is a violation of Islam and everything that it has to do with. Hijab Butch Blues is a memoir from Hijabi, Queer, Nonbinary, Muslim author Lamya H. At age fourteen, Lamya realizes she has a crush on her female teacher. Born in South Asia, she moved to the Middle East at a young age and has spent years feeling out of place, like her own desires and dreams don't matter, and it's easier to hide in plain sight- to disappear. But one day in Quran class, they read a passage about Maryam that changes everything: when Maryam learned that she was pregnant, she insisted no man had touched her. Could Maryam, uninterested in men, be . . . like Lamya? This book is testament to the fact that I am not alone at all. There is comfort in that solidarity, and it is a reminder that our mere existence is a form of resistance. These are the stories that make the headlines, though, and given the statistics about LGBTQIA+ people considering or dying by suicide – LGBTQIA+ young people in particular, I wouldn’t be surprised if those statistics are a vast underestimate. Lamya expresses that she has often felt alone growing up, and this feeling followed her briefly when she moved to New York City to attend college and graduate school. Given that she was not out to her family overseas or her family in upstate New York, she yearned for a community, one that would see her as her authentic self. Throughout the memoir, Lamya recounts her experiences with losing certain friendships due to being queer as well as facing the fear of abandonment once she became too vulnerable.

I want to focus on the reality for LGBTQIA+ Muslims. There have been far too many news stories about queer Muslims contemplating suicide or worse, dying by suicide.An insightful memoir-in-essays by a queer nonbinary (she/they) Muslim author, which pairs stories from the Quran with stories about their life. This truly exceeded all expectations. Lamya touches on immigration, Islamaphobia, racism, homophobia, and more as she finds hope in a religious text while needing to remain closeted to much of their community, including their family. Their devoutness happens *because* of their identity, not in spite of it. It’s a nuanced, powerful view of religion. Not only that, Lamya is a talented writer. I’ll be thinking about this memoir for some time to come. Highly recommended for anyone who enjoys memoirs that grapple with faith/religion. A masterful, must-read contribution to conversations on power, justice, healing, and devotion from a singular voice I now trust with my whole heart.”—Glennon Doyle, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Untamed As for those to whom she has opened up, Lamya has reframed it as “inviting in” rather than “coming out”, and she believes that being vulnerable can help others become more understanding and accepting. A single Quranic verse is used to justify intimate partner violence because the Muslim mainstream is still beholden to ancient interpretations that are almost entirely made by cis straight men. Where is the Muslim community’s curiosity in challenging long-held attitudes of prejudice based on difference? I think that’s what relates your work to spirituality. When you’re true to yourself, you might need to define your own moral compass. That’s a huge responsibility, because you’re figuring yourself out outside of a context that people have defined for you previously.