by Nura Maznavi
I was drawn to Islam’s simplicity. I set out on a path, like so many lesbians and gays, trying to reconcile my faith and my sexuality, both of which I believed stemmed from God. But I lived in a state of fear, careful not to react externally to the harsh rhetoric I heard from imams and Muslim friends about gays, while cringing internally. I told myself that being gay was a test. This was the message I kept hearing, sometimes from leaders whom I looked to for guidance, even as they expressed a special revulsion reserved for homosexuality—or, more specifically, the thought of men having sex with other men. I thought—if my faith was strong enough—I could pray, fast, or marry my way out of my sexuality.
I vowed to remain closeted and celibate and eventually submit to marriage as a means of fulfilling my desire for companionship and to have children. I tried to push the thought of sex with a man out of my mind. I wouldn’t be the first woman to grin and bear it, and polygamy was becoming an attractive option. At least I wouldn’t have to fake it on the days reserved for the other wife.
Then, slowly, I began to discover the hidden world of gay Muslims. I was both excited and reticent. I was amazed at the courage of the writer Irshad Manji, who spoke openly about being both Muslim and a lesbian.Yet I could not embrace her as a role model, because we approached theology in very different ways.
Remaining mum on issues of homosexuality was my shield. But that shield began to crumble as I met other gay Muslim women who shared my level of religious devotion. There was Zain, a Somali Canadian in Toronto, whom I met while taking Islamic studies courses. Our friendship was slow to develop, but we kept in touch. We were both shy and introverted, which always makes it harder to confirm initial suspicions, and even when we finally did admit our attraction to each other, it became clear that our relationship could never work: Zain had more progressive views and wanted to be out, so she grew impatient with me as I so desperately tried to remain in the closet.
I didn’t realize it then, but my conversion to Islam led me to embrace a very conservative form of Islamic belief, even though I’m rather liberal politically. I had created an identity that revolved around conservative religious piety, a sort of “ideal Muslimah,” yet that very same identity was what would cause enormous spiritual and emotional turmoil for me as I tried to understand my conflicting impulses. Remaining in the closet did violence to a part of my identity, but it also allowed me to move comfortably in conservative Muslim circles. I feared the social rejection that would inevitably accompany coming out. I didn’t want to lose the love and social support of my Muslim friends and the community that I had grown to depend on over the years. And I feared that I would have to withdraw from that community—which is such a vital part of my life and identity as a Muslim—in order to protect myself from the hateful looks and words toward gays and lesbians I’ve heard so often from those I considered friends and teachers.
Ramadan began soon after my second engagement ended, and I found myself absorbed in the rituals of the month, from fasting and praying to reading the Qur’an and giving in charity. Many nights I broke my fast at my local D.C.-area mosque, chatting with other Muslim women over spicy iftar dinners, and inevitably one would ask if I was married or looking to get married. Marriage, it seemed, was being pushed as a panacea for every problem, including loneliness, financial instability, immigration, unemployment, and the issue of educating and keeping new Muslim converts in the faith. In my community, a single woman not looking to get married is viewed with some suspicion and as a threat to an idealized conservative social order.
I prayed many nights during that Ramadan for Allah to provide me with a pious spouse. I didn’t have a specific set of qualities or must-haves in mind; I just wanted someone I was compatible with in terms of religion and personality. Everything was negotiable.
Then I met Hafsa. We met online through our blogs and eventually realized we lived in the same area. We kept in touch through email. She was a convert like I was, and we agreed to meet, to exchange gifts for Eid. She was even more conservative then I was—she wore full niqab and abaya.
I don’t remember saying much at our first meeting as we stood shyly on the sidewalk while crowds of Muslims in their brightly colored finery streamed out of the mosque all around us after Eid prayers. We exchanged simple gifts, books by Ibn Qayyim, and then parted to celebrate the day in our different ways.
Shortly after Eid, Hafsa invited me to her place to hang out, so we could get to know each other better. She called me twice to follow up: “So, when are you going to come over?” she asked. I’m not the most outgoing person—email and text message are my preferred means of communication. I felt shy but nervously agreed to meet her at her apartment the following Wednesday.
That Wednesday morning, I was anxious but I made sure to arrive a few minutes early—Hafsa had mentioned that she liked to be on time. I pulled up and waited in my car, trying to figure out how I could back out or turn around and go home, which is my usual way of dealing with social anxiety, always heightened around new people and situations. When I glanced up at the apartment building, I saw Hafsa staring at me through the window. No turning back now, I sighed. Somewhat reluctantly, I got out of the car and walked up to her door.
During our only other meeting, at the mosque, Hafsa had been wearing niqab, so I didn’t know what she looked like. This time, she was wearing a flowery, soft yellow–colored, one-piece prayer garment. She opened the door for me, and I said “salaam” to her as I stepped inside to take off my shoes. She smiled at me, her eyes alight behind her glasses.
As I entered, Hafsa took off her prayer garment. Underneath she wore a long red tunic and black pants, and her dark brown, shoulder-length hair was tied back. That first sight of her took my breath away. I quickly lowered my gaze and pretended to be distracted by where to put my shoes on the shoe rack. Tolu, behave, I reproached myself internally. She was married and completely unavailable.
To my great relief, our conversation that morning flowed effortlessly. We found that we had much in common, despite our very different backgrounds and experiences. She was of mixed European descent, grew up in the Midwest, converted to Islam while in college, and married soon afterward, hoping to start a family. I grew up on the East Coast in a small college town, the daughter of African immigrants, and, after my conversion, took an extended break from college. But we connected over our shared American cultural nuances and values, our love of reading and tuna fish with apples, and our fondness for all things Mac. We quizzed each other with all the litmus-test questions for conservative Muslims:
Do you listen to music?
We had both thrown out our massive CD collections at some point after our conversion.
How do you celebrate the holidays with your non-Muslim family?
While neither of us consciously “celebrated” the holidays, we did nonetheless join in family gatherings on these occasions.
What do you think of hijrah to a Muslim country?
Hafsa mentioned that she’d like to make hijrah to learn Arabic, live surrounded by other Muslims, and wake up hearing the adhan. I told her that I was quite happy right here in the United States. It was hard for me to imagine anywhere else feeling like home.
Then, suddenly, Hafsa began to tell me about a friend she had met soon after her conversion. This super-Salafi niqabi sister had gone from being married with kids to being an out lesbian living with her partner, and had left much of her Islam behind. The community had ostracized her.
I reacted to Hafsa’s story with compassion and said that we all have our tests and that I hoped for the best for her friend. Hearing stories like this one always hurts and scares me, because I fear being forced to choose between two integral components of my identity: my faith and my sexuality. I didn’t know it then, but Hafsa was testing me to see if I was a homophobe. It never occurred to me that she might also be gay.
Over the next few months, our friendship deepened and we began to spend more time together. We met regularly at Hafsa’s place e
very Wednesday; sometimes we went out, and other times we stayed in and chatted about everything from the news to our favorite books to how we dealt with our non-Muslim families. No matter how many hours we spent together on those Wednesdays, the time always seemed to pass much too quickly. Our days would end when her husband returned home from his long day at work. We parted reluctantly, but with the comfort of knowing we would meet again the following Wednesday, inshAllah.
Two months after we met, Hafsa went to visit her family for several weeks. It was only then that I realized how close we had become. I missed her terribly; she was always on my mind. So I wrote an email to tell her in a gentle and open way that I loved and missed her. She responded warmly, and we agreed to meet up when she returned. I had no intention of professing my true feelings for her—I was still fully inside the closet and intended to stay there. Hafsa and I had even discussed finding a husband for me, and she had sent me one brother’s typed one-page marriage profile.
In the meantime, the pressure from my community to get married didn’t ease up. While I was volunteering at a fundraising dinner for a local Muslim school, a sister tried to hook me up with a Ghanaian man from New York. I thanked her but said no thanks. Even though I was flexible in terms of the specific qualities I was looking for in a partner, I knew I wanted to marry an American—someone born and raised in the United States, who understood and shared a similar cultural outlook.
The Wednesday after Hafsa returned, we resumed our weekly routine. I was delighted but also troubled. I mentioned that there were things I found difficult to talk about and recounted an earlier incident I had witnessed, involving gay Muslims who were told they couldn’t be gay and Muslim at the same time, perhaps as my own way of testing whether Hafsa was safe for me. She did not press or try to pry more information out of me, and I was grateful for that.
That night, reflecting on my past experience and on my growing closeness to Hafsa, I was in turmoil. I had fallen in love. But she was married. I didn’t think I could ever tell her that I loved her, because I didn’t want to lose our friendship. And I didn’t want to be a home wrecker.
Perceptive as ever, Hafsa wrote me an email that same night and asked me if I was going through my own trial: You’ve been thinking a lot, it seems, about other people’s trials. I wanted to make sure that you’re okay, that you’re not going through some major trial of your own without me even knowing. I’m good at handling people that are extroverted with their emotions, but you’re not so much like that. Even if you were falling apart inside, I wouldn’t expect you to burst into sobs and fall into my lap and ask for a hug and a cup of tea (that’s what I generally do at the peak of crisis, so watch out).
How could I tell her that my trial, my inner turmoil and struggle, was my love for her? My trial was one that gay Muslims rarely feel comfortable enough to talk about with anyone fearing rejection—or worse.
Her email continued:I sometimes get the feeling that I know exactly what you’re not saying. I recognize the look in your eyes when you talk about it. Sometimes, I just want to say, “Yes, I was there. Can’t you tell? That’s my story, too. Have any advice?” And then I realize I’m probably just projecting. But it is sort of a comforting thought, isn’t it? To think that we’re not all alone in these trials—the ones we can’t talk about.
That Saturday, I went to her house to talk. The conversation was painful and stilted. I wasn’t ready to open up; I was afraid. But Hafsa was determined and insisted, and soon we were talking about my previous unrequited love. As always, I told my story without the use of any pronouns, and Hafsa asked me if I was gay. It was a relief to say yes, though terrifying at the same time.
To my great surprise, Hafsa didn’t reject me; she told me that my story was also her own. Years earlier, unable to reconcile her faith with her sexuality, she had broken up with her girlfriend and married one of the first men “with a beard and short pants” who came along.
I loved her and she loved me. Had we both been single, maybe things would have been different. But she was married and wanted children. She wanted normalcy, something a relationship or a marriage between us (could we even get married?) would never provide within a conservative Muslim community like ours. “I don’t want to have to hide, not from my friends and not from my family,” Hafsa said.
Knowing that I was not alone in my struggle, and being able to talk to her openly, was a relief and brought us closer together. But my inability to reconcile my faith and my love made me want to run far away from her. I thought about moving back to my hometown. It was too painful to stay. I shared with Hafsa part of Graham Greene’s heartbreaking novel The End of the Affair, in which the character Sarah breaks things off with her lover:SARAH: Love doesn’t end just because we don’t see each other. People go on loving God all their lives without seeing Him.
BENDRIX: That’s not my kind of love.
SARAH: Maybe it’s the only kind.
Hafsa was also in turmoil. Not knowing what to do, she called her mother for advice. She told her mother that she had fallen in love with a friend, someone she could never marry. Hafsa’s mother asked, “Is it Tolu?”
Two months later, Hafsa asked for and was granted a divorce. She didn’t tell her husband that she was gay. We moved in together, though publicly we remained closeted. We are just good friends, we’d tell everyone. We are living together to help with the rent and live closer to the mosque. Those early days were some of the happiest of my life; our relationship was fulfilling, and I was content. We encouraged each other in our acts of worship, and we learned from each other’s experience.
The pressure to hide as we lived together, reconciling our sexuality with our faith, exacted a high emotional price. After a few months, I tried to come out to my mother to share with her the happiness I had found with Hafsa. I told her that we were very good friends and that we had become very close. When she asked, “Are you a lesbian?” I froze and I lied, retreating back into the closet. She asked me again several years later, after increased media coverage of a spate of gay-teen suicides. Although I thought it was a sweet gesture that she was reaching out, perhaps afraid of losing me, I still couldn’t tell her the truth. Today, when I see out gay women or couples, I’m awestruck and a little envious of their courage to live openly and hope someday I will be able to do the same.
The prayer for a pious spouse that I made repeatedly during those long nights in Ramadan was answered in a most unexpected way. Hafsa and I were in love, two orthodox girls with an unorthodox love, not willing to give up on our faith or each other. We moved forward, happy but conflicted. Though our relationship didn’t last, I am ever so thankful for our years together.
Is being a gay Muslim and finding love a contradiction or disgusting? I don’t think so. Does it really get better? Sometimes, but not always.
Love at Third Sight
Patricia M. G. Dunn
“You converted because of your husband,” people would tell me.
“No” was always my answer, whether they had meant it as a question or not.
I lied, of course. I lied to the world. I lied to myself. The truth is, if it weren’t for Ahmed, I might have never found Islam. But I couldn’t admit it, even to myself. I was a feminist, and I wasn’t changing religions for any man. I wasn’t changing anything for any man.
He never asked me to convert. It was fine with him that I was a feminist Marxist. “I respect all religions,” he said. And Marxism was the most evangelical of all the faiths either of us had ever been exposed to. But it was through my questioning—badgering—of his beliefs that I found my place in Islam, a place big enough for this Catholic-Italian-White-Marxist-Feminist-Forever-a-Bronx-Girl. It was comfortable. It was home.
But really, my conversion to Islam is a love story. A love story between God and me. Well, eventually—but before God, there was a man named Ahmed.
I was a hardcore-feminist, do-the-right-thing-and-fight-for-it, type-A personality when I met Ahmed. He was also a hardcore-f
eminist, do-the-right-thing-and-fight-for-it, type-A personality, but he was a type A from L.A., which meant he was a bit more laid back than my type A from New York. He never stressed about showing up to a party late or not showing up at all without calling. “It’s L.A.,” he’d say. “People don’t expect you to call.” He was right, though in the ten years I lived in L.A., I never became comfortable with that.
According to him, it was love at first sight. Well, maybe second sight.
It was early 1988. My friend Leila and I were giving a talk at UCLA about the women of the Intifada. We had just returned from a two-week student delegation to the West Bank and Gaza. There were a good number of people in the audience, but during the question-and-answer period, there were very few questions. I couldn’t tell if it was because we had already given all the answers or because people had long since stopped listening. On our way out, I was feeling a little unsure of myself, when a tall redhead stopped me and introduced himself, extending his hand to say, “My name is Ahmed.”
I had never met a twenty-three-year-old guy who was so formal and polite, without being the least bit strange or creepy. He told me humbly how impressed he was with all that I had said, and how it was great to hear people at UCLA talking about the Palestinian struggle. I was flattered, and thought he seemed very nice. He also had the best-shaped nose I’d ever seen on a guy—a nose that could be on the face of a lion. It gave him a majestic yet humble look. He was hot, but dating, relationships, and love were the last things on my mind when I met him.