We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir

As a woman in this world, it is important to take up space and make yourself heard even if it intimidates and offends powerful men.

Grown-ups, who are supposed to protect their children, are limited by what "best" has felt like to them, based on the circumstances they grew in and the privilege they did or did not have. The lines between grown-up and child were often blurred between me and my mom. Her "best" did not look like mine; in fact, it looked like danger. It felt like surrender.

Not everyone is equipped for activism in the traditional sense—marching, writing letters to officials—but dedicating your life to understanding yourself can be its own form of protest, especially when the world tells you that you don't exist.

It helps to find solace in the larger universe, especially when your internal world isn't hospitable.

Our understanding of the interior lives of those who are not like us is contingent on their ability to articulate themselves in the language we know. The further removed people are from proficiency in that language, the less likely they are to be understood as complex individuals. The audience often fills in the blanks with their own preconceptions. But visual language is more easily parsed and a much more democratic form of communication.

The joy of discovery is one of the biggest pleasures you'll ever know.

It's no wonder I was so fascinated. The kind of home I imagine--one that offers stability and encouragement and the space to learn and grow as an individual--is a luxury I never had growing up.

Representation is a critical way for people to recognize that their experiences—even if invisible in the mainstream—are valid.

My mother had failed to give me a better life than hers because she didn't have the blueprint to show me what my best could look like.

Closure, for me, would mean accepting my circumstances rather than trying to alter them to serve me best.

Maybe home was simply any place where you felt seen and welcome.

Our separate--and very different--evenings reminded me how far we'd drifted from each other. Our relationship, which at the best of times had felt platonic, now felt like an obstacle to our happiness. I was living with a roommate I had nothing in common with. And I had changed: I barely resembled my former self, the version of me who sought acceptance and security--or was it invisibility?--in a heterosexual marriage.

Being surrounded by great people isn't a fluke. It's almost like solving a math problem, finding variables, adding and subtracting to figure out a formula that works. Being surrounded by people who fuel you is intentional.

I often found people back home in Toronto to be apathetic and apolitical, perhaps a result of the comfort and ambivalence that advanced queer rights can breed. Many Canadians who enjoyed the fruits of decades of activism did not see any need to advocate for the rights of queer and trans people of colour.

I've also gotten into the habit of telling my mom everything. Her validation, opinions, and reactions made me feel as though we were on the same team, which meant a lot, because I was not willingly chosen by any teams at school. Even though we had different ideas about the activities and interests I was free to pursue, my mom was the only confidante I had.

Abi planted the seed that as a woman in this world it’s important to take up space and make yourself heard, even if it intimidates and offends powerful men.

...'I'm your mom. I know best.' As I stared at her, waiting for an explanation, it became clear I wasn't going to get one. And that she in fact did not know best--for herself or for me. Grown-ups, who are supposed to protect their children, are limited by what "best" has felt like to them, based on the circumstances they grew up in and the privilege they did or did not have.

I felt a sudden longing, but I didn't know for whom or for what. It wasn't for Peter or for my parents. I let myself dwell in the feeling instead of shoving it away. And then I realized that it was fear--fear that no one would ever truly understand me and love every part of me. The only relationships I'd ever known felt like bargaining and settling: bargaining for space to be free, settling for a partner who didn't wonder what I was up to. I wanted someone to see all of me, the good and the bad.

Throughout my travels, I thought about what I wanted love to look like for me. Was it possible to be loved without losing myself? Was the absence of a partner I was spiritually and intellectually in sync with the price I had to pay for being uncompromising about needing the space to grow?

It was one of the first signs that her identity was disposable.

Eventually I would find writers who were able to put my fears and insecurities into words, and artists who would inspire me to do the same, but for many years I was an outsider looking in, compelled by a mix of wonder and envy.

For me, practising Islam feeds my desire to understand the beauty and complexity of the universe and to treat everyone, regardless of their beliefs, with respect. My faith inspires kindness, patience, and self-reflection in my daily interactions. Relearning how to pray—focusing on the words and the prayer steps, such as kneeling in front of God in sajda—taught me that completely surrendering yourself to something you love is a gift. In fact, it’s in the getting lost that you find yourself.

Being surrounded by people who fuel you is intentional.

My friends wouldn't have a platform to deliver a poignant speech about how we met, but they could show me how much they cared in other ways: checking in during their coffee breaks when I'm upset over a racist encounter, surreptitiously leaving a Polaroid of a moody Halifax sunset on my desk because it reminds them of me, an invitation to go for a quiet walk on the beach, or simply to sit in the kitchen with them while they bake an apple pie because there's a whisper of Fall in the air

I've always been drawn to loners, people who have the strength not to join the herd just for validation.

For me, a wedding was an act of necessity, not a fairy tale.