Just Me and Allah: A Queer Muslim Photo Project

A few years ago, when I launched this photo project, I had no idea how it would transform my own life. What I didn’t realize at the time was that through listening to other queer Muslims’ stories and asking questions, I was trying to find the courage to share my own. I saw parts of myself in my subjects’ stories, whether they were refugees from Iran or kids from Brooklyn dealing with Islamophobia in their daily lives. Although I spent years behind the camera, collaborating with others on how they wanted to share their stories, I feel ready to share my own. Thrilled to share that Viking Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House Canada has acquired the rights to my memoir, We Have Always Been Here. Because we have. I wrote the kind of book I wish I had access to growing up as a queer Muslim kid. Looking forward to releasing it into the universe June 4, 2019. 

Preorder link: https://www.penguinrandomhouse.ca/books/565780/we-have-always-been-here-by-samra-habib/9780735235007

xo

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Saba, Durham, North Carolina

I'm an American Queer Muslim Southern artist and those identities influence my work. For a while, my art practice revolved around painting portraits that aimed to humanize, make visible, and uplift American Muslim women. Then I got to a bit of a breaking point, where I felt really annoyed at the fact that “humanizing Muslims” was considered groundbreaking, and felt resentful of this pressure to send a palatable and “respectable” message. So I started to really let go and shed those burdens. My work became darker, more grotesque, and more intuitive. Now, I feel a lot less pressure to make things “make sense” to others, and allow myself to get lost in radical imaginings of revolution (or apocalypse) and the future.

A while ago, I had an idea to make hybridized burqas made of “western” materials. My mother is an incredibly talented seamstress, and I had very little sewing experience at the time, so I asked for her help. It was a pretty amazing collaborative process. I had a clear cut vision, and she had the skills and the experience to make it come to life, and was able to pass a lot of those skills onto me. We were working together, understanding each other (mostly), but literally speaking different languages to one another. We mirror each other in so many ways, but sometimes it feels like there is an ocean between us. There was a distinct intention on my part to also just connect with and spend time with my mother. We both love to work, so to be creating together was one of the best experiences I’ve had with her.

In the original performance with the burqas, myself and two other Muslim women wore the garments while standing silently on pedestals. We thought a lot about power and the white gaze in constructing the performance. The audience was instructed to ask for permission if they wanted to touch the garments, and upon asking, they were given a nod or shake of the head. Most people received a no from the women.

I love wearing the hijab. I love how it looks, how it feels on my head, and I love that it makes me feel so connected to my Muslim identity. I’ve worn it off and on for some time (just when I felt like it), but since Trump has been elected, I have been wearing it every day when I am in public. It is a bit counterintuitive, in that it draws attention to my Muslim identity and thus potentially opens me up to harm (as hate crimes against Muslims have significantly increased over the past year), but it feels like an act of defiance and oddly makes me feel safer.

I think right now, like many folks in America, I am balancing a lot of different feelings. There is fear for what this administration is going to do, and how that will impact me and the people I love. I’m scared about hate crimes, about healthcare, about same-sex marriage and reproductive rights being negatively impacted, about voter suppression, Muslim registries, and deportations. It is a really sobering time, seeing how power is operating in this country and how important it is that we get organized so we can take that power.

I’ve been in North Carolina my entire life. There are a lot of challenges and fears, to be sure, but I love that I am born and raised in the South. As I’ve gotten older, I feel more deeply that this is my state, and that makes me dedicated to stay here and make it better.

The night of the US election, I went to sleep around midnight. The next day I was incredibly tender, I had to run a few errands and I was crying off and on through the morning. There was a gathering in downtown Durham called “Not My President.” We had conversations around belonging, anger and fierce love, had space for folks to smash stuff. There were a ton of new faces, indicative of how galvanizing this moment has been for so many.

I reached out to friends, and called on folks to come to the Durham Artists Movement (DAM) to make art together as a healing exercise.

DAM is an arts collective that is predominantly made up of queer people of color, with a mission to uplift the creative voices of marginalized people by providing a safe space to create, exhibit, and be in artistic community. Thus far we have offered public workshops, hosted performances and exhibits, art salons, and reading circles. It was healing to just be together, and powerful to turn that into creative energy.

My partner Laila is also queer Muslim. It’s amazing to have a Muslim identity in common, and it’s lovely to make Muslim jokes with a partner who understands although we come from really different backgrounds. I am a non-black person of color, first generation American who grew up in a bubble of class privilege and those things in particular have really impacted my experiences, and are in clear contrast to her experiences. It’s those differences that keep us growing. She’s able to challenge me and also lift me up, and is a role model for me in so many ways.

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Assaad, Linkoping, Sweden

I grew up in the outskirts of Stockholm in a suburb called Husby. In Sweden, there's already a struggle being a black person, imagine being black and Muslim. There was a time when I distanced myself from Islam because first of all I didn't feel accepted in that community and secondly because I was ashamed. All the prejudgements about Muslim people got the best of me and now I feel quite bad for letting the white people take that away from me. I've also experienced all the forms of racism and Islamophobia there is since I was a child. I experience hidden racism in school and when I'm searching for jobs. People don't wanna hire a guy named Assaad here in Sweden. But I've also experienced direct racism, I've been called "nigger, nigger-faggot, suicide bomber, monkey, etc." And this is not only by people around my age, this is from authoritarian figures such as teachers and bosses. So growing up as a Muslim person of color was quite difficult, but hey, here I am, didn't let them get the best of me.  

My relationship with Islam while growing up was quite traumatic. I never felt like I fit in, but at the same time it was a part of my identity. So I was always, and still am, in limbo. During my high school years, I felt like an outsider because I was seen as "the Muslim" in an all-white school. In my Muslim-circles I felt like an outsider because I didn't fill the requirements of how a Muslim should act and be. Even as a child in Qu'ran school, I never felt comfortable and it gave me anxiety and depression at an early age. The traumatic experiences came mostly from home, where I was constantly in a battle because of my sexual orientation and my identity. My parents, who are conservative practicing Muslims, still don't accept who I am and my only option was to detach myself from my family and start my own life.  

To be honest, my relationship with Islam as a queer person is quite elusive, I don't practice Islam in any form or way, but I see it more as a part of my identity and it's more spiritual for me. I don't pray five times a day, I don't go to Salat al-Jumuah, I don't fast during Ramadan and I don't celebrate Eid. And this is something most Muslims I meet give me shit about but I feel like religion is free to interpret, so it's more of a spiritual-identity to me.

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Ari, Paris

I arrived in France from Algeria with my family when I was 4. In Algeria, we had a small house on the beach but then the civil war happened because of radical Islam. Both of my parents had a fatwa issued against them because they are intellectuals. That's why my relationship with Islam is complicated because my parents had to leave Algeria because of radical Islam. Both of my parents are still traumatized. They're against women wearing the veil because it reminds them of women being asked to wear the hijab in Algeria, which led to radicalism. My dad thinks wearing the hijab is oppressive. I've never been against the hijab because I'm a feminist. I think the debate over Muslim women wearing the hijab in France is incredibly racist. You have old, white bourgeois cis men deciding what Muslim women should wear without consulting the women about how they feel. It's about a deeply rooted kind of racism in France. All of this has made me re-claim my faith in Islam. I call myself Muslim because of solidarity.

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Raissa, Brussels

My family knew that I was transgender since I was a child in Mali. They had forbidden me from doing things associated with being a girl like playing with dolls. Growing up, I was kept hidden by my family so that no one would know that I'm trans. When guests would ask about me, my parents would lie and say they didn't know where I was. I got really good at school because I couldn't  have a social life. My teachers loved me because I was really good at school. They actually really respected me and didn't mind that I'm trans. I was one of the top students. I studied economics and statistics in Cameroon. The LGBT movement in Cameroon was really powerful and it inspired me to become an activist when I went back to Mali. I started working as a statistician for the government. During my transition, I was researching hormones that were the best for me. My doctor and almost all the pharmacies refused to help me. Finally, I found a pharmacy right by my house that gave me all the hormones I needed to help me with my transition. At this point, I was still working for the Mali government. I started feeling more and more comfortable with my body. I loved wearing dresses and accessories when going out. That's when the police started harassing me. One night, more than 20 people started beating me in a club because I'm trans. I thought I was going to die. An older guy saved me by putting me in a taxi. I was too afraid to stay in Mali so I fled to Brussels where I'm currently seeking asylum. I can't imagine going back to Mali.

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Biser, Brussels

When I was 20, there was a 17-year-old guy in my village who was also gay. We never spoke about our sexuality because in my small community in Bulgaria, being gay is taboo. But we always knew about each other. Men in the village knew that if they wanted to have sex and couldn't find a woman who would sleep with them, they could just go to him. They took advantage of him. When he turned 17, his mother decided to marry him off to a girl. I knew that he never wanted to be with a girl. But he could not say a word. A week after the wedding, he committed suicide. Everyone knew that it was because he was gay and didn’t want to live a straight life, but no one said anything, neither did I. Years after I realized that I made a big mistake. I did not support him. I'm talking about this today because I feel strong enough to stand for something that happens in my country. I hope gay men will feel empowered to stand up for themselves in my community.

I grew up in a small village in North-Eastern Bulgaria in a Roma Muslim community where my grandfather was the imam and had an  important social position. I am the only son in a family of six children, I have five sisters. Until I turned 34, I never talked about my sexuality with anyone from my community or family but then I decided to unload the burden and share with my parents. They asked me to keep it secret from our community.

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Leila, Berlin

I was born and raised in Paris, France with two sisters and two brothers. I just moved back after living in London, England for a few years. I am a blackarab, meaning that my mum is North African from Algeria and my dad is Caribbean. I didn't grow up Muslim, as we were practicing Buddhism with my dad. My mum used to fast during the month of Ramadan and it's the only time we practiced Islam. Even though my mum was born in a Muslim family, politic of assimilation in France was running the life of people with a Muslim background while she was growing up.

I have always been a spiritual person and the first time I got to know a bit more about Islam was when I was 16. I was in the library and picked up the Qu'ran and read the French translation. I read it in three weeks. I talked to my Muslim aunty about it and she gave me some books about the life of our beloved Prophet Mohammad (sws). I started reading more and more about Islam and fell in love with it. When I was 20, I decided to become a Muslimah. I started wearing the hijab when I was 25. That was a big decision, especially in an Islamophobic country like France. I am a social worker and a special needs educator and it became a struggle to find a job in Paris.  My life in France became hell on earth.

As time passed, my hijab was more than a symbol of faith, it became a symbol of resistance and a political symbol. My hijab is political, my hijab is resistance. I am covered in tattoos so when people see me with a hijab, they're always shocked. Some non-Muslims like to tell me that I shouldn't have tattoos or dress this way. They're becoming the Mufti of Paris. I just want to say “it's between me and Allah!”

I never wear my hijab the same way, just because my mood changes all the time. I love the turban, I love the Arab style hijab, I love wearing a simple woolly hat and I love wearing a nice Panama hat. Covering my head is a part of me. And just to disturb the Islamophobic system I would keep doing it. I also decided to shave my head. You wanna see what's under that hijab? Sorry boo, no long black hair soft and shiny like you may imagine in your 1001 Nights fantasy. I'm not Jasmine from Aladdin.

Since a young age I knew that I was queer and to be honest it never caused me any problems, maybe because I didn't mention it and it was not even necessary. I started asking myself questions growing up in my Muslim community. When you hear things from people that you share the same faith with who reject a part of you, it hurts.

Being queer and Muslim is not a disease. We are lacking a safe space for us. We are meeting up a lot in really small groups but it's still not enough. Some of us are scared and it's not easy.

I have three kids and they know Islam, the same way they know about the oppressive system that we are living in. They know the queer community, the anti-racist community. They come to all the protests with me and their dad, who is my ex-husband and is the best ally that I could dream of. He knows about my queerness and has always been supportive and protective.

I am a health advisor and a sport instructor. I love sports, fashion, art, dancing (especially kizomba) and food. My life is full.

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Harry, Brooklyn

My mom was born and raised in Damascus, Syria to a Syrian Muslim father and a Lebanese Maronite mother. My dad grew up in Brooklyn and was born to two Pontic Greek parents from the Macedonia region. I vividly remember September 11, 2001 being a huge turning point for my mom and her Muslim sisters. In public they went out of their way to look and act as "American" as possible. They plastered American flags all over their cars and lied to strangers when they were asked about their accents. At home though, they became more intentional about teaching my brother and I about Islam, they read the Qur'an regularly, and started to fast and go to the mosque during Ramadan.

I asked my mom to buy me the Allah pendent I'm wearing in the photos during a family trip to Brooklyn we took when I was in middle school, shortly after September 11. As cheesy as it may sound, it makes me feel safe and protected when I wear it. I’ve also learned it's a great way to gauge whether someone is worth talking to or not based on the questions they ask or statements they make about it. I don't remember dealing with much homophobia in high school, but I'll never forget the racism and Islamophobia I experienced growing up. It had such a profound effect on me that I was too afraid to walk home.

I came out to my parents when I was 13. I wrote a note to my mom in Arabic and left it on her bathroom mirror when she wasn't home, and went to a friend's house to spend the night before she saw it. I'm eternally grateful for the love, acceptance, and support my family has always shown me. When I was in high school, the only queer representations in the media I remember were white, skinny, hairless, and rich, which I obviously couldn't relate to. I remember wanting so badly to meet other queer Arabs and Muslims, to be able to relate to someone on that kind of level was a huge deal for me. I eventually found an amazing group of social justice oriented queer Arabs and Muslims after I moved to New York, and it almost feels surreal to look back on the time when I didn't have that kind of support in my life.

I'm very social and I enjoy being around people I love no matter how boring what we're doing might seem to other people. Scary movies, Arabic pop culture from the 40s-60s, (attempting to) dance, and smoking argeeleh are some of my favorite things in the world. I love helping and working with other people, which is how I ended up in social work. I've worked with homeless and runaway LGBT youth, and I'm currently providing preventive services to Arab families in Brooklyn.

I've been living in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn (where my parents met) for a little over a year. There's a huge Arab and Muslim population here, and I love walking out of my apartment every day and hearing my native language being spoken by so many people around me.

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Shima, Toronto

I was born and raised in Shiraz, Iran. My family and I moved to Canada about three years ago after living in Malaysia for a while. We left Iran before my brother was forced into military training and to escape the increasing pressure my father faced from the Islamic Republic government. Aside from being a defence lawyer, my father held workshops teaching human rights. Because of him, I developed an awareness and sensitivity towards social injustice around me.

Growing up in Iran was a contrast of happiness and anxiety. I had sunny days in gardens eating pomegranates and reading poetry with my large and colourful family, all of whom loved me dearly. But I also had mullahs lecturing me on how I should be covered when I was a child.We travelled often and spent a lot of time with extended family and family friends. I was a defiant kid but I was studious and mostly happy.  

I was brought up mostly secular and encouraged to think for myself.  I slowly came to terms with respecting and being fond of some aspects of Islam while being critical of others. I knew my Islam wasn't that of my teachers. Like most other Iranians who have a hard time with Islamic governance, my family's relationship with Islam is a complicated one. I remember my mum giving my dad the stink eye when he'd say blasphemous things. To him God is in everything but my mum had a more traditional view of the religion. She has since become a lot more secular and open minded. They sometimes make fun of me for calling myself a Muslim, maybe because they think Islam doesn't have a place for people like me.

Today, Islam is a source of solace for me. An identity I get to define on my terms. At 11, I picked up the daf and studied under a great master. Exploring Tasawuf has been the spiritual introspection I yearn for.

As a kid I day dreamt of being suited up and kissing my wife goodbye like the white couples on TV did. As a preteen, I cut my long hair short to look masculine because I thought of masculinity as being synonymous with having power and liking girls.  

Roller derby is my favourite past time. In roller derby, I have found a community that accepts me for exactly who I am and encourages me to better myself. I did speed in line rollerblading in Iran and have been doing all kinds of skating (sans ice) my whole life. I started derby because I wanted to skate and become fearless. Derby offers the kind of queer space that isn't focused around drinking or sex which I am very grateful for.

I picked up skateboarding two years ago and found out that it is much more convenient and fun than walking. I enjoy going to metal and punk shows and dream of being a good enough daf player to start a taqwa core band.

In my opinion, stigma and misplacement are some of the biggest challenges facing Queer Muslims today. Islam is incredibly misunderstood and the queer conversation is only just beginning. We can be rejected by both queers and Muslims. The supposed juxtaposition of Islam and queerness is only made more complicated by the North American hostility towards Muslims in a climate where Muslims strive for acceptance and visibility.

Who: Yunique, Brooklyn

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Even though I don’t look like a traditional Muslim, I am still super modest in the way I dress. I’d like to think my style is a bit eccentric but is still influenced by Islam. When Muslim women look at me in my Brooklyn neighborhood, they know I’m Muslim. I want to be able to identify with them and have a desire to say “Peace be upon you” and feel that connection. But I feel like I can’t because of my queer appearance.

Islam was first introduced to me when my mom and her brother would always go to this place called mosque. I was happy for her, she seemed completely submerged in a spiritual happiness I hadn’t seen in a while or ever. It seemed like she found something bigger than herself. She sat me down one day to finally tell me what she had been up to. She told me about the Prophet Mohammad and invited me to come to the mosque with her. By letting me decide whether or not Islam was for me and what religion was going to look like for me, she gave me a platform to choose my independence at 12 that has progressed throughout my life. I felt proud to be Muslim. I wanted to investigate how queerness applies to me and to find self care within my beautiful black identity.

For a while, I even converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints with my mom's support. But I learned that there is a lack of black identity and inclusion within Mormonism (although I did discover Jane Manning). Being Mormon was a good segue from being a Muslim. They have somewhat similar beliefs but queerness is what caused me to leave Mormonism and to go back to the Muslim faith. Allah never left me. I never left Allah. In my day-to-day life I hold Allah close to my heart. I feel the guidance, and that’s my relationship with Islam: Allah guiding me through my everyday life.

My mother also introduced me to some astonishing black female musicians when I was younger. Tracy Chapman is a prophet to me. Her music gave me critical thinking, made me reflect upon the world as a whole and one self. She’s meant so much to me in so many different eras of life. She made me realize I was gay. She taught me that I’m cool even if others disagree. That I’m black, I’m dark-skinned and I’m good. Her music helped my mom and I bond. My mother had me at a very young age so I think it was her way of saying “hey listen to these words as I’m learning them for myself”. We would sing her songs together and it helped us both grow. Rita Marley, Anita Baker, Patra, Grace Jones, Lady Saw, Missy, Nina and Lauryn Hill were all influential. Hill was also very transformative for me, she has a lot of subtle references to the Nation of Islam and that made me feel connected.

Who: Christelle, Paris

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

People question how I can be queer and Muslim or why I don't have a Muslim sounding name or don’t cover myself. I’ve even been asked how I can be black and Muslim because of how Arabs treated Africans during the Arab slave trade. People want you to think your whole identity is haram but hey, it's just between me and Allah.

I grew up in a family that is half Evangelical and half Sunni Muslim. Some of my non-Muslim family is really Islamophobic. My Muslim family members had to practice Islam secretly because they didn't want to be rejected by my non-Muslim family members. I recently saw some of my family members after 15 years because they didn't want to have anything to do with us, the Muslim part of the family while I was growing up. My cousins weren't allowed to stay at our home during the holidays because their parents were afraid that they would come back Muslim. A lot of the Islamophobic behaviour included physical abuse.

Both sides of my family are really religious but I've only felt ready to come out to the Muslim side of my family, not the Christian side. What made me feel ready was how the Muslims in my family express their tolerance towards queer and trans folks. I'm glad that I finally came out because they accepted me as a queer Muslim.

Growing up in Paris as a teen, I felt lonely for a very long time as a black, queer mentally-disabled woman. I feel part of the black community and the black womanhood community but I don't feel part of the LGBT community in Paris because it's really, really white, mainstream and dismissive of non-conforming genders and other sexualities from the BTQIA+ spectrum. I only know a handful of other queer Muslims in Paris and I met them recently.

I’m an art enthusiast and I love photography. I'm an activist and a social worker trainee. My main goal is to make people more aware about intersectionality, including ableism and mental disorders that are often considered very taboo to talk about  in black communities. I’d also like to  work towards helping provide housing to abuse victims and sex workers.

Who: Tarek, Paris

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

I grew up in a suburb of France where a lot of people of color live. It's basically a ghetto. My parents were not really practicing Islam while I was growing up but the religion gets more and more present in their lives as they get older.

I try to create my own relationship with Islam and try to not get attached to how my parents approached Islam, which was very dogmatic. I would like to discover Islam on my own. My relationship with the religion is much more complex than following all the rules. At this point in my life, Islam is much more about spirituality. I feel like I'm a blank page and I have to write new stories. I don't usually talk about my faith because when I try, I feel isolated. It's definitely a personal thing.

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Mona, Berlin

I'm a poet, a writer, a performer, a social pedagogue, and a nurse. Currently working on my doctoral thesis. Invested in healing. Mine and others'. Oldest daughter in a Jordanian-German religious Muslim family with two brothers and three sisters.

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Azad*, Istanbul

I thought I was bisexual for the longest time. Five years ago, I got engaged to a guy and on the night of my engagement, I realized that I am a lesbian. I gave him the ring back the next morning and came out to my parents.

Being queer in Turkey is taboo. People are afraid to lose their families and fear risking their family's peace and reputation. But I think it's harder to be gay in Istanbul than be a lesbian. I hold my partner's hand on the street and never get any bad reactions. When girls hold hands or kiss publicly, people just think they're best friends. It's not the same for men.

What happened at Pride in 2015 was a complete disgrace. How the police dealt with the situation was despicable. After the incident at Gezi Park, Erdoğan is afraid of any gathering of people, whether it's a protest or a celebration. The police taunted everyone, even people who weren't part of the LGBTI community. However, they didn't crush our spirits. We still managed to dance and celebrate through the backstreets of the city.

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Samira, Toronto

I was born in Tehran, Iran. I have very faint memories from that time, some I would like to erase and some are irretrievable. I can tell you however that there were always people over at our house and there were always lively debates happening, usually centred around world affairs and politics. My parents ingrained in me a deep appreciation for social and political justice; from a very young age.

My parents' relationship with Islam is tainted and tumultuous; revolution and the establishment of an Islamic republic in Iran has coloured their lens when they see Islam, and all religions. For them Islam is coupled with hangings, executions, fascism, misogyny and political power. For them, Islam does not mean peace. But that was not always their relationship with the religion.

My last name is Mohyeddin, which means revivifier of religion and I am trying to live up to my last name but I am on my own revivification quest which is intertwined very much with carving a place for the queer community, not just in Islam but in my native Iran where homosexuality is still punishable by death.

Islam has always been at the centre of my life but not as a worshipper or someone who submits to anything or anyone else’s will. I am aware of how it has affected my life, both mentally and geographically. The Islamic revolution in Iran resulted in my leaving the country; the subsequent taking of American hostages by Iranians resulted in me being taken hostage by my class mates; the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, resulted in me having extra security measures in place when travelling to the United States. Again, all these things have happened to me as a result of other people’s perceptions of Muslims. Perhaps that is why I was so determined to not hide my sexuality and to live my life out loud; I want to smash peoples perceptions. For most people, I am not Muslim enough or at all and for others, I am not queer enough, whatever that even is.  

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Shazad, Toronto

I was born in St. Albert, Alberta, Canada. I grew up with a lot of extended family around me. We were semi-religious but everyone fasted during Ramadhan and we all celebrated Eid. My parents divorced when I was 11 and that's when my family dynamics changed. My mom raised me and my sister and did the best she could. She believed in God and taught me how to pray Namaaz but never forced us to be religious. She believed that just because you follow the five pillars of Islam, it doesn't automatically mean that you're a good person. Having a heart trumps being religious.

During my parents' divorce, I tried to cling to Islam because I felt scared and conflicted. I thought I was a bad person and would go to hell for being gay and that coming out would stress my mom out even more. This continued until I learned about reconciling my sexuality with my religious beliefs in university. I stopped being scared. It didn't make sense to me that I would burn in hell for loving a man.

It wasn't until I moved to Toronto after graduation and was living on my own that my relationship with God changed from being based on fear to being based on love. Moving allowed me to reconcile my faith, South Asian culture and sexuality through community building by creating a chosen family. I have a very supportive community around me. My love for Bollywood and passion for community building within the queer context spawned the queer South Asian dance party Rangeela, which I run with two friends.

I enjoy watching Bollywood movies, Daria and Golden Girls. I love to travel and enjoy exploring spirituality through reading, prayer and meditation. I work at the Alliance for South Asian AIDS Prevention, promoting gay men's sexual health.

Photography and interview by Samra Habib

Who: Peimaneh, Berlin

I was born in the north part of Germany, in a city by the Baltic Sea which I dislike a lot. The people all look the same there and the weather is almost always windy. We moved to a small suburban town near Hamburg where I went to school. Even though my friends were very supportive and kind, I never felt like I had a PoC community in my city because most of my friends were from white middle class families.

Growing up, I felt the need to be ashamed of my heritage because there were very few Muslims or Iranians in my town so I never had a community that I could turn to whenever I felt the need to talk to someone. My parents’ Iranian friends, my aunts and cousins were all people who made things easy because I could talk to them about cultural issues and differences I would face in school. I learned a lot from them, especially from the women in my life: my mom, my sister, my aunts, cousins and my grandma.

Last year I finished school and moved to Berlin to study German and ethics. My dream is to become a teacher some day, even though I sometimes question that. What I love about teaching is that teachers have this huge influence on kids and I feel like most of them are not aware of their power. But I want to take that chance and try to make my future students who are PoC and queer feel like they are worth something, that they too can change the world and that there is someone who believes in them 24/7. I want those kids to shine instead of dropping out, and I want them to have the best jobs, the best opportunities and the best lives possible.

Even though my parents are religious, they never tried to force anything on us. We went to the mosque now and then, we stuck to a Muslim diet and they taught me how to pray. All of these things felt natural to me and I never felt the need to dissociate myself from my religion.

When I moved to Berlin, I got more into Islam because most of my friends in university are Muslim. These friends inspire me and I learn a lot from them because they know way more about Islam than I do. Even though I am sure they would accept me if I told them I'm Queer, I feel like I will never be able to.