These are powerful words.
Words I want to get tattooed on my skin so I can have them with me everywhere I go (don't worry Mama Bear, I won't do it). But the words of Canadian journalist and photographer Samra Habib are so empowering, that I think everyone should remember them. I can only imagine how strong writing these words must have been...
Writing is a strange and wonderful thing. It is a sort of therapy; a way to lift the weight of the world off of one's shoulders. And yet, reading, a partner that is in a relationship with writing, is also a wonderful thing. By writing, a person extends their hand into the unknown, and by reading, we accept that hand, allowing this person's story to touch us.
Too deep?
Fair enough. But I can only describe Samra Habib's memoir, We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir, as a hand reaching out to those who have been made powerless. When reading this book, there were moments when I thought I couldn't turn the page; that the things I was reading couldn't possibly be real because they were just too shocking. Then I realized that the story was so raw, it could only be the truth.
That's enough from me...for now! Any recommendations or suggestions, please email me at theopinionatedbookworm@gmail.com, or follow me on Instagram (@theopinionatedbookworm1).
Words I want to get tattooed on my skin so I can have them with me everywhere I go (don't worry Mama Bear, I won't do it). But the words of Canadian journalist and photographer Samra Habib are so empowering, that I think everyone should remember them. I can only imagine how strong writing these words must have been...
Writing is a strange and wonderful thing. It is a sort of therapy; a way to lift the weight of the world off of one's shoulders. And yet, reading, a partner that is in a relationship with writing, is also a wonderful thing. By writing, a person extends their hand into the unknown, and by reading, we accept that hand, allowing this person's story to touch us.
Too deep?
Fair enough. But I can only describe Samra Habib's memoir, We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir, as a hand reaching out to those who have been made powerless. When reading this book, there were moments when I thought I couldn't turn the page; that the things I was reading couldn't possibly be real because they were just too shocking. Then I realized that the story was so raw, it could only be the truth.
Why should you read this book?
I chose Samra Habib's book for my literary adventure around the world, and after reading it, I can honestly say that it was a very eye-opening experience into the world of a young Pakistani-Canadian woman. In her life, Habib has faced many forms of discrimination, and yet she has found the power to go on.
Some may say she found the strength in herself, but Habib also found power in Islam, which is another reason I absolutely had to read this book. I mean, how could I ignore something with "Queer Muslim" in the title? As many of us know, religion and LGBTQ+ themes do not always mix, but Habib's story brings these two events together, and teaches us, through her own experience of trying to define herself, how they can (and should) exist together.
Some may say she found the strength in herself, but Habib also found power in Islam, which is another reason I absolutely had to read this book. I mean, how could I ignore something with "Queer Muslim" in the title? As many of us know, religion and LGBTQ+ themes do not always mix, but Habib's story brings these two events together, and teaches us, through her own experience of trying to define herself, how they can (and should) exist together.
The big question: Who am I?
Whether or not you enjoyed the movie adaptation of Les Miserables, Jean Valjean has a question that is at the heart of all memoirs: Who am I? How did I get to be me? Despite the ease with which one might ask this question, it is surprisingly difficult to answer.
As Ahmadi Muslims, Habib's family fled Pakistan in the early 1990s and came to Canada as refugees. In Pakistan, Habib was set apart because she is Ahmadi, a minority sect of Islam. In Canada, her religion and race were also the factors by which others chose to define her. The question is this: Why do we let others define who we are? Why do other people get to tell us where we fit in this world? Who we can and cannot be?
This is the main struggle that Habib faced in the early days of self-discovery, because many surrounding her would tell her that she could not be both a faithful Muslim and a Queer person. It wasn't until Habib stood up, and declared that she is Queer and Muslim that others started to see and love the true her. The task of embracing herself was not an easy one, and she had to search a long time to find those who could support her, but she eventually found her identity as a Queer Muslim.
As Ahmadi Muslims, Habib's family fled Pakistan in the early 1990s and came to Canada as refugees. In Pakistan, Habib was set apart because she is Ahmadi, a minority sect of Islam. In Canada, her religion and race were also the factors by which others chose to define her. The question is this: Why do we let others define who we are? Why do other people get to tell us where we fit in this world? Who we can and cannot be?
This is the main struggle that Habib faced in the early days of self-discovery, because many surrounding her would tell her that she could not be both a faithful Muslim and a Queer person. It wasn't until Habib stood up, and declared that she is Queer and Muslim that others started to see and love the true her. The task of embracing herself was not an easy one, and she had to search a long time to find those who could support her, but she eventually found her identity as a Queer Muslim.
Let people surprise you!
Message number two to take away from this memoir goes hand in hand with message one, because we often allow ourselves to judge and define others. Just because you have been judged, doesn't mean you are guiltless of judging, and Habib learned this through her relationship with her mother.
It's hard not to do it, but we can often take one look at a person, and if we see any distinguishing markers (such as skin colour or a religious symbols), we make a decision about who they are, and what they believe. It was because Habib wore a hijab in her early days in Canada that her fellow students pushed her into a category, but Habib also did the same thing with her mother, assuming that a devout Muslim woman could never accept her Queer Muslim identity. A hijab, Habib teaches us, is a symbol of religion, but does not necessarily determine what someone else does, thinks and feels. Do not let appearances blind you. Give people the benefit of the doubt, allow them to surprise you, and your own ideas of who others are will often be shattered.
It's hard not to do it, but we can often take one look at a person, and if we see any distinguishing markers (such as skin colour or a religious symbols), we make a decision about who they are, and what they believe. It was because Habib wore a hijab in her early days in Canada that her fellow students pushed her into a category, but Habib also did the same thing with her mother, assuming that a devout Muslim woman could never accept her Queer Muslim identity. A hijab, Habib teaches us, is a symbol of religion, but does not necessarily determine what someone else does, thinks and feels. Do not let appearances blind you. Give people the benefit of the doubt, allow them to surprise you, and your own ideas of who others are will often be shattered.
Don't forget the tissues
I don't know if you will cry out of sadness, but there are definitely some bittersweet family moments in this book that brought me to the verge of tears. In my opinion, Samra Habib's work should be classified as an essential Canadian read, if not an essential read worldwide. I hope she continues to write, as the world definitely needs to hear more from her. Five stars!
That's enough from me...for now! Any recommendations or suggestions, please email me at theopinionatedbookworm@gmail.com, or follow me on Instagram (@theopinionatedbookworm1).
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