When I asked Zainab what advice she would give to young queer Muslims who are looking for support and community, her response gave me chills. I still turn to her words for motivation:
“We have always been here, it's just that the world wasn't ready for us yet. Today, with all the political upheaval in the Muslim World, some of us, those who are not daily threatened with death or rejection, have to speak for others. They have to tell stories of a community that is either denied or scorned. Together, through facing distinct realities, we should be united – united in the desire to be, in the desire to enjoy being free, safe, and happy. It is not going to be easy and one may never reach a reconciliation with oneself (or with religion), but at least we should care for each other. In face of the challenges, our sense of community and our shared aspirations for a better world should make us stronger.”
Shortlisted for the 2020 Canada Reads program – a tournament of books put on by our national broadcaster, with this year's statement of intent being “one book to bring Canada into focus, (with an) aim to inspire readers to consider a different perspective about the country and themselves” – We Have Always Been Here seems custom-ordered to fill this purpose. As a memoir written by a queer Muslim woman who came to Canada with her family as persecuted refugees in the 1990s, Samra Habib's account is an eye-opening look into her life as a person at the outer margins of our society. Suffering racism, classism, a suffocating form of Islam within her family and the effects of Islamophobia from those outside of it – all before Habib began to identify as queer – it would seem that Habib's biggest challenge growing up – whether in Pakistan or Toronto – was living in a world where she didn't see herself represented. To that end, this book feels really vital; to claim visible space for her community within Canada and to prove to others on these margins that they are not alone. I have some quibbles with the writing style (I just wanted more; more detail, more introspection, something more philosophically universal) but such quibbles always seem petty when considering a memoir: this is what Habib decided to share we us and it's a gift as is. I could see this winning Canada Reads.
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 is a much more democratic form of communication.With a degree in Journalism that saw her eventually working in advertising – often going along on photoshoots where she was tutored in photography – Habib decided to start a project of photographing and collecting the stories of other queer Muslims, curated on the tumblr Just Me and Allah. We Have Always Been Here is the story of the life that led to the creation of this project.
Growing up as an Ahmadi Muslim in Pakistan (a small sect within Islam that routinely sees itself the target of extremists), Habib learned early to make herself invisible; invisible to her teachers and classmates (who weren't to know that her family were Ahmadi) and invisible to her father (who would often bellow, “Allah hates the loud laughter of women!” when she and her sisters would play around). When government-sponsored discrimination and attacks became too much to bear, Habib's family fled to Canada as refugees – leaving behind not just the entire world they knew, but also trading in a comparatively luxurious lifestyle for a small apartment and meagre welfare payments. Habib tried to be the compliant daughter her parents wanted her to be – excelling at school despite constantly being bullied, going along with an arranged marriage to her cousin as a teenager – but when she eventually decided to leave the loveless marriage, Habib was forced from her mosque and become estranged from her parents. It took Habib many years of exploring – the world, the arts, her own sexuality – before she found herself, and along the way, she fully reconnected with her family and discovered the Unity Mosque in Toronto (an underground space for queer Muslims) and there, she was finally able to reclaim her Muslim identity.
Growing up, I wish I'd had access to queer Muslim writers and artists who saw, felt, and feared like I did. Who didn't want to denounce Islam and instead wanted to see whether there was still a place for them in it. Who hurt like I did. Perhaps if I had, I would have sought comfort, company, and answers in their work when I was at my loneliest.I suppose my main quibble is that Habib writes like a journalist and her prose lacks somewhat in emotionality. But that's a small complaint when she has so obviously met her own objectives with this memoir: to add representation of a marginalised group where before it was lacking. We Have Always Been Here is a quick and informative read that broadened my own ideas about how people outside my own immediate community live, but more importantly, it might well serve as a liferaft for someone who needs it. All good stuff.
