My good friend writes a e book. It’s a utopian work of speculative fiction, intelligent and imaginative and hopeful—an excellent mix of artwork and activism. I convey flowers to her e book launch and discover a seat close to the again of the comfy group backyard the place we’re gathered. Even earlier than the studying begins, the house is abuzz with conversations in regards to the worlds in her e book and the restrictions and radical potentialities of our present world. The night feels magical. Fairy lights twinkle and residence buildings tower above.
As the occasion planners arrange the stage, I flip to the individual sitting subsequent to me—one of the few folks I don’t know right here—and introduce myself, excited to speak to somebody new through the social shortage of the COVID-19 pandemic. This individual is straightforward to converse with: They inform me about their latest transfer to the town to start out an MFA program and the offended activist nonfiction they write. I’m intrigued; I really like offended activist nonfiction. I promise to introduce them to some of my activist-writer mates, give them recommendations of bookstores to take a look at and locations to jot down. I wish to know a lot extra in regards to the mission they’re engaged on, and I’ve gotten by means of solely a tenth of my questions after they say, “What about you, Lamya? You seem like a writer. What do you write?”
I freeze.
I, too, wrote a e book. A memoir: a retelling of tales from the Quran as queer, brown, immigrant narratives, interspersed with tales from my queer, brown, immigrant life—a e book I hope is each artwork and activism. But I don’t know reply my new good friend’s query as a result of I wrote underneath a pseudonym.
Read our starred overview of ‘Hijab Butch Blues’ by Lamya H.
I wrote anonymously for a lot of causes, most of that are predictable and boring. Privacy. Safety. That I’m not out to my household. That my writing—wherein I speak about God as nonbinary, the queerness of Musa’s (Moses’) miracles, Maryam (the Virgin Mary) as not liking males—could possibly be thought of controversial. That I’m complicating prophetic figures who’re vital in so much of religions, writing about them as flawed, as making errors. I’m speculating about their sexualities, not for the sake of provocation however as a result of these prophets really feel like my mates—stunning and messy and actual—and their journeys have helped me work out reside. That it’s scary to anger folks with energy; it’s scary to be Googleable. That I wish to write in sophisticated methods about Islam and nonetheless maintain going to my mosque. That I wish to write in sophisticated methods in regards to the Islamophobia of queer communities and nonetheless be invited to potlucks and spoken phrase readings.
I wrote a e book so open and trustworthy that it was solely doable for me to jot down underneath a pseudonym, however what I didn’t anticipate was the grief I might really feel, although I don’t remorse my resolution. Grief like on this second on the e book launch, unable to talk about my e book with my new good friend. Grief in a broader sense, too: the restrictions my anonymity locations on my capability to make use of the e book as a place to begin to create intentional areas and communities. After opening evening for a play referred to as Coming Out Muslim 10 years in the past, I joined an area created by the artists for queer Muslims to attach, which led me to seek out the chosen household and organizing group that I nonetheless take part in and am infinitely grateful for. My e book received’t be capable to try this for others in the identical approach.
“It’s scary to anger people with power; it’s scary to be Googleable.”
And there are smaller pangs of grief, too: the loss of specificity in my e book when critiquing sure areas for homophobia or racism, which inadvertently finally ends up defending these areas; not with the ability to share my e book with the myriad of us who helped me learn to write at writing retreats and workshops; not with the ability to thank my mates by title within the acknowledgments.
But my selection to jot down anonymously hasn’t stopped me from experiencing the thrill of my e book beginning to exit into the world. A number of weeks in the past, somebody whose title sounded acquainted commented on my Instagram. It seems she had written a phenomenal essay some years in the past that was foundational in educating me to make use of tales and vignettes to speak about larger ideas similar to racism and homophobia, an essay that I had annotated and browse again and again. I despatched her a complicated copy of my e book in gratitude, and it felt thrilling to attach just about, regardless of the anonymity. Another individual emailed me about doing an occasion about racism in opposition to South Asians within the Arab nation I grew up in, and so they stated I can current with my digital camera turned off, that her group will do no matter must be finished to guard my privateness. It’s a reminder that I don’t owe utilizing my actual title to anybody. I don’t owe my face being on the jacket cowl. I’m allowed to jot down by myself phrases. It’s doable to remain secure whereas nonetheless utilizing my e book as a device for connection and dialog.
“What I didn’t anticipate was the grief I would feel, even though I don’t regret my decision.”
At my good friend’s e book launch, within the second earlier than I reply to my neighbor’s query about my very own writing, I feel of that pleasure, that sense of connection. I take into consideration how I can selectively select to ask folks in, that my writing anonymously can be an act—nonetheless small—of desirous to make the world a greater place. My new good friend is ready for my reply. I take a deep breath.
“I do write,” I say. “We should get coffee sometime. I’d love to tell you about my work.”
Headshot of Lamya H by Lia Clay for the Queer Art Community Portrait Project
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