Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H

I have been a Muslim for seventeen years. In the last ten-ish years, maybe more, my iman (faith) has taken numerous blows. In the beginning, it was easy for my iman to take those blows and then somewhat rebuild itself, healing from the bruises. But the blows just kept coming, one after the other, and what in the beginning were bruises soon became wounds—some left a scar while some remained tender, never truly healing. It took some time, but between the constant blows and the lack of proper support to heal, my iman shattered into a thousand pieces. Among those pieces, I salvaged a tiny little one, so fragile and so compromised that I’ve shrouded it in layers of bubble wrap and shoved it in the furthest corner of my heart. My biggest fear is that showing that piece of iman to the world might expose it to further harm, potentially reducing it to nothingness.

The reason why I’m choosing to start my review this way is because two people don’t read the same book the same way. Our approach to a book is influenced by our lived experiences, and by how many personal stories, feelings, and emotions it brings up. The first major blow to my iman was the Pulse massacre, perpetuated by a man who said was acting in the name of Islam. More than the actions of this man, or what he was claiming justified them, it was the reaction of most mainstream Muslim leaders and communities that left the first big wound in my iman. Ever since then I would become convinced that my faith was at odds with my values and that believing that people’s diverse gender identity or sexual orientation was not a sin meant that I wasn’t “Muslim enough.” Reading Hijab Butch Blues at this particular moment of my life was particularly powerful.

In this captivating memoir, Lamya takes us through her journey as she delves into the depths of the Quran, weaving the narratives of prophets into a tapestry of self-discovery, acceptance, and an unbreakable connection to her faith. But her book does far more than merely tell a story; it ignites a fire of inspiration, a soothing balm for wounded hearts, offering an approach that is direly needed in the context of religious interpretation, especially within Muslim communities. Who are Allah's words intended for? Are they for the scholar, for those who speak Arabic, or could they be directed to each one of us individually? Lamya boldly approaches the revelations as they speak to her, and she embraces them, allowing their messages to resonate directly with her life's journey. Her interpretations shine with a grace often absent in religious discourse, as she turns traditional stories into personal truths, affirming her own experiences as beautifully valid.

As she embarks on a candid exploration of seemingly opposing identities, Lamya defies the notion of compromise, seamlessly blending her LGBTQIA+ identity with her unwavering commitment to Islam. Through her lens, we see how sacred texts can serve as a guiding light, illuminating the path of self-understanding. Her transparency about life's hardships, coupled with her bold choices in confronting them—or not, paints an intimate portrait of strength and resilience. This memoir stands as a testament to the enduring power of self-acceptance and the liberation that arises from embracing one's true self, even when that self exists at the crossroads of societal expectations and deeply held beliefs.

It would be unfair, however, to limit the contributions of this memoir to the intersection of queerness and faith. In her book, Lamya also addresses the multi-dimensional challenges of colorism, xenophobia, and societal hierarchies, intricately woven into her identity as an immigrant, first in an unnamed Middle Eastern country, then in the United States. Through the story of Asiyah, she also explores how the manipulation of religious texts can result in the confinement of women in unhealthy relationships. The contrast between this approach and the ones that Lamya presents ultimately bears the question, do we all worship the same god or do we selectively shape the god that we are willing to worship? And what does it mean for those of us who forgo some of the mainstream interpretations, often presented by a select group of individuals and followed by many, to embrace bolder perspectives that go hand in hand with the values we’ve cultivated—gender equality, LGBTQIA+ rights, amongst others? There are so many interesting elements in this book, that it is nearly impossible to narrow it down to a few points.

Personally, this book helped me see the Quran from an empowering perspective. After years of witnessing religion twisted to justify misogyny and intolerance, Lamya's alternative approach emerged as a beacon of self-love and acceptance—and maybe that’s been the purpose of religion all along. As I was reading, I couldn’t help but think about fresh ways to share prophet stories with my children—Lamya’s assertion that Meryem is a prophet particularly struck a chord with me. My children are named Yusuf, Yahya, and Meryem, and my daughter has challenged on many occasions the fact that “only boys are prophets.” The name we had picked out for her had she been a boy was Yunus. “If I had been a boy,” she told me one day, “we’d be the prophet brothers.” “Well, you know, there’s an approach to Meryem’s story that says she’s a prophet, too,” I replied. “So, you’re technically the prophet siblings.” Her eyes lit up. Thank you, Lamya.

I strongly recommend this book to all those who, like me, have seen their faith impacted by others’ use of scripture and to those who want to see how it is possible to conciliate faith, sexual orientation, and gender identity. But especially to those who have ever felt like they have to choose one or the other, this book is for you.