a shaheed’s letter for queer jihad
my loves, my loves, how i love you, and ya allah, how i’ll miss you
O Allah, as of late my waking hours have been spent pondering the life of the Prophet (ﷺ). This man, who sacrificed his reputation, who withstood abuses dealt from familial hands, who fled from the city of his youth for the truth that you revealed to him. This man, who threatened the very foundation of his society’s world order, who picked up arms for the physical struggle of ensuring your message would live on. This man, the best of your creations, who escaped death at the hands of his people by your will, who taught us that to submit to you is the ultimate act of love! Never have I adored one as dearly as I do your dear Messenger. Through his example, submit I have, after years of bucking any authority in my life.
You have blessed me with queerness as liberation, a test that exposes the corruption rotting the hearts of others who claim to be in service to you. They declare you make no mistakes while deeming me deviant in the same breath, tell me my role has been divinely determined. For the longest time, I felt so much rage that you didn’t make me the woman so many wished I was. What kind of test could this possibly be? But I understand it now. This material hardship you have thrust upon me is the resistance that has pushed me to devote my soul to something bigger than I could have possibly envisioned for myself. I understand the Prophet (ﷺ), I understand my role, I understand you; what an honor you’ve bestowed upon me, this queerness.
I know death is coming for me. I feel it in every step I take. I am not suicidal, I refuse to deliver its justice by my own hand, but it creeps closer still, a waiting predator with its hackles raised in the dark that presses in from all four walls of this exile. It will find me in the form of my own flesh and blood at the exact hour I least expect, after everything I’ve known has been severed from my being and the only thing that remains is this grief, an all-consuming condemnation. But if these are truly my final days, ya Rabb, I will live them with dignity. Do not let the wrongdoers and disbelievers insult this sacrifice by claiming it or me as their own; let it be known my martyrdom is in the name of all the Muslims like me—the queers, the deviants, the forgotten—and no one else. I have spent almost twenty-one years living for everyone but me. To have been able to reclaim my body and mind for myself, even for only a few months, means more than words can ever convey. I am not property to be bargained off, impregnated, and rot away until it is my turn to play the role of the bitter matriarch. I am a butch, I am a Muslim, I am a revolutionary, and I will resist to my final exhale.
O, my ummah—my fellow transsexuals and queers! It was for you I survived as long as I did. Dozens of you have told me how much hope my resistance has provided… I beg you all, keep hoping. Should this be my end, will you let my death be in vain, or serve as the spark that sets you alight? It is impossible, it is insurmountable, I won’t fare much better than you. Beloved, surmount it you will, fare it you will. You are capable of so much more than you know. Do you not see the joy and pride this battle has brought me? This struggle against fundamentalism is a struggle for the very heart of our faith. La hawla wala quwwata illa billah, there is no power and no strength but Allah (SWT)! I have long said that our queers are the exemplification of what it means to be a Muslim, and thus I ask you, resist with all you have and flourish. Repressing the truth God has revealed to you cannot be your savior. It is our duty, in this day and age, to finally reclaim this faith from the clutches of violent falsehoods. So pick up your arms with honor, keep yourself alive by the skin of your teeth; I am with you, always.
To the group of Muslims I love so dearly: I thank you for bringing me back to our Creator. I never was able to articulate the role you have played in my faith. I most likely never will. I wish you all were here with me, crammed into this little space. We’d go back in time and giggle as we retold stories about haunted houses or elaborate escapades to sneak a best friend the perfect graduation gift. And when the time was right, you’d all lay me to rest in this bed, reciting my last prayers with me until my eyes could no longer stay open. Forgive me for all I have gotten wrong, as I have forgiven you. It is clear, when death is a hair away from my jugular, that the things we’ve fought over no longer matter. There’s a million words one could mince, but I could never hold much anger for you. My soul is tied to yours, now and in the next life. I would request that the best of your men lead my janaza, but if they cannot, please read Rumi at my grave.
Do not let my family slaughter me in silence. Not too long ago I said I was not sure I would be the exception. I now I refuse to be anything else. Tell them my name; remind each other of me; turn my body to ash before my mother and father might ever put me in a dress again; take my remains back to Bengal, to where my Sufi ancestors fell in love with the land. They call out to me, ask when I am coming home. Soon, I reassure them, these spirits who hold love so unconditional my living relatives cannot possibly begin to fathom their care. I’ll be there soon, darling ones.
My Lord, there is no relationship in this dunya comparable to this one with you; that much is apparent these days. My mother once said she prayed for nothing but her child to be pious—the one wish of hers I was able to fulfill without losing myself to her abuse. My desire has always been to be an imam, but for you, Allah, I am willing to be a martyr. You are the compass that has guided me to this moment of acceptance. May I find peace in your judgement and mercy in Jannah.
To you, I belong; to you, I return.
Ameen.