Deena Yellin,
The Bergen Record
Thu, January 12, 2023
Growing up in a traditional Muslim family in Coney Island, Kandeel Javid often prayed at his local mosque. But it rarely brought him peace.
Javid was living with a secret: He was gay but couldn't tell anyone in his family or faith community, where homosexuality was shunned. His parents were immigrants from Pakistan, where same-sex relationships are banned. He knew they would have difficulty accepting a gay lifestyle.
Going into a mosque required him to hide a part of himself. "Many of them are closed off to LGBTQ conversations, while others have a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy," he said.
He sought an oasis where he could find support but, as a teen in the early 2000s, found few resources. "There was no place where I could own my sexual orientation and not fear getting bullied, hated on or being told that I would burn in hell," he recalled. "I had to stay closeted."
For Muslim members of the LGBTQ community, Pride Month offers a bittersweet reality. The faith remains officially unwelcoming, with homosexuality banned in some Islamic countries.
But there are signs of change, with individual families and support groups opening their arms.
A growing number of organizations for LGBTQ Muslims have cropped up around the country to offer support, social events, Quran study sessions and communal iftars — the meal held to break the daily fast during Ramadan — to try to eradicate the isolation felt by those often shunned by their loved ones and community.
Kandeel Javid
Mosques that opened in Chicago and Toronto in recent years tout themselves as LGBTQ-friendly, welcoming everyone without the need to hide sexual orientation or gender identities.
Javid finally felt comfortable coming out of the closet in 2016, at age 26, after joining Muslims for Progressive Values, a Los Angeles-based group that promotes LGBTQ rights and has 25,000 members around the globe.
Today, the 32-year-old-engineer lives in Boston with his partner. Although he's been out for six years, his parents still have not come to terms with his gay identity, he said.
"It's been years of disconnect," he said. But some friends and relatives, including his brother, "were very accepting and told me, 'I will always love you no matter what.'"
Opinion: Why aren't Muslims' religious freedoms equally protected? Rutgers professor explains
Out and in the pulpit: NJ minister seeks to help lesbian clergy find acceptance
Islam's harsh perspective on homosexuality has its roots in the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, which is found in the Quran and the Bible. According to the story as many Muslims interpret it, Lot warned the people of his city against immorality for engaging in sexual acts with men. When his protests were rejected, the city was destroyed in an act of divine punishment.
Islam generally considers same-gender sex a grave sin, and many Muslim majority countries, including Afghanistan, Iran, and Saudi Arabia, have implemented anti-LGBTQ laws with punishments up to prison or death. Numerous LGBTQ Muslims contacted for this story declined to be interviewed for fear of what would happen to them if their identities were revealed.
"The official position of Islam is that we don't approve of homosexuality," said Imam Moutaz Charaf of the El-Zahra Islamic Center of Midland Park. "But our mosque is open to all people. We don't try to ask people what they do or don't do in their home. We pray to Allah to guide them and help them. We emphasize that we need to be kind to all people whether they hold to the religion or not."
But not everyone shares that perspective. "Amongst Islamic scholars, there is a wide range of interpretations of homosexuality," said Sylvia Chan-Malik, an associate professor of American studies at Rutgers University.
"People have this impression that Islam is intolerant or that LGBTQ people are not welcomed within the Muslim community, but it's no less so than in our broader community," said Chan-Malik, who also authored "Being Muslim: A Cultural History of Women of Color in American Islam."
The voices heard most predominantly in the Muslim community have been male and straight, but that's changing, said Ani Zonneveld, president of Muslims for Progressive Values. She believes there's been progress, with LGBTQ Muslims "becoming more visible." More mosques today "have a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy," which is a shift from "You are not welcome and you are going to hell," she said.
Zonneveld's group has worked to make a progressive interpretation of the Quran more mainstream. She officiates at gay Islamic weddings, which she says is permissible, based on her interpretation of the Quran.
Growing up in an insulated Muslim family in India, Mohammed Shaik Hussain Ali knew he was attracted to people of the same gender before he heard the word "gay."
“I thought I was the only one in the world," said Ali, who now lives in Manhattan. He was elated when, in his early teens, he discovered he wasn't alone.
He came to America when he was in his early 20s to earn his engineering degree, and got a job as a software engineer. He subsequently became active in several LGBTQ advocacy organizations.
But when Ali came out to his parents at age 28, during one of their visits to America, they told him they wished he had never been born. Whenever he was with them afterward, it was like "a funeral,” he said. He cut off ties with them to maintain his sanity, but they've since reconciled.
When Mohammed Shaik Hussain Ali told his parents he was gay at age 28, they told him they wished he had never been born, but have since reconciled. Photo credit Mapisak Studio.
Ali is the producer of an award-winning feature film, "Evening Shadows," which premiered in 2018 and won a series of awards. It was aired on Netflix for three years until recently. "It's a bit autobiographical but with a happier ending," Ali said.
The story focuses on a mother in a patriarchal conservative society in South India who is faced with a dilemma when her son reveals that he is gay. She has to deal with her intolerant husband and fight her own demons as she comes to grips with her son's truth.
After his family watched the movie, the reconciliation process began. "My mother told me she understood what she should have done differently," Ali said, adding that his father understood what he shouldn't have done.
The 38-year-old, who is a published author and is single, considers himself a religious Muslim. He prays regularly at a mosque near his Hell's Kitchen apartment. "I've read every holy book and couldn't find any reference that demonized me," he said, adding that though Muslims are generally hostile towards homosexuals, the way that he understands the Quran, it doesn't ban that kind of love.
LGBTQ: A defiant Pride Month, in the shadow of the Supreme Court draft opinion leak
Orthodox: Judaism's most traditional branch looks to make faith more supportive for LGBTQ members
When he goes to the mosque, he wears his rainbow pin. "They look at it, but nobody bothers me," he said.
“I am a South Asian Indian Muslim gay. I'm not one of the identities. I'm all the identities," Ali said. "People have to take all of me or none of me. I do not come in pieces."
American Muslims, a group estimated to include almost 4 million people, have become more accepting of homosexuality, according to a 2017 Pew Research Center survey. The poll found that 52% said society should accept homosexuality, up from 27% in 2007.
Aruna Rao of Edison founded Desi Rainbow Parents and Allies, an advocacy organization for parents of LGBTQ children, because of her own need for support.
"My child came out as queer eight years ago, and I didn't have an understanding of how to respond," she said. Desi Rainbow focuses on being culturally sensitive to parents who come from South Asian countries. Many are Muslim, and the group celebrates Eid and Ramadan, in addition to holding events highlighting the experiences of LGBTQ Muslims.
Membership in the group has soared. What began with a handful of people seven years ago has grown to a mailing list of over 2,000, she said.
Rao grew up in South India and came to the U.S. as a graduate student 30 years ago. When her elementary school child told her in 2016that "he wasn't a girl, although he was an assigned female at birth, I thought I had a tomboy who'd grow out of it."
Shenaaz Janmohamed
Instead, he came out as queer, which was something that took her a while to grapple with. She did, and "today, he's a successful and happy adult," she said.
Shenaaz Janmohamed grew up in Sacramento, California, knowing she was different, not only because she was a Shiite Muslim, but because she was gay.
Her parents, who were devout Muslims, fasted on Ramadan and took the word of the Quran seriously. So when she told them she was gay, they couldn't reconcile it with their image of a good Muslim.
"We haven't reckoned with the ways that patriarchy and misogyny have influenced Islam," she said.
Janmohamed moved 12 years ago to Oakland, where she lives with her partner of 12 years and their 6-year-old daughter.
"We continue to have a journey," she said about her parents. "It's beautiful to see how much they love our child. It's healing to see the way she's accepted in ways I still don't feel accepted by my parents."
"I don't have relationships with my relatives and broader community," she said. "I wish it were different."
Janmohamed started Queer Crescent, a social justice organization focused on connecting to spiritual practice and power within the LGBTQ and Muslim community, in 2017. The group organizes cultural and political events and raises funds for marginalized Muslims, such as those with disabilities or who are incarcerated, she said.
Stile: NJ Democrats are treating sex education curriculum backlash as a serious threat
It started with a handful of people, and it grew. When the pandemic hit, the group went virtual, which allowed it to reach more people around the country. Queer Crescent's newsletter now has more than 900 subscribers.
The group is currently conducting a nationwide online survey of LGBTQ Muslims in America. The goal is to recognize the needs of LGBTQ Muslims, who are often removed from the broader Muslim community, Janmohamed said.
"There are so many ways to be a Muslim," she said. "I think Allah loves me as I am."
Deena Yellin covers religion for NorthJersey.com. For unlimited access to her work covering how the spiritual intersects with our daily lives, please subscribe or activate your digital account today.
Email: yellin@northjersey.com
Twitter: @deenayellin
This article originally appeared on NorthJersey.com
Thu, January 12, 2023
Growing up in a traditional Muslim family in Coney Island, Kandeel Javid often prayed at his local mosque. But it rarely brought him peace.
Javid was living with a secret: He was gay but couldn't tell anyone in his family or faith community, where homosexuality was shunned. His parents were immigrants from Pakistan, where same-sex relationships are banned. He knew they would have difficulty accepting a gay lifestyle.
Going into a mosque required him to hide a part of himself. "Many of them are closed off to LGBTQ conversations, while others have a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy," he said.
He sought an oasis where he could find support but, as a teen in the early 2000s, found few resources. "There was no place where I could own my sexual orientation and not fear getting bullied, hated on or being told that I would burn in hell," he recalled. "I had to stay closeted."
For Muslim members of the LGBTQ community, Pride Month offers a bittersweet reality. The faith remains officially unwelcoming, with homosexuality banned in some Islamic countries.
But there are signs of change, with individual families and support groups opening their arms.
A growing number of organizations for LGBTQ Muslims have cropped up around the country to offer support, social events, Quran study sessions and communal iftars — the meal held to break the daily fast during Ramadan — to try to eradicate the isolation felt by those often shunned by their loved ones and community.
Kandeel Javid
Mosques that opened in Chicago and Toronto in recent years tout themselves as LGBTQ-friendly, welcoming everyone without the need to hide sexual orientation or gender identities.
Javid finally felt comfortable coming out of the closet in 2016, at age 26, after joining Muslims for Progressive Values, a Los Angeles-based group that promotes LGBTQ rights and has 25,000 members around the globe.
Today, the 32-year-old-engineer lives in Boston with his partner. Although he's been out for six years, his parents still have not come to terms with his gay identity, he said.
"It's been years of disconnect," he said. But some friends and relatives, including his brother, "were very accepting and told me, 'I will always love you no matter what.'"
Opinion: Why aren't Muslims' religious freedoms equally protected? Rutgers professor explains
Out and in the pulpit: NJ minister seeks to help lesbian clergy find acceptance
Islam's harsh perspective on homosexuality has its roots in the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, which is found in the Quran and the Bible. According to the story as many Muslims interpret it, Lot warned the people of his city against immorality for engaging in sexual acts with men. When his protests were rejected, the city was destroyed in an act of divine punishment.
Islam generally considers same-gender sex a grave sin, and many Muslim majority countries, including Afghanistan, Iran, and Saudi Arabia, have implemented anti-LGBTQ laws with punishments up to prison or death. Numerous LGBTQ Muslims contacted for this story declined to be interviewed for fear of what would happen to them if their identities were revealed.
"The official position of Islam is that we don't approve of homosexuality," said Imam Moutaz Charaf of the El-Zahra Islamic Center of Midland Park. "But our mosque is open to all people. We don't try to ask people what they do or don't do in their home. We pray to Allah to guide them and help them. We emphasize that we need to be kind to all people whether they hold to the religion or not."
But not everyone shares that perspective. "Amongst Islamic scholars, there is a wide range of interpretations of homosexuality," said Sylvia Chan-Malik, an associate professor of American studies at Rutgers University.
"People have this impression that Islam is intolerant or that LGBTQ people are not welcomed within the Muslim community, but it's no less so than in our broader community," said Chan-Malik, who also authored "Being Muslim: A Cultural History of Women of Color in American Islam."
The voices heard most predominantly in the Muslim community have been male and straight, but that's changing, said Ani Zonneveld, president of Muslims for Progressive Values. She believes there's been progress, with LGBTQ Muslims "becoming more visible." More mosques today "have a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy," which is a shift from "You are not welcome and you are going to hell," she said.
Zonneveld's group has worked to make a progressive interpretation of the Quran more mainstream. She officiates at gay Islamic weddings, which she says is permissible, based on her interpretation of the Quran.
Growing up in an insulated Muslim family in India, Mohammed Shaik Hussain Ali knew he was attracted to people of the same gender before he heard the word "gay."
“I thought I was the only one in the world," said Ali, who now lives in Manhattan. He was elated when, in his early teens, he discovered he wasn't alone.
He came to America when he was in his early 20s to earn his engineering degree, and got a job as a software engineer. He subsequently became active in several LGBTQ advocacy organizations.
But when Ali came out to his parents at age 28, during one of their visits to America, they told him they wished he had never been born. Whenever he was with them afterward, it was like "a funeral,” he said. He cut off ties with them to maintain his sanity, but they've since reconciled.
When Mohammed Shaik Hussain Ali told his parents he was gay at age 28, they told him they wished he had never been born, but have since reconciled. Photo credit Mapisak Studio.
Ali is the producer of an award-winning feature film, "Evening Shadows," which premiered in 2018 and won a series of awards. It was aired on Netflix for three years until recently. "It's a bit autobiographical but with a happier ending," Ali said.
The story focuses on a mother in a patriarchal conservative society in South India who is faced with a dilemma when her son reveals that he is gay. She has to deal with her intolerant husband and fight her own demons as she comes to grips with her son's truth.
After his family watched the movie, the reconciliation process began. "My mother told me she understood what she should have done differently," Ali said, adding that his father understood what he shouldn't have done.
The 38-year-old, who is a published author and is single, considers himself a religious Muslim. He prays regularly at a mosque near his Hell's Kitchen apartment. "I've read every holy book and couldn't find any reference that demonized me," he said, adding that though Muslims are generally hostile towards homosexuals, the way that he understands the Quran, it doesn't ban that kind of love.
LGBTQ: A defiant Pride Month, in the shadow of the Supreme Court draft opinion leak
Orthodox: Judaism's most traditional branch looks to make faith more supportive for LGBTQ members
When he goes to the mosque, he wears his rainbow pin. "They look at it, but nobody bothers me," he said.
“I am a South Asian Indian Muslim gay. I'm not one of the identities. I'm all the identities," Ali said. "People have to take all of me or none of me. I do not come in pieces."
American Muslims, a group estimated to include almost 4 million people, have become more accepting of homosexuality, according to a 2017 Pew Research Center survey. The poll found that 52% said society should accept homosexuality, up from 27% in 2007.
Aruna Rao of Edison founded Desi Rainbow Parents and Allies, an advocacy organization for parents of LGBTQ children, because of her own need for support.
"My child came out as queer eight years ago, and I didn't have an understanding of how to respond," she said. Desi Rainbow focuses on being culturally sensitive to parents who come from South Asian countries. Many are Muslim, and the group celebrates Eid and Ramadan, in addition to holding events highlighting the experiences of LGBTQ Muslims.
Membership in the group has soared. What began with a handful of people seven years ago has grown to a mailing list of over 2,000, she said.
Rao grew up in South India and came to the U.S. as a graduate student 30 years ago. When her elementary school child told her in 2016that "he wasn't a girl, although he was an assigned female at birth, I thought I had a tomboy who'd grow out of it."
Shenaaz Janmohamed
Instead, he came out as queer, which was something that took her a while to grapple with. She did, and "today, he's a successful and happy adult," she said.
Shenaaz Janmohamed grew up in Sacramento, California, knowing she was different, not only because she was a Shiite Muslim, but because she was gay.
Her parents, who were devout Muslims, fasted on Ramadan and took the word of the Quran seriously. So when she told them she was gay, they couldn't reconcile it with their image of a good Muslim.
"We haven't reckoned with the ways that patriarchy and misogyny have influenced Islam," she said.
Janmohamed moved 12 years ago to Oakland, where she lives with her partner of 12 years and their 6-year-old daughter.
"We continue to have a journey," she said about her parents. "It's beautiful to see how much they love our child. It's healing to see the way she's accepted in ways I still don't feel accepted by my parents."
"I don't have relationships with my relatives and broader community," she said. "I wish it were different."
Janmohamed started Queer Crescent, a social justice organization focused on connecting to spiritual practice and power within the LGBTQ and Muslim community, in 2017. The group organizes cultural and political events and raises funds for marginalized Muslims, such as those with disabilities or who are incarcerated, she said.
Stile: NJ Democrats are treating sex education curriculum backlash as a serious threat
It started with a handful of people, and it grew. When the pandemic hit, the group went virtual, which allowed it to reach more people around the country. Queer Crescent's newsletter now has more than 900 subscribers.
The group is currently conducting a nationwide online survey of LGBTQ Muslims in America. The goal is to recognize the needs of LGBTQ Muslims, who are often removed from the broader Muslim community, Janmohamed said.
"There are so many ways to be a Muslim," she said. "I think Allah loves me as I am."
Deena Yellin covers religion for NorthJersey.com. For unlimited access to her work covering how the spiritual intersects with our daily lives, please subscribe or activate your digital account today.
Email: yellin@northjersey.com
Twitter: @deenayellin
This article originally appeared on NorthJersey.com
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