Rainbows and Religion: My Struggle as a Queer Muslim
By Kadeeja Mohammed
My mother is a rather short woman. Contrary to her size, she carries more than I ever could. She bears her pain so well that I forget it’s there.
As a thirteen-year-old, I attempted to be the normal brown girl, the “straight one.” However, I had an obsession with rainbows that hinted at something else. As cringy as it sounds, I had rainbow everything. I had the Crocs, the shirts, the flag, the rainbow watch band . . . Oh, the rainbow watch band! Even though I looked like a walking rainbow flag, I was able to pass as just an ally.
“Is there anything you want to tell us?” my sisters asked—often.
I’d always respond, “No? Why do you ask?”
This went on for a while. It was before I came out to my sisters at fourteen. Even with the cultural and religious stigma, I trusted that they would accept me, and they did, but acceptance was far from encouragement. I wasn’t able to fulfill my love with a woman—that was beyond them.
As I paraded my rainbow watch, I failed to realize that my parents would eventually find out.
During the summer of 2021, my mom questioned my rainbow Apple watch band. I lounged on the carpeted living room floor while my sisters and mother sat behind me on the blue couch that stood strong enough to hold all four of them.
“May I ask something?” my mother started.
My heart dropped a little, and a lump grew in my throat. My mother’s tone was hesitant and her eyes seemed to be searching mine.
“Why are you wearing a rainbow watch? You know what it means, right?”
I gulped, my palms were starting to sweat. I wasn’t sure what to say.
“What does it mean?” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.
My sisters looked anxious, and my third sister looked like she wanted to say something, but she knew better than to try and speak for me.
“The rainbow is for the gays. Are you gay? Why do you wear rainbows so much?” My mother’s voice was shaking; in her eyes, there was a hint of fear.
I froze. My mother’s words hit me like a ton of bricks. I had always known that my cultural and religious background would make it difficult for my parents to accept me, but for some reason, I didn’t expect them to question me on my rainbows.
“I don’t have to be gay to wear rainbows. I just wear it because I like it,” I replied defensively, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants.
My mom looked at me for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. Finally, she spoke.
“Okay—just be careful. People might think things.”
And with that, the conversation was over. But the tension in the room lingered, and I knew that my relationship with my mom would never be the same.
My mom isn’t stupid. After she questioned me, I was never to wear anything rainbow again. She would make a habit of repeatedly telling me to stop wearing my favorite color pattern.
I could feel her disappointment and disapproval weighing down on me like a heavy cloak. It was as if my very existence was a source of shame for her, and this hurt more than I could say.
But even in the midst of her disapproval, I could see the pain in her eyes. Although she never expressed it to me, she worried about how people in our community would treat me if they found out about my identity. As a young person, my mother was ostracized by her community as a result of her mother’s choices. My grandmother struggled with alcoholism, and the community took out their disapproval of her behavior on my mother, who was just a child at the time. Perhaps my mother felt that the same would happen to me, but my situation was not the same.
I am acutely aware of my mother’s pain. She possesses a deep-seated desire to nurture and love, and is constantly striving to learn how she can raise me in a way that is different from how she was raised.
I thought my mom’s accusations were over, but a few weeks later, I found myself vulnerable under her words again.
I sat on the small, white bench in the kitchen; the heat of the sun somehow creeping into my kitchen even with all the windows closed. I was accompanying my sister as she made her breakfast, our routine. It was too early for anyone else to be awake, but my mom was up, and she made her way to the kitchen in her nightgown.
When she walked in, she didn’t acknowledge my presence nor did she talk to me. She usually greeted me with a gentle kiss on my cheek. She spoke with my sister, and I sat on the bench watching them talk. I didn’t pay attention to much of what they said—until my mother started to raise her voice.
“I know she’s a lesbian, and I won’t have it under my roof. It’s not who I raised.”
Oh.
I remember it like yesterday. Suddenly, the room became hotter and my ears flushed red. My mother said the word “lesbian” with so much distaste, it made me cringe. She spoke as if I wasn’t there, as if I were a jinn.
She continued, “I won’t stay under the same roof as her, so I’m leaving.”
Instead of acknowledging me, she continued to refer to me in the third person. Looking up at her from my seat, she looked taller than ever; I’ll never forget her spiteful expression. She wasn’t a short woman at that moment, she stood tall with all her animosity against me.
Why couldn’t she acknowledge me and speak to me? Was I too sinful to be spoken to? The more she spoke, the more the summer heat snuck inside the kitchen until it felt like a sauna. I hadn’t booked an appointment to the sauna, so I got up and went to my room.
My mom’s reaction to my identity is rooted in heterosexism. Despite not leaving me, I could sense that my mom’s love for me was not complete. She struggled to grasp the part of me that loved women, and I could see how deeply ingrained the stigma around homosexuality was in our culture and religion. Homophobia, both within our community and beyond, has created an environment in which people like me are often made to feel inferior—like we are somehow wrong for being who we are.
Even though I longed for acceptance and support from my mom, I knew that the journey towards understanding would not be easy. I hoped that she would come to see me for who I was, and not be blinded by the cultural and religious biases that permeated our community. While the Muslim community may not always accept people like me, I held onto the hope that my mom would be able to see past her own biases—to be different from everyone else.
My second sister was the one who spoke to my mom, who told my mom that I didn’t choose to be a lesbian. My mom trusted her the most, and, in standing up for me, I came to understand the power of my bond with my sisters.
As stressful as it was, my sisters were there for me through it all. My second sister would tell me about all the things my mom would say about me, and she was always able to remain logical. She acknowledged how much pain it brought to both my mom and me to not be comfortable around each other because of something that couldn’t be changed.
“Don’t look at Mom like an enemy, she just doesn’t know any better,” my sister would say. She was there when I had my first girlfriend and my first breakup. She was there through it all. And as we lay under her blankets in her twin-sized bed, I asked her how it felt to love both men and women, knowing my parents would never accept that part of her.
“They never have to know. Some things I keep to myself because it’s much better that way, and Mother wouldn’t even mind because I’m married to a guy anyway. She just doesn’t want you to be married to a woman.”
So, my parents want me to be single forever, then?
Oftentimes, my father would criticize my choice of clothing, warning me not to dress in a way that made me look like a lesbian. They also disapproved of me bringing my friends over, as if I had a crush on every girl I set my eyes on. Such comments made it clear that my parents were uncomfortable with my identity. My mother occasionally made comments about finding a husband for me, completely erasing me to soothe herself. It was as if she couldn’t bear the thought of her daughter being gay.
But no matter how hard they tried to erase it, my identity is a fundamental part of who I am. Although I carried it silently for the sake of maintaining a sense of peace at home, I refused to let go of my true self. I found strength in my community—in the knowledge that I was not alone in my struggle—and in time, I came to understand that true acceptance and love come from within.
Although my parents may never fully understand or accept my identity, I know that I am loved and accepted by those who truly matter—by those who see me for who I am and not for who they want me to be.
SPRING 2025
Illustrations were done in collaboration with the New Media Artspace at Baruch College. The New Media Artspace is a teaching exhibition space in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Baruch College. Housed in the Newman Library, the New Media Artspace showcases curated experimental media and interdisciplinary artworks by international artists, students, alumni, and faculty. Special thanks to docent Cindy Qiu for creating artwork for this piece.
Visit the New Media Artspace at http://www.newmediartspace.info/