We Have Always Been Here
A Queer Muslim Memoir
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- 11,99 €
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CANADA READS 2020 WINNER
SHORTLISTED FOR THE 2020 EDNA STAEBLER AWARD FOR CREATIVE NON-FICTION
NATIONAL BESTSELLER
2020 LAMBDA LITERARY AWARD WINNER
ONE OF BOOK RIOT'S 100 MOST INFLUENTIAL QUEER BOOKS OF ALL TIME
How do you find yourself when the world tells you that you don't exist?
Samra Habib has spent most of their life searching for the safety to be themself. As an Ahmadi Muslim growing up in Pakistan, they faced regular threats from Islamic extremists who believed the small, dynamic sect to be blasphemous. From their parents, they internalized the lesson that revealing their identity could put them in grave danger.
When their family came to Canada as refugees, Samra encountered a whole new host of challenges: bullies, racism, the threat of poverty, and an arranged marriage. Backed into a corner, their need for a safe space--in which to grow and nurture their creative, feminist spirit--became dire. The men in Samra's life wanted to police them, the women in their life had only shown them the example of pious obedience, and their body was a problem to be solved.
So begins an exploration of faith, art, love, and queer sexuality, a journey that takes them to the far reaches of the globe to uncover a truth that was within them all along. A triumphant memoir of forgiveness and family, both chosen and not, We Have Always Been Here is a rallying cry for anyone who has ever felt out of place and a testament to the power of fearlessly inhabiting one's truest self.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
Seeking a foundation rooted in home, family, and faith, journalist and photographer Habib explores her identity in a sincere debut that's articulate in its depiction of the immigrant experience but thin as a memoir of sexual awakening. As a five-year-old Ahmadi Muslim in Lahore, Pakistan, surrounded by "women who didn't have the blueprint for claiming their lives," Habib witnessed her pious mother buckle under the belief that "Allah hates the loud laughter of women!" When political upheavals escalated persecution of Ahmadi Muslims, the family fled to Toronto in 1991. There, 10-year-old Habib felt "transported to a different planet" with "boys and girls mingling freely." At 16, she endured an arranged marriage to an older cousin, later annulled after she attempted suicide; a second marriage at 19 offered escape from her family. By her mid-20s, a mentor opened a "window into a queer world." She divorced her husband and began traveling the world and taking sexual partners who shaped her "experience of how race and desire intersect." She writes candidly about her experiences: she joined a queer-friendly mosque, started a project photographing queer Muslims, and eventually came out to her parents. Habib's narrative is brave and unique, yet her most affecting descriptions speak less to sexual freedom and more to immigrant Pakistani culture. This sometimes falls short of its promise.
