Being Gay In A Typical Muslim Household And Acting Straight
By: The Writer
Tags: Sexuality, Gay, Muslim, Harrasment, Bullying

The day I confessed to myself that I’m gay

The only time I realised others knew me better than I knew myself was when I was a kid. I have always been an exceptional student who attracted attention, but a big chunk of this attraction has been invested elsewhere — my sexuality.

As an eight-year-old who would often find all things strange feminine despite being a boy, I never knew I was different, or simply not like other boys my age around me. Mind you, I have never wanted to be a woman. But I used to ask myself questions at night, questions that brought with them a burden that was often hard to shake off when I would have to go to bed. Those questions sat on my little chest like a monster gripping at my breaths as I sobbed and soaked my eyes until my lashes were so heavy they literally forced the eyelids to drop on me. And just like time, sleep works wonders, as I would forget the questions as I would open my weary eyes to the light of dawn.

One reason those questions returned to haunt me every night was because the answers were hard to find. It was dangerous work attempting to discover why I was different, or why I was treated the way I was treated at school by boys my age. I come from a conservative Muslim family where the word ‘sex’ would brew a storm in the household, let alone ‘sexuality’. And who even knew about sexuality other than being ‘straight’ in a typical Pakistani Muslim household where absurd customs and values were worshipped like gods? This is the problem with us — we worship one God, but we have shallow beliefs and crass customs elevated on the altar as well. Yes, this is us.

From being an eight-year-old who had no inkling of the changes my mind, body and soul would have to come to terms with in the coming years, I had a revelation to make in front of the mirror one night when I locked myself in the bathroom. It had been a terrible day. I had been preparing myself for days for this revelation, or rather confession. In fact, the writing had always been on the wall and my fears didn’t further disclosure. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, and into my sore, red teary eyes. There was a fury, a part of myself I had been ignoring for years.

I took in a deep breath and told myself that I was gay. Finally.

This confession alone had a profound effect on my life. The burden I carried with me to bed every night had just slipped off my shoulders. They felt so light, so relieved. It was as if the wounds on my soul from all the bullying and harassment had been healed in a divine moment. It was as simple as that.

But what came next was not simple, but so complex that I didn’t dare look in the mirror for days, weeks, months or even years. Fast forward to my eighteenth birthday, and I was fighting my inner self against the changes taking place inside me. There were conflicts; I was contradicting myself every step of the day — denying who and what I was. I tried to fit in, tried to alter myself, but it only worsened. And what was worse was the fact that I couldn’t risk mentioning it before my family. My mother would be so hurt; she would never have thought her son was such a shame. And my brothers…they had always suspected I was not like them, and that I was less of a boy; they had never been so sure. They never will be.

I pretended to like girls when boys were the beings I was most interested in and attracted towards. I purported myself to be straight, and often cracked jokes with my friends (although with a heavy heart) at people who were gay. I saw a reflection of myself in them — the way I was mistreated by bullies at school and in the neighbourhood. But it was just a mantle I had put on to cover the real me and protect myself from the world. My heart wanted to cry it out loud, but mind thought better of it. It never let me become a spectacle in the society.

I wish I could have confessed before my family who and what I was, but I embarked on a journey to change myself — to fashion myself a normal sexuality. I wanted to be straight, wished to be attracted to the opposite gender, but it only happened to an extent, that too when I forced myself to be somebody other than what I was. I was gay. But somewhere along the road of my personal struggles my confession had lost its momentum. My sexuality no longer defined me; I started dictating it.

My religion strictly prohibits being gay, but what to do when I am born one? I fear the eternal punishment if I venture into the forbidden zone to quench my thirst. I have never been in a physical relation with anyone. But I can only contain myself for so long. I don’t remember being gay by choice as many would argue. You can change yourself… It happens but it doesn’t stay like that forever. When I look back on my childhood and revisit the memories I would otherwise not have ventured into, I realise I have always been gay.

And now I am back to my eight-year-old self. I am asking myself questions again. The burden that sat upon my chest is back to haunt me every night. I had confessed to myself that I am gay. But this confession may perhaps never see the acceptance from the world outside the boundaries of my sanctity. The world does not know me the way I know myself. My brothers may be reading my words right now, but they will never know the reality of the soul they share the same blood with.