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A review by spacerkip
Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H
emotional
hopeful
reflective
slow-paced
Choosing not to give a rating because it feels weird to give a person's life story a numerical value.
The book is structured into different parts, each one an examination of the author's life through the lens of a figure from the Quran. I loved this method of storytelling, how it wove the different facets of Lamya's identity through the core of what she believes, how her dedication to her religion breathed life into her narrative. Though we grew up in very different contexts and come from very different worlds, there was a familiarity to their words I found quite comforting. I did not expect to feel such an intense kinship and solidarity with the author from the very first chapter.
Lamya grew up lesbian and Muslim. I grew up asexual and Catholic. Neither of us had the words to explain this thing about ourselves that we were different, so we used the language that we had: our religious upbringings. I was so surprised and touched to learn that across different religions and sexualities, the two of us both found something of ourselves in Maryam (who I knew as the Virgin Mary).
I no longer follow the religion I was raised in, but I still seek out stories like this. I love the unabashed devotion, the fight for nuance and intersectionality between religion and queerness, and the refusal to budge on either. They help to bridge the gaps that I was taught by my own religious leaders were too far to cross. Lamya's search for a faith community - or a community in general - mirrors my own search through my teenage years and through college. In following them on that journey, I caught glimmers of a thing I once had, and maybe (hopefully) will have again someday.
(Also worth mentioning - I read this on audiobook, and found the narrator to be very soothing and conversational, and it was very relaxing to listen to before bed.)
The book is structured into different parts, each one an examination of the author's life through the lens of a figure from the Quran. I loved this method of storytelling, how it wove the different facets of Lamya's identity through the core of what she believes, how her dedication to her religion breathed life into her narrative. Though we grew up in very different contexts and come from very different worlds, there was a familiarity to their words I found quite comforting. I did not expect to feel such an intense kinship and solidarity with the author from the very first chapter.
Lamya grew up lesbian and Muslim. I grew up asexual and Catholic. Neither of us had the words to explain this thing about ourselves that we were different, so we used the language that we had: our religious upbringings. I was so surprised and touched to learn that across different religions and sexualities, the two of us both found something of ourselves in Maryam (who I knew as the Virgin Mary).
I no longer follow the religion I was raised in, but I still seek out stories like this. I love the unabashed devotion, the fight for nuance and intersectionality between religion and queerness, and the refusal to budge on either. They help to bridge the gaps that I was taught by my own religious leaders were too far to cross. Lamya's search for a faith community - or a community in general - mirrors my own search through my teenage years and through college. In following them on that journey, I caught glimmers of a thing I once had, and maybe (hopefully) will have again someday.
(Also worth mentioning - I read this on audiobook, and found the narrator to be very soothing and conversational, and it was very relaxing to listen to before bed.)