Aisha, who identifies as genderqueer, grew up in a conservative Muslim household in Melbourne's north-west suburbs -- so being both queer and Muslim felt like two conflicting identities.
"I literally thought I was like, the only person that still like deeply believed in Islam, and also was deeply queer," Aisha told The Feed.
"I think that's a fallacy is perpetuated by the Muslim community. They'd love to hide and shame us for existing."
Aisha, like other queer Muslims, have told The Feed they've had to distance themselves from the broader Muslim community.
The experiences of the queer Muslims we've spoken to range from navigating family relationships when coming out, dealing with stereotypes within the broader queer community and the search for their own community of queer Muslims.
For Aisha, the distance from their family's community hasn't been easy. One of their childhood highlights was waking up early to go to Eid prayer alongside a congregation of hundreds of Muslims.
"It didn't matter what kind of clothes you wore. It just mattered that we were all together, sharing a nice time of joy and celebration," Aisha said.
But the fear of being exposed to the community is an ever-present feeling. It's meant being discreet and forging some of those childhood memories.
In Australia, there's been a number of secret Facebook groups, networks and small intimate communities of queer Muslims created from Melbourne-based Marhaba to Sydney Queer Muslims.
Sexuality can be a taboo subject within the Muslim community, and despite The Feed's best efforts it was difficult to find queer Muslim men to talk openly about their experiences.
But some LGBTQIA+ Muslims have told The Feed they believe the Muslim community isn't the only place they feel ostracised.
It's an experience Aisha's knows well. They said before cultivating their community of queer Muslim friends, they struggled to express their Muslim identity "unapologetically".
"I didn't realise I had shame about being open in non-Muslim queer spaces about the fact that I was Muslim," they said.
Those feelings Aisha recalls were informed by how they were received - and not only by the Muslim community - when they first came out.
While they were still wearing the hijab, Aisha remembers clearly the looks they'd receive holding hands with their white partner at the time. It's something Aisha says their former partner never understood.
"When I was covered, and with them, non-Muslims have a look at that be like 'Aahh what's this, what is this Muslim doing'. Like, it didn't make sense to them on top of homophobia they had their Islamophobia.
"And then Muslims on the other side, obviously, the extreme homophobia...And until meeting a community of Muslims, did I feel comfortable not separating myself from that identity anymore.
"And not feeling like fear if people found out that I was these two opposing things, according to them."
Fighting against stereotypes: 'Their perception of a Muslim Arab family is that like I'm going to get stoned'
*Hanna identifies as a lesbian Muslim woman. She believed for the longest time -- like Aisha -- they were the only queer Arab Muslims in Melbourne.
"I didn't actually find the community that I have now until maybe the last three years," Hanna told The Feed.
"So I have lived most of my life, just believing that I was destined to go to hell, and everything I was doing was wrong."
The stereotypes queer Muslims face when it comes to their relationships with their families is something that frustrates Hanna. It's a problem she encountered when she first made queer friends who were predominately white.
She says there were issues with them understanding the complexities of her experiences.
"At first they were, like, you came out? I'm like, no, no, it's not a good thing. And they immediately went in the opposite direction, because their perception of a Muslim Arab family is that like I'm going to get stoned," she said.
"Or my father will kill me or that I'll be shipped off to my home country to get married. And it's like it's just it's all so much more nuanced than that. It's not. It's not either."
Hanna is exhausted by having to defend her family - most of which eventually came around to her sexuality - to her white queer friends.
"Explaining that not everyone in the family is the same, not every Arab Muslim is the same [is] frustrating because it puts me in a position where either I have to defend my family to these white people or defend my rights or defend my culture," she said.
Hanna successfully navigated telling her family about her sexuality. Although there were a few issues at the beginning, she is still very much connected to her family and prior to the pandemic she'd regularly attend family dinners and other major family events.
In the six months after coming out, she says, her sibling recommended her to a gay conversion therapist and repeatedly told her she was disgusting and vile.
Hanna believes her sibling was less concerned about what her sexuality means in a religious context, and more about what the ramifications may be for them socially within their circle of Muslim friends.
"I eventually couldn't take it anymore," she said.
She said it had a serious impact on her mental health.
"And I ended up just disengaging and I can't do this."
Community and cultural pressures
Dr Siobhan Irving is an executive committee member of Sydney Queer Muslims, where she researches programs to meet the needs of LGBTIQ Muslims.
She believes the issues for queer Muslims are a lot more nuanced and complicated than "Muslims hate queer people".
"A lot of people who come to our organisation, who are queer in some way, same-sex attracted or gender diverse. And although their family knows this, and maybe their family have even come to accept it, because of community norms, their family cannot exactly be out about this," Irving told The Feed.
"And they cannot necessarily be out about it. So it's a little bit more complicated than just saying, Oh, yes, the Muslim community hates queer people."
Dr Irving says there are a number of different factors that feed into any experience of a queer Muslim person -- and those don't explicitly relate to religion.
Dr Irving says over her time at Sydney Queer Muslims, she's observed that where families come from is a better indicator than just their faith. She says there will be different dynamics if someone's parents immigrated from a rural town, opposed to a big city.
It's something she says isn't alien to other communities.
"People in mainstream queer communities, white people, often who are same-sex attracted gender diverse make generalisations about queer Muslims," she said.
"And feel sorry for them, because they presumed that they belong to a religion that rejects them by definition. And of course, this well, according to some interpretations, is not really the case."
Hanna understands this well. To protect her mother from "gossip" and "ostracisation" she's had to hide parts of her life, from avoiding bringing partners to family events to not publicly discussing queer issues.
It's caused separation with Hanna's own life, and family. She never got to introduce her previous long-term partner to them, despite being invited to several of their ex-partners family events.
"I don't care about that community. And I can live without them. But they're my mother's community, I'm not going to take that away from her," she said.
"So I try very hard to keep away from it. It's especially caused a lot of issues in my own relationships, come to think about but I strive towards plausible deniability at all times."
'You end up finding your own community'
*Rahma grew up in Melbourne's outer west to an east African family.
She identifies as culturally Muslim having gone to an Islamic school and growing up as a practising Muslim. She believes prior to exploring her sexuality, she had issues with how Islam was taught to her generally.
"It was always very negative, it was very like if you do something wrong, this is how you are going to be punished," Rahma told The Feed.
Rahma says trying to make sense of her sexuality, and relationship to faith meant being discreet. She says the risk of being exposed could have detrimental impacts from breakdown of family relationships.
"But then also makes me think, okay, this is how people have interpreted the religion, this is what they think...people who are gay, or any identities in that spectrum is automatically a mistake. Or it's a test."
The language around a 'test' troubles Rahma, she feels like it's a way of shaming her.
"Therefore, you're failing if you give into these urges. So it's like God is testing your obedience level. So if you perform heterosexuality, then you'd be okay."
Rahma says if she had known an openly queer Muslim when she was young, she would've felt less isolated.
"It would have answered a lot of questions that I had, I could refer to their experiences...instead of doing a lot of work by myself," she said.
Being queer and Muslim, for Rahma, involves continual performance, especially as someone who still lives at home. This is why she believes queer Muslims have created their own spaces - to ensure they are not exposed.
"[But] you end up finding your own community and end up finding what you're comfortable with," she said.
"That doesn't necessarily have to be that you need to be out and proud."
*Names have been changed for privacy reasons.
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