Where does it end? It’s not that I don’t have an answer to this, but I wonder what kind of answer they are seeking. As a trans-woman from a Muslim family, I have been asked this question often by my parents, relatives and even a few friends. As with any coming out story, the reaction of my family members in a manner of haste was denial; part of the reason was my lack of articulation, and part of it was because the word transgender itself became a novel concept when I explained what it actually meant.
Novelty often incites fear more curiosity, and fear leads to control and abuse. Inherently, most of us aren’t really evil but scared. I was scared and still am that my loved ones are never going to accept me for ‘who I am’, and they were scared to lose me just as much. I believe I have begun to understand what they mean when they say that they are indeed afraid to lose me. There’s grace in their statement, although grace doesn’t mean that subjugation or conformity is acceptable in the matter of one’s identity. What it does reflect is that they are vulnerable just as much as I am.
For me my identity as a woman and coming to terms with it has been in itself a toll on my mental and physical health, but it brought a whole new meaning to live for and as. Coming out certainly is bravery, but on the other hand societal acceptance becomes a luxury dependent on a variety of factors. To simply put it, the acceptance of novelty without collective support strips away the very power to say, ‘Yes you’re my child.’
Rebellion is an act of appreciation, but it can also cause disdain and embarrassment. After all, we live in a transphobic world. My family and relatives have confused my rebellious spirit with indoctrination, manipulation, and even being brain-washed. Perhaps the grace present in their response is them trying to cover up for the lost sense of meaning or their understanding of the very reality we all share.
In the beginning my act of rebellion (moving out from my parent’s home) garnered all the obvious reactions. I was outed to my relatives; perhaps my honest heart and my charlatan mind trying to keep up with a man’s persona was the reason why they were not abusive in their own ways. While it doesn’t mean they were not toxic – they indeed were and are – but the fact of the matter is that they wished otherwise. They said: “if we were not Muslims we could’ve supported you.”
It became clear that I must offer a valid Islamic perspective; perhaps then acceptance could take place. I told them that yes people like me have existed even in Islamic culture in the name of ‘Mukhannathun’, which roughly translates to men who are effeminate and take the many roles assigned to women. Scholars have argued that the term was actually a reference to intersex people, but its interpretation changed for me when I found another word, ‘Murtajalun’, which roughly translates to women with masculine aspects and traits. It proved to me that gender-queerness differed from the binary sexes just as much as from being intersex, and hence 2 separate words. I was right in assuming that Mukhannatun were assigned male at birth; this alone should’ve been enough but it wasn’t. During a phone call with my mamu, I remember him saying that he agrees, ‘but, WHAT NOW?’ I had no answer to this then, and I don’t have any answer to it now, maybe all I wanted was for them to truly just see me.
Looking back I believe they indeed saw me, and that they agreed with the genuineness of my experience. Let me be clear though, it’s not whether they did the bare minimum or not. The fact is that circumstances decide the bare minimum. Days passed by and now we don’t debate anymore. Deep down we have realized that it was never about their capacity to accept, but what was at stake. Not everyone has the capacity to accept, but acceptance can come from anyplace. What I mean by that is that acceptance is not the luxury of the elites and rich, but rather the luxury of people whose life and its meaning isn’t affected by such. So whose fault is this patriarchy, the sex binary, and religion? The truth is that I couldn’t blame it on my parents, when all they knew (and continue to know) was that such is life for reasons not obvious but best known to them.
Does it mean that they are right in their own regards? My belief is that life is lived, and not given, while they believe the opposite. The answer is rather simple, no one is right, but no one is at fault either. It’s a labyrinth, isn’t it ?
