13 June 25

ACON Westie

From the Area – This Ramadan, I’m Everything!

The following ‘From the Area’ story has been produced as part of a collaboration with ACON Westie, aiming to highlight stories and experiences of LGBTQ+ people from Western Sydney. Read Nashita Nuwwar’s story below, and connect with the ACON Westie community on Instagram, TikTok and Facebook.

Growing up in Western Sydney, I always felt my queerness was at odds with my faith. Sexuality beyond the binary of man and woman was framed as incompatible with Islam. In my adolescence, exploring my queerness and defying tradition felt like the obvious way to resist conservative ideals. I resisted harder and harder  as the elders shook their heads and condemned my actions.

While I felt free from the confines of social expectations, I also couldn’t shake that a crucial part of my identity wasn’t being honoured. It didn’t take long for me to realise that my existence, like many, can’t be compartmentalised or make sense with concrete answers. As I grew older, colonial dogma attached to the fundamentalist lens of Islam began to unravel and a desire to reconnect with my lineage appeared. Searching for a sense of self, I realised complete renunciation of my faith meant cutting out a chunk of me where culture and religion had mutual influence on the person I am today.

Being Muslim and Bengali in South-west Sydney, I grew up in a tight-knit community while also being exposed to the beautiful diversity of our religion with every new part of the area I visited. But this beauty would always devolve into a deep sense of alienation with so many voices asserting that my queerness should be hidden or cured.

The intersection of queerness and Islam is often fraught with tension. Theologically there isn’t much mention of homosexuality, most matters of sexuality are centred around man and woman. Islamic law amongst most contemporary Muslim societies further delineates homosexual relations as a major sin, a perversion of true love and connection. It’s a complex matter in that, so much of queer histories outside of the western world has been erased. A bit of revision will reveal queerness and gender diversity was indeed present within Islamic cultures throughout history. There’s power in reshaping and resisting the colonial narratives of Islam, but where can you go when there’s no guidance in your current reality?

Personally, walking away from islam meant shedding a large cultural element that was present throughout my life and shaped how I position myself in this world. Like the many qawwal’s I would hear growing up, expressing their longing for oneness with God, reconnection with my faith was essential to feeling whole. Tasawwuf offered a place to look inwards, Sufi poetry and art further dissolved the boundaries of the material world and reshaped what love is or isn’t. But what inspired me most was experiencing the presence of other queer Muslims’ reclaiming every layer of their identity.

Zakat (charity) has always been a key part of Islam that I appreciated. To deeply empathise with those less fortunate, living without food to eat or water to drink was a core theme during Ramadan. But as I’ve aged, an added layer of introspection made this month a time of reflection and renewal. Fasting offers an opportunity to step back and empty ourselves of carnal desires, a step towards shedding parts of our ego. Waking and breaking fast with the sun becomes a form of ritual, a daily rhythm that grounds us in the cycle of nature and time. Yet, spiritual growth during this time isn’t only formed in solitude, it is deeply communal. The shared experience of sitting together, passing out dates to one another so we can break fast in unison, fosters a sense of collective devotion. For queer Muslims, this communal aspect is vital and unfortunately may not be readily available to us.

In the place I spent the most time, I felt torn between worlds. The cultural vibrancy coloured with the many languages used to express the same devotion clashed with conservatism that labelled queerness a “Western” disruption. It was hard not to internalise this dissonance but slowly through tentative connections, I found others experiencing similar plights. It was their stories that held a candle to the true cultural richness of Western Sydney. Even among us, differences bloomed; our approaches to practicing Islam, varying degrees of openness, generational divides shaped by the homelands our parents left behind. Yet in those differences, there was still a shared level of compassion that was ingrained in us from piloting our complex journey’s. The courage to break fast together even when our stories of liberation taste different, made the spirit of Ramadan feel real.

My journey  torn amongst rigid binaries and colonial echoes of religious fundamentalism, taught me that liberation lies not in erasing contradictions but embracing them as a site of a divine tapestry. Ramadan, with its pattern of longing and renewal, serves as a reminder that faith thrives not in strict dogma but in the courage to gather with one another, segmented yet one. To queer Muslims who may be struggling with reconciling your identities; the vastness of creation doesn’t stop at celestial bodies, it can be found anywhere – including ourselves.

Nashita is a queer and trans Muslim who grew up in South-west Sydney. While navigating diverse intersections in their identity he loves to create work that explores the social and cultural dynamics that inform so much of our human experience. He hopes to offer insight into his world and inspire others to share theirs.