At the same time, Rizvi began to spend more time with their mother’s family. Visits to family members showered Rizvi with love and affection — but also judgment about how Muslim they were.

Once, while visiting their mother’s family in Pakistan, Rizvi began dancing to a song playing on the television, only to be shut down by their grandmother with an indignant face. Confused, Rizvi tried to understand what was wrong with dancing. Each question was simply met with a vigorous headshake.

“I started to associate our religion with life-crushing policing,” she said.

Her adulthood has allowed her to view her maternal family, whom she loves, with grace, understanding what informs their religious expression. But it was challenging throughout her youth.

“It felt oppressive in a bunch of micro-ways,” she said. “And it all added up to, ‘Y’all, they tricked us! There’s no God.’”

A tender heart

One community changed everything.

Rizvi had spent her teens and young adulthood distanced from Islam, espousing an adamant atheism that eventually softened into agnosticism. But in 2018, she moved to Boston and was introduced to a group called Queer Muslims of Boston.

It was the first time she had heard of an explicit convening of queer Muslims, and an inclusive Muslim space that aligned with her principles. This was a space where they could relax. For the first time, her curiosity about Islam was ignited.

Over the next few years, Rizvi began regularly attending events with two different queer and queer-friendly Muslim groups in Boston. And it was the first time their life that they experienced having any community during Ramadan.

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