By Deenah al-Aqsa, journalist
Being a closeted queer Muslim journalist is a bit like being a superhero. My hijab is my cape, and hiding my queerness from family feels like I’m wearing a mask. Most importantly, I mean it when I say no one can know my secret.
Much of my work centres around my lived experience as a queer Muslim. My alias protects my identity but also my candour.
My headlines have been brutally honest to the point of discomfort. Take this one: “I was a homophobic teenager before I realised I was gay“.
How many realisations do journalists come to so uncomfortably, yet so publicly? I confronted my biases in real time, coming to terms with the homophobia I internalised and externalised.
Being outed will always be my biggest fear. But what makes me feel the most exposed is when editors ask me why I don’t come out to my family.
My secret identity feels like a double-edged sword in that sense, because I’m writing anonymously and publicly at the same time.
Sharing my carefully curated lived experience leads to people feeling entitled to my life story in its entirety.
But with great queerness comes great responsibility – in this case, to stay firm in your boundaries and not share beyond what you’re comfortable with.
My responsibility goes further as I flit between my two identities, which can be pretty exhausting.
When Clark Kent rips open his shirt and whips his glasses off to save the world as Superman, it’s thrilling to watch.
Meanwhile, my shirt rips consist of switching hastily between social media accounts and email inboxes, and posting contributor’s print copies to friends for safekeeping, just in case my family comes across it.
I’ve had to pay to hire out a room when doing interviews about queer things, so I’m not overheard.
When I send invoices, I always add a request that my real name isn’t shared anywhere.
Even if this sounds over-cautious, I can’t afford to take any chances.
Secrecy can be lonely. My family will never know about my achievements, like placing as runner up for the 2021 Freelance Writing Awards and my piece on LGBT inclusion in education being quoted in a parliamentary debate.
But I try to embrace the ways this whole metaphor has liberated me.
Far from being a liability, my queerness is my journalistic super-strength, and that’s what I hold on to.
All the details on how to pitch for Journalist Like Me are now available. The joint series in partnership with QueerAF is open to all, from those just starting their career to established queer media professionals who are opening doors for the rest of us.
About LGBTQ+ Journalism Network
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