by Malak Mansour – Associate Editor
Spiritual identity, just like sexual or gender identity, is formed reactively throughout life stages, and what we’re exposed to growing up shapes our belief systems, our principles, and eventually our ideology. The field of gender studies and sexuality has seen a gradual yet steadfast distancing and separation from all forms of organized religion. In other words, it has become secular. Nonetheless, the community has seen a significant increase in spiritual practices, a phenomenon that has especially boomed because of the pandemic. In an attempt to delve more into the spiritual scene vis-a-vis sexuality, I interviewed three young students between the ages 20-24 years who are either AUB students or alumni.
Malak: Can you describe or delineate when exactly you started to form a spiritual or religious identity and what were the factors that prompted it?
M: I was raised with an Isalmic background, so that was all I knew about spirituality and religious practices in general, but being queer doesn’t really fit with having an Islamic upbringing. So there was a state of dissonance because the practices don’t really match with who I am as a person. That factor really distanced me from spirituality in general. However, throughout the pandemic and because of social media exposure, I’m more open to different views of spirituality and I can recognize that it isn’t only Islam or other abrahamic religions; there’s a variety of ways in which you can practice spirituality.
S: I was exposed to religion as more of a belief system rather than a religion per se, you know? It was more “Islam dictates X so it is X. ” and you’re like, “okay, we’re not questioning that, that’s nice…” I grew unattached from Islam at around 12-13 years of age, and I think realizing you’re queer makes you rethink norms in general because you’re like, “Oh! I’m not straight, what else can be broken in terms of systematic rules?” I started being more spiritual around Thawra. I think it was because I had given up trying to find answers in normal religions, so I turned to tarot cards! New spirituality isn’t directly linked to queerness, it’s just directly linked to moving forward from organized religion. Queer people move forward from it because we are oppressed by it.
M: In general, the culture of organized religion and the people who practice it in Lebanon are very anti-queer, so it’s expected if queer people steer away from it, but at the same time I wouldn’t say that abrahamic religions are anti-gay because a lot of queer people still practice them.
N: For me, religion was forced on me, I grew up with it. When I was 8-9 years old, my mom was like “yalla baddik tit7ajabeh,” so I did not really form a religious identity. Whereas for spirituality, I started questioning things around me when I was 14-15 years old when I became more present on the internet. I discovered the queer community; I discovered queer people actually exist. It was mainly internet influence, I guess. It really pushed me to question some things like queerness and the hijab, for example. At first it started with hate. I was like “I hate religion, I wanna distance myself.” But growing up I decided I wanted to understand it, I wanted to know what’s wrong with me. I couldn’t keep hating it, I wanted to understand. Even when it came to spirituality, I wanted to discover more on Sufism, it seemed more authentic to me. But honestly, I just stopped where I was, I stopped questioning, I stopped searching, I came back to where I was when I was younger. I don’t know where I stand. I still have the urge to go back to the 16-17 year old me who tried to understand Sufism and read the Quran and interpret it properly, but I feel like I’m scared of discovering something that goes against what I believe in.
M: I agree with N, I feel like it’s a common theme among queer people. Where I’m at right now, it’s a struggle to search religion because it might not match with who I am, which will make me question myself and my existence even more. It’s an entire crisis because it’s associated with that place in my life where I didn’t have a positive experience with religion.
Malak: A great surge in alternative spiritual practices has been on the rise, especially amongst queer youths. Such practices have less to do with organized or abrahamic religions, and more to do with inter-connectedness with nature and the universe, in addition to tarot card readings, practicing affirmations, and even witchcraft that handles the esoteric properties of crystals and herbs, all of which are extensions of said connection with nature. If we were to extract the central theme of these practices, we’d find that the sense of community is what’s bridging the gap between queerness and spirituality, and historically, the communities that have been practicing, say, witchcraft for example, have been outcasted and ostracized, hence, queer. In your opinion or from experience, do you think that these alternative modes of spirituality can offer the sense of comfort that young queers are seeking sustainably? Or in other words, what’s the thing that spirituality is offering that the secular queer community isn’t?
S: It’s seeking the sense of comfort that abrahamic religions give to other people. We see it when someone dies. We hear “sar 3and Allah,” for example. This kind of comfort we can’t find in abrahamic religions because we are queer and the practice is homophobic, so we can’t really find comfort in the God that they speak of. We’d have to do a lot of emotional and mental labor to dissociate that God from religious institutions. That specific comfort is what attracts queer people to spirituality. Personally, I just don’t like organized religion, but I still think we live in a universe that listens, there’s no way there’s nothing out there, or at least it’s not very likely. Another place that is similar to abrahamic religions in terms of having holidays and practices is witchcraft, but it actually feels organic because it is closer to nature.
M: I agree with a lot of what you [S] said, we relate a lot to other forms of spirituality like witchcraft because they’ve been ostracized throughout history, which pushes us together, which gives a sense of community, in a way. I think why we’re [queer people] going towards spirituality as opposed to being secular is because as queer people, we’re forced to question things more than straight people throughout our entire lives, so there’s a lot of mental challenges and big questions that come to mind that secularism cannot answer such as existence, purpose, etc.
N: When you have a spiritual belief that you’re surrounded by nature, you feel protected. It offers a sense of safety and less vacuum in life. It gives direction. And this sense of guidance is something that the secular community cannot offer.
Malak: Building a spiritual identity is quite personal and individualistic, but the communal sense of belonging has to be fostered with peers and community members. Given that this fostering requires a physical space, how do you think young queers in Lebanon are navigating their spirituality amidst an ever-decaying financial and social crisis? And has occupying a physical space hindered this navigation?
S: Just like the fact that queer people cannot be shown in a physical space and/or are always in danger, the same thing goes for physical spaces for these spiritual practices. We don’t have a designated physical space, we need to know each other and then we go to someone’s house. A lot of queer spaces shut down, and they weren’t that many to begin with. It was very scary all the time; you would feel safe, until you didn’t.
M: The queer spaces we have in Lebanon are very commercialized in the sense that you have to buy something to be there, and they’re usually more expensive than their mainstream counterparts. It ostracizes queer people who have less financial capital. In Lebanon, you have to be well off to be part of the community so that you can engage with these spaces.
N: I feel like if queer people were to organize to discuss spirituality, having a physical space would be our obstacle. I also agree with M on the financial issue. You don’t feel queer enough if you don’t have money to access these queer coded spaces. Religion is mostly based on being able to communicate and to organize, so the limited physical spaces we have is one of the main hindrances that stand in the way of spirituality.
S: I also wanted to add to that. Because trans people are ostracized also within the LGBTQ community, a lot of trans people come together and form tight-knit communities. From within that community, many of them believe in and practice witchcraft and here, they create the physical space so that they are able to not just be in a safe space in terms of their identities, but also in terms of spirituality. I am a part of a group of trans people that meet once a month. We do a lot of cleansing rituals, it’s very fun. I don’t really know them as people per se, but you know them through their beliefs and practices. What brings us together isn’t just the practice, but also our identities and the acknowledgement that there’s an underlying pain that we all feel and that we’re trying to navigate through, in which one of the ways is spirituality and witchcraft. For example, we make safety pendants and participate in communal spells. Most of the time we’re trying to do enchantments for safety.
Malak: While some resort to alternative modes of spirituality, other young queer individuals aim to reframe their religion by challenging foundational discourses, thus engaging with their religion in a re-imagined context or framework. However, this form of activism has seen tremendous backlash from both the queer and non-queer community, arguing that religions are mobilized and empowered to vilify and pathologize queer people, and that navigating within these established religious institutions is paradoxical. Yet, the people who choose to forgo religion altogether are also at risk of ex-communication, isolation, and exile. Without casting judgment on either party, in your opinion, what are the nuances or factors that are important for you with which you choose to express your gender/sexual fluidity in relation to your spiritual practices? I.e. community? Connection with nature? Connection with the self? An afterlife or lack thereof?
N: For me, there’s no specific factor because I’m trying to understand everything religion is trying to embody. I’m trying to know what it [religion] means. Although, I don’t like how understanding religion isn’t so accessible to others whether it’s the language or the expressions used etc… I care about community and being able to understand spirituality or religion by ourselves. I don’t want to have to go to external references, I’m tired of having it inaccessible to us. Religion is very institutionalized and I’m trying to get out of that and engage with it on a more personal level.
S: Personally, what relates to spiritual practices is community in the un-hierarchal sense. In Islam for example, you have to refer to your sheikh or the 7adees, it’s always very far away and very above you. When it comes to spirituality for me, if I have a question, I just WhatsApp my friends like, “I have this thing where I keep falling and it’s not just because I’m really clumsy, what do you think I should do? Can you come over and we’ll cleanse my house together.” My friend got quite unlucky recently and they were like “someone definitely cast a spell on me,” we then made a box of trinkets with the intention to try and break it. I express my spirituality in cooperation with my friends, and usually it’s queer people who reach out to me and vice versa.
