“There is sickness in their hearts, and Allah ˹only˺ lets their sickness increase. They will suffer a painful punishment for their [persistent] lies.” (Quran, Verse 2:10)

Not the cheeriest, right? I wish it had been another verse, perhaps something about love, or happiness, or charity, but it is this one that follows me around. It fills empty silences during dinner and bounces around in my head when I try to fall asleep. 

For those unfamiliar with the Quran, this verse comes from Surah Al-Baqarah, and is part of a section describing the munafiqun—hypocrites. Kafirs (Arabic: كافر), or disbelievers, disguised as the pious. Liars who present themselves as Muslims: wearing the same clothes, attending the same prayers, speaking the same blessings, yet they do not believe. A munāfiq (Arabic: المنافق) is described as more dangerous than any other enemy of Islam.

Preceding 2:10, 2:8 and 2:9 read as follows:

“And there are some who say, “We believe in Allah and the Last Day,” yet they are not ˹true˺ believers. They seek to deceive Allah and the believers, yet they only deceive themselves, but they fail to perceive it.”

Proceeding 2:10, 2:18 reads as follows:

“They are ˹wilfully˺ deaf, dumb, and blind, so they will never return ˹to the Right Path˺.

Harsh…ouch!

I have known myself to be a kafir for a very long time. I cannot point to a singular moment that resulted in my lack of belief. I only know that there was a before, and there is now an after. The before was when I was very young, when belief was something taken for granted. I knew without a doubt—just like I knew that I was the coolest four-year-old ever and anyone who disagreed was obviously jealous of my Monster High t-shirt—that Allah was listening to my prayers and would answer in turn.

Like many of the unshakable truths of childhood (though I maintain that my Monster High t-shirt was pretty fucking cool), age washed away certainty with a healthy dose of reality. I stopped believing quite simply; it was never a matter of faith, it was a matter of truth.

I have always been obsessed with the truth. It can be my most unlikable quality and I suspect it was only exacerbated by my discovery of the New Atheist movement—and one of its most prominent figures, evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins—at age 13. Of course, every nerdy, internet-dwelling atheist is bound to fall into the trap of watching Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens “demolish” theism in late-2000s debate compilations. Still, I like to think my obsession with the truth has grown beyond a petty compulsion to always be right. I am a lover of science, philosophy, and literature, and my conviction at age 13 about the strict dichotomy of truth and lies has since faded into a more nuanced understanding of life.

However, even now I find myself struggling to understand faith beyond the confines of what is correct—scientifically, historically, and morally. I am not made to be a believer. I suspect that being neurodivergent has always contributed to this, but I have read the Quran in three different languages, three times in each. I have read the hadiths. I was enrolled in Islamic classes for much of my life, and I know far too much about the religion to believe in it. 

Here are the facts that led me to leave Islam. I cannot look past its scientific declarations: geocentrism, a flat Earth, the moon being split in half, the stars being created after the Earth, meteors described as stars fired at devils, the cause of shadows, the rejection of evolution, and incorrect accounts of genetics, embryology, the function of the heart, and more. Nor can I overlook the historical inaccuracies, which are too numerous to recount here. As for the moral…I’ll let you decide for yourself how moral it is to allow the keeping of sex slaves, the marriage of girls once they hit puberty (and even earlier, as the prophet Muhammad himself married a six year old and consummated their marriage when she was nine, which I would consider rape and pedophilia, but I digress), the advised beating of women and children by men as a form of discipline, and the law of murdering apostates.

I am not here to convince you of anything. I simply believe in facts. But it is the last point I mentioned that I’d like to explore further.

“Indeed, the penalty for those who wage war against Allah and His Messenger and spread mischief in the land is death, crucifixion, cutting off their hands and feet on opposite sides, or exile from the land. This ˹penalty˺ is a disgrace for them in this world, and they will suffer a tremendous punishment in the Hereafter.” (Quran, 5:33)

The Quran is indecipherable without context and study, which is why accurate understanding of its contents evades many believers—this is not a backhanded comment. The Quran is written entirely in Arabic, and the majority of Muslims read it without understanding a single word of the language, including my family and their extended muslim community. They rely on local scholars to interpret it for them, which has led to countless issues. This verse is taken from Surah Al-Ma’idah, and it references “those who wage war against Allah and spread mischief.” Scholars agree that this references non-believers, though a select few would argue that this is not the intention or an accurate translation. 

The verse that delivered the final blow for me, however, was much more clear.

“They wish you would disbelieve as they have disbelieved, so you may all be alike. So do not take them as allies unless they emigrate in the cause of Allah. But if they turn away, then seize them and kill them wherever you find them, and do not take any of them as allies or helpers.” (Quran, 4:89)

This verse makes it very clear: if one turns away from Allah, if one is an apostate, a kafir, a munāfiq, you must kill them. I have been afraid of being killed for my lack of belief since an age that I should only have been worried about getting my homework done on time. Globally, 12 countries punish apostasy from Islam with the death penalty. Perhaps I should be safe. After all, is that not why so many look to “the true North, strong and free”? A secular country, free of religious persecution?

The caveat is the truth: no ex-muslim is safe. Islam transcends borders and laws—in 2012, the UN estimated that 5000 women and girls are killed in honour killings across the globe every year. Not all of this is attributed to apostasy, and much of it also targets those in the LGBTQ+ community and women and girls who speak out against patriarchal control and misogyny. Even in countries where apostasy is not marked by death, those who kill in the name of honour—often men—receive no punishment at all. 

I am a kafir by choice. I do not believe in Islam, nor do I wish to “return to the Right Path.” I do not believe in Allah. I do not believe in an afterlife. I do not believe.

I am a munāfiq by necessity. I do not wish to lie to those I love. I do not wish to pretend to be what I am not. I wish desperately for a world where I can live as myself.

There are thousands like me out there—silenced by fear of violence. Many of us are queer. Many of us are women. All of us are afraid. Those who speak out are murdered or targeted in violent attacks, such as in Bangladesh where prominent writers who spoke openly of atheism were killed by machete-wielding Islamist groups in the 2010’s. The majority of us who die are never heard. We are the women sent back to their home countries and locked in a room until we agree to marry a man we’ve never met or starve to death. We are the ex-hijabis who are attacked by the community for daring to show our hair. We are the ex-Muslims who commit suicide after being ostracized, shamed, and hated. We are the queer people who are violently killed by fathers and uncles and brothers for daring to love.

It is justified as all hatred and violence in the name of God is justified. It’s written right there, can’t you see? The Quran is the word of God, and God says these people deserve to die. And so they shall.

Here are some facts about me:

I am an activist; I oppose racism, homophobia, sexism, ableism, xenophobia, and bigotry in all of its forms. I volunteer often—gardening, tutoring, you name it. I attend protests. I participate in mutual aid. I donate money, campaign, make posters, and write about the causes I care for. I care for everyone, and there is so much love in my heart for the world, and so much hate for the hate that plagues it.

I am a writer; I write fiction, non-fiction, and less often, poetry. I write about what I care for. I have a love of old and obscure science fiction, which I read more often than I write. I write about being queer more than anything else. I weave it into tales of horror and fantasy; I embed it into the tapestries of gothic settings and the low murmurs of enchanted beings in dark forests.

I am a reader; I read anything I can get my hands on. I’m known—fondly by some, with irritation by others—for quoting this author or that one, always having a book stashed on my person, and reading even in the most unlikely of places. I keep a journal of every new word I learn, complete with its definition and etymology. I annotate my books without a care, and I imagine myself as an empty bookshelf waiting to be filled.

I am a queer person; I identify with a gender I cannot describe, and I have known since I was twelve years old that I love women. I am queer in my politics, queer in my gender and sexuality, and queer in every way imaginable—even its most literal definition. I love the breaking of binaries. I love to exist outside of expectation, and I could not conform if I tried. I might add that my lack of belief hinges on my queerness as much as it does my love of the truth. Muslims see being queer as a sin; they see my existence as a sin. Their God wishes to burn me for eternity. I only wish to love and to be as I am, free of hate. Islam denies this to queer people; I deny it the power to take away my love.

I am a nerd; I always have been, and I always will be. I stare at the moon with my telescope every night. I write fanfiction and have been a participant in fandom since discovering Percy Jackson and the Olympians at the age of nine. Since, I have been obsessed with Timebomb, Catradora, Clexa, Yellowjackets, Homestuck, Undertale, The Last of Us, The Locked Tomb, Miraculous Ladybug, Critical Role, and countless other fandoms. I am a Dungeon Master, and I play Dungeons and Dragons every weekend. I read comic books. I listen to punk and metal music that sometimes can’t be found on Spotify and has to be downloaded from sketchy sites—or heard only at small shows.

These are the foundational parts of who I am. When asked to introduce myself, one will likely hear at least a bit of this. Within ten minutes of knowing me, you’ll have heard it all. 

Yet my family knows me in such a shallow way, through the veil of the religion that keeps us apart, that the most foundational aspects of my personality are impossible to them. 

Who they know is a lie, and it is a lie governed by this one fact: I am afraid.

They do not know this either.

Let me list what they know about me. They know I like to read and write, yet the contents of my creative endeavours are a mystery. They know I enjoy science, and they know I am a feminist. They know I care for the Earth, and they know I play a game that they do not understand for a few hours every Sunday. This is all.

At the same time, they know things about me that nobody else could. I hate strawberries. I always shower with either boiling hot or freezing cold water. I use unscented lotion. I don’t like to eat junk but I can’t resist chocolate. They know how I look when I’ve just woken up in the morning, and how cranky I can get when I forget to eat breakfast. They know I get headaches from artificial light, and that I love thin mints.

They think I am straight—anything else is unimaginable. They think I share their intolerant religious views. They think I believe the Quran is the word of God. They think that despite the imposed force which led me to begin wearing the hijab, I now do it of my own accord. They think I pray everyday. I have not uttered a prayer in years. They think I am Westernized and slightly uneducated on Islam, but a believer nonetheless. They think I am caught up in the world like all young people are, and that I’ll eventually be as practising as them. 

They think I am incapable of lying—that they know me better than I know myself.

I become their version of me without a second thought. At times, I will say something so contradictory to my own beliefs with such convincing conviction that I have to pause and evaluate my own self. 

Everyone I know can come up with a few universal truths about me—in fact, I asked a few of my friends to do so. They say I always speak my mind, even when it gets me in trouble (it has). They say I’m not afraid to stand for what’s right, and that I can be needlessly stubborn, even when it hurts me more than anyone else. 

There’s an anomaly in the equation—the person I am with my family is none of these things. Sometimes I’ll get in a muttered comment or two, or argue with my dad, but for the most part, I bite my tongue for my own good. I don’t have anything to be stubborn about, because I stand up for nothing. 

I question who I am, and how I become someone so subdued by fear.

It makes me sick, oftentimes, to remember that all of the little things they know are tiny seeds of truth to distract them from the strong, flourishing trees of betrayal. I am a secret, I am a coward, and I am a hypocrite. I am a munāfiq, and though they may love me despite my distaste for strawberries and my habit of turning off the lights the second I walk into a room, I know they will not love me once they know I do not believe in their faith. I know they will not love me once they know I am queer. I know they will not love me once I show them who I truly am. I am not a Muslim, and in their eyes, that is the worst thing I could be—I am a queer kafir, and that is impossibly worse. It’s adding insult to injury. It’s a betrayal of not just everything they believe in, but of everything they consider morally right. I want to tell myself to pick a fucking struggle, but I can’t help but be an overachiever in this department as well. I can’t do anything halfway.

It pains me to admit this, but I am afraid even of my younger siblings discovering my queerness. My younger siblings who rely on me for homework help, who need me to explain the world around them so they don’t have to learn things the hard way like I did, who I held as babies, whose first steps I witnessed, who I took to school everyday for years, who I childishly fight over food with but would give my life for. 

I have always known my parents are homophobic and I have always known they will not accept me. Their ways have been set in stone since the moment I was born. My siblings are different. I’ve done everything I can to steer them towards being accepting, loving people as they grow—to love others and themselves—but indoctrination is a powerful thing. I can only guide them in ways that don’t put me at risk, and somewhere along the way, they slipped out of my embrace and into the hands of Islam. I don’t know if they’d shun me if they knew, but I think I prefer to tell myself I’m unsure because facing the truth—that I am the only one who has turned away, that I’m alone even though there isn’t much of a difference between me and them—could only end in heartbreak.

The munafiqun are supposed to be punished for their lies, their secrets, their act of pretending to be Muslim while being unfaithful. They are to be punished in this life and the hereafter. I am afraid, and I cannot speak my truth. I must live a secret or I may not live at all. I will die—someone in the community will kill me. If they do not, if I live, my family will disown me. 

In my culture, that is a fate worse than death.

Yet, I can’t bear to be this person who I’m not. I can’t bear the mask of submission, to any God or to any man. I can’t bear the mask of straightness and perfect femininity. I can’t bear the mask of unquestionable faith, not I who lives to question. I cannot bear this mask of deceit. 

When I shed it, my family will see my true self as a monster killing the daughter and the sister that they knew. They’ll blind themselves to my pain, to my love. This is who I have been all along, but they will never see me again.

Oh Allah, I am a kind person. I donate money despite having very little. I always stop and give cash to the homeless, sometimes I cry on the street when I see their situations. I love nature, I love animals, I love the Earth. I plant trees, I grow vegetables with community gardens. I feed squirrels and birds and make friends with foxes and deer. I love people, and I advocate for the freedom of all people. I am imperfect—sometimes I gossip, sometimes I lie. I regret and I learn, sometimes I repeat my mistakes. 

Above all, I love.

I love my family, but they do not love me.

Oh Allah, why am I your enemy? Why do you disown me, if you love me? Why do you wish me dead, then prosecute me for trying to avoid such a fate? Oh Allah, why do you punish me for loving? All I have ever wanted is to live, and yet you grant me this death. Why do you write this fate for the kind, for the loving, for the true?

I have no sins but faithlessness, and you have condemned me to the death of a thousand secrets. You will kill me, and you will punish me for it. Am I a hypocrite, or are you? Do you punish my sins, or your own? But oh Allah, is your first name not Ar-Raḥmān? Where is your mercy?

God will not grant me mercy, and neither will his followers—neither will my family. I will live afraid, until such a day that I can no longer cower. I will tell my secret, I will live my death. 

Until then I remain, munāfiq.