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A review by rainbowbookworm
Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H
challenging
emotional
informative
5.0
Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H. is not an easy memoir to read for many reasons. If you grew up in a household where religion or culture strictly defined gender roles and societal expectations—ones you knew you’d never meet—Lamya’s story will open old wounds that may never fully heal. It resonates deeply, bringing the pain of trying to live authentically while struggling with the fear of disappointing family back to the surface.
Lamya’s journey also includes leaving her home for a country that is less accepting of her identity, a country where she never truly feels welcomed. She’s constantly aware of how much the world marginalizes people based on their race, gender, sexuality, and religion. Moving to the U.S. doesn’t provide relief—it only brings new challenges like Islamophobia, religious profiling, and a relentless barrage of microaggressions. Lamya doesn’t hold back, showing how isolating this experience can be and how she longs for community. She’s candid about her love life, from her crushes on unavailable women to the unsatisfying dates, and eventually, to the woman she begins to build a life with.
For me, one of the most heartbreaking moments came when Lamya and her partner visit her family. They establish ground rules about avoiding affectionate behavior, ensuring her family won’t suspect they’re a couple. Her partner charms everyone, yet they can’t be open about who they are to each other. There’s the looming fear that her family, who clearly love her, might reject her if they discover this part of her identity. The idea that “there’s no homosexuality” in their country hangs over them like a dark cloud. It’s a painful reminder of the sacrifices queer individuals often make to keep their familial relationships intact.
Another part of the memoir that struck me was Lamya’s journey to remain in the U.S. legally. Her experience with the stress of navigating the immigration system resonated with a particular poignancy. I’ve read other immigrant stories, but Lamya’s description of the hoops she had to jump through hit especially hard.
One thing I truly appreciated was how unapologetically vocal Lamya is about her faith. Her connection to her religion and how she finds strength and guidance from stories in the Quran added a powerful layer to the memoir. It reminded me of Sabrina Imbler’s How Far the Light Reaches, where the author connects their experiences with marine creatures. Similarly, Lamya links key moments in her life to figures like Maryam or Musa, drawing parallels between her struggles and the lessons in her faith. Her devoutness and how she uses her queerness and outsider status to shape her worldviews stood out as one of the most compelling aspects of the memoir.
When it comes to rating this book, I’ll admit I struggled. It’s a five-star read on so many levels. However, the fact that Lamya has to remain anonymous, and that some details might be omitted to protect her identity, made me hesitate. Yet, lowering the rating for that reason feels like overlooking the reality of her constant need to protect herself, which is integral to understanding her story. So, five stars it is.
Lamya’s journey also includes leaving her home for a country that is less accepting of her identity, a country where she never truly feels welcomed. She’s constantly aware of how much the world marginalizes people based on their race, gender, sexuality, and religion. Moving to the U.S. doesn’t provide relief—it only brings new challenges like Islamophobia, religious profiling, and a relentless barrage of microaggressions. Lamya doesn’t hold back, showing how isolating this experience can be and how she longs for community. She’s candid about her love life, from her crushes on unavailable women to the unsatisfying dates, and eventually, to the woman she begins to build a life with.
For me, one of the most heartbreaking moments came when Lamya and her partner visit her family. They establish ground rules about avoiding affectionate behavior, ensuring her family won’t suspect they’re a couple. Her partner charms everyone, yet they can’t be open about who they are to each other. There’s the looming fear that her family, who clearly love her, might reject her if they discover this part of her identity. The idea that “there’s no homosexuality” in their country hangs over them like a dark cloud. It’s a painful reminder of the sacrifices queer individuals often make to keep their familial relationships intact.
Another part of the memoir that struck me was Lamya’s journey to remain in the U.S. legally. Her experience with the stress of navigating the immigration system resonated with a particular poignancy. I’ve read other immigrant stories, but Lamya’s description of the hoops she had to jump through hit especially hard.
One thing I truly appreciated was how unapologetically vocal Lamya is about her faith. Her connection to her religion and how she finds strength and guidance from stories in the Quran added a powerful layer to the memoir. It reminded me of Sabrina Imbler’s How Far the Light Reaches, where the author connects their experiences with marine creatures. Similarly, Lamya links key moments in her life to figures like Maryam or Musa, drawing parallels between her struggles and the lessons in her faith. Her devoutness and how she uses her queerness and outsider status to shape her worldviews stood out as one of the most compelling aspects of the memoir.
When it comes to rating this book, I’ll admit I struggled. It’s a five-star read on so many levels. However, the fact that Lamya has to remain anonymous, and that some details might be omitted to protect her identity, made me hesitate. Yet, lowering the rating for that reason feels like overlooking the reality of her constant need to protect herself, which is integral to understanding her story. So, five stars it is.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Misogyny, Sexism, Islamophobia, and Religious bigotry
Moderate: Homophobia and Xenophobia