Sarim: A muslim person who sacrificed their Queer identity, to survive in a rural area.

Picture a super hot school day, the first one back after the summer holidays. I was busy doodling when out of the blue, someone's question jolted me, "Can I sit here?"Looking up, I saw a tall guy motioning to the empty seat beside me. That was the first time I met Sarim.

As days turned into weeks, Sarim and I became good friends. Our bond went deeper than just regular friends. What made us this close?

The reason was simple: both of us knew what it was like to struggle in a school that wasn't very kind. We didn't know the word "LGBT," but we understood that we were facing bullying because we didn't fit masculine norms.

Things started spiraling downwards when Our classmates began joking that we were like a couple. At first, it was just the classmates, but soon even our teachers joined in. Following that, Sarim began to distance himself from me. No more chatting in class, no more hanging out during breaks.

I hoped things would change on their own, but as weeks passed without improvement, I realized I had to take action. One day, I found Sarim alone in the library and sat beside him.

"Why have you been avoiding me, Sarim? Did I do something wrong?"

He looked down, his voice barely audible. "Shams, I think maybe we shouldn't be friends anymore."

"But why? What did I do?"

"It's not about you, Shams. I just don't want to be teased because of you."

"Because of me? How is it my fault if they're teasing us?" I couldn't hold back my tears.

Sarim let out a sigh, his expression torn. "It's not your fault, but it's easier this way."

And just like that, he walked away, leaving me with more questions than answers. From that point, our friendship faded away slowly. Sarim found new friends, while I felt increasingly isolated. Eventually, the bullying became unbearable. Things got worse, and I reached a breaking point where I had to quit school.

Fast forward to June 2023.

While i visited my hometown, Leaving the mosque on a Friday, I heard a familiar voice greet me, "Assalamualaikum, Shams."

Turning around, I saw Sarim, dressed in traditional Muslim attire—a kurta pajama and a topi.

"Sarim? I was completely surprised."

We caught up, and I found out that Sarim had become a Hafiz and was working at a mosque.

"I thought you weren't into all this religious stuff. When did you start learning the Qur'an?"

He let out a sigh, his voice heavy with emotions. "Well, what else could I do? Things got even tougher after you left, and I felt the only way to shield myself from their bullying was to gain their respect. Now that I'm a Hafiz, they won't target me anymore. People are afraid of the consequences, you know. It's funny, in a way." He let out a forced laugh.

"But are you happy? Is this really what you wanted?" I asked.

"Sometimes, to find a bit of happiness, you have to make compromises. Not everyone can just leave their hometown, Shams," he replied.

We talked for hours, remembering old times. But his words stuck with me.

In a world where being yourself can be so tough, Sarim had made a choice – a choice to find refuge in his faith, even if it meant sacrificing his whole identity. Living a life of disguise and pretending to be someone else, just to survive In a cruel world.

As I bid farewell that day, it struck me how many LGBTQ+ individuals might be out there, similar to Sarim, living a life that's not really theirs, all for the sake of fitting in. Just to survive.