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When the Tories resorted to their pathetic coalition with the DUP last June, I performed in drag outside Downing Street at the #MayMustGo protest organised by Owen Jones.

I wore a sapphire belly-dancer ensemble to boast my Iraqi-Egyptian roots, was accompanied by my pet pink unicorn hobbyhorse, and sang a parodic cover of Purple Rain that begged Theresa May to juststop immediately.

In the context of a media landscape puppeteered by the Right Wing - where Islamophobia is brewed on a daily basis, and where immigrants are scapegoated for the “downfall of Europe” - I wanted to show myself as a queer Muslim immigrant that is neither a victim or a villain in the West, but a proud queen, in charge of their identity.

It was a profoundly empowering experience, and the positive reception of the crowd overwhelmed me.

(Image: Glamrou)

(Image: Glamrou)

The political intention of my drag has always been to present an uplifting representation of my minority identity - particularly, to show that being Muslim and being queer can be a happy marriage in Britain.

Unsurprisingly, this can ruffle a few feathers.

Following the Downing Street Protest, for the first time in my life I received death threats.

I was made the cover photo for an EDL group in Shrewsbury protesting “the Islamification of Britain,” and was messaged on Facebook by white supremacists who were “coming to get me.”

Since then, whenever I critique the West’s treatment of immigrants - whether in a performance or an article - or point to its responsibility in extremism in the Middle-East, say, Far Right supporters are adamant that I be exiled from Britain (or just killed).

This might be expected from white supremacists, but it pops up in surprising places. For instance, many gay spaces are rife with Islamophobia, with hate incidents reported at Gay Pride, and many men claiming they “don’t date Asians” on gay networking apps.

As we saw with the gay male support for Marine Le Pen in Paris, Islam is painted as a threat to LGBTQIA+ civil liberty, and the gay community can be manipulated for Far-Right gain.

But the hate from Western groups is only one side of the picture.

After the Downing Street protest, I was similarly threatened by conservative Muslims for associating my queer identity with Islam, with direct emails from fundamentalists telling me that my “existence is an abomination.”

To be honest, I’m pretty sure a fatwa is due any day now.

This is the tricky reality of many queer immigrants in Britain - you exist in a continual site of conflict, rejected by both your country of origin, but also your country of residence.

It’s basically like living on a tectonic fault line at constant risk of an earthquake, with pressure from every opposing community leaving you in deadlock.

I basically feel too Western for Iraq, and well - too Iraqi for the West. When I’m with my Muslim family, my queer identity is savaged by relatives, and I cannot express myself safely - but in the UK, a growing tide of post- Brexit xenophobia means that my Arab identity takes a beating, even inside the gay community.

(Image: Glamrou)

But I don’t want to be a pessimist. For I think there is a way to find peace in being an identity that straddles conflicting ideologies.

For me, drag has been the glue that holds the fragments of my identity together. When I’m in drag, I am able to hold onto the positive elements of my Muslim upbringing before things became traumatic.

As a child, Islam used to comfort me - the ritualistic prayers five times a day were like peaceful meditations, helping me communicate with Allah on a quiet, personal level.

Before I really understood that I was gay and genderqueer, I had unbreakable faith in Allah’s unconditional love for me, and as such, Islam taught me self-love.

The Quran is in places so poetic, and its verses about finding the good in the world - and its emphasis on tolerance - inspired me.

Once I started failing the expectations of men in my society, I experienced a painful separation from Islam, and was told over and over that Allah hated me and would punish me in hell for all eternity.

Since finding drag in my early 20s, I’ve looked to the feminine elements of Arab culture for inspiration, and as such, have been able to hold onto my heritage as a queer person.

When I’m in drag, I like to engage in Islamic rituals - the painting of my face to become an Arabian Glamazon is quiet and meditative, like prayer, and I often use feminine prayer poses as a way to calm myself before shows.

And whenever I perform to a supportive crowd, dressed as a Middle-Eastern deity, the acceptance of the audience replays the euphoria I once used to experience from Allah’s acceptance.

When I’m my alter-ego Glamrou, I feel an agency to speak Arabic and own my Muslim identity in a way that was once denied of me as a male body. In fact, through my drag, I’ve connected to Allah again - and rather than Allah being a scary patriarch punishing me for my sexuality, I now think of Allah as a non-binary genderqueer being who loves me.

This might sound provocative, but this way of thinking is - as I recently discovered - inherent in parts of Islam.

For instance, Sufism is a branch of Islam on the quest for a metaphysical, and deeply personal relationship with Allah, where every Muslim has their own relationship with Allah - this can be achieved through sensual practices, meditation, and in some cases, men dancing in skirts in order to fuse the soul with Allah. I mean, how drag is that?

So surprisingly, I’ve sort of returned to Islam as a queer drag queen, and in a way that feels true to me. Yes, it is full of tension living at the intersection of conflicting groups.

But I’ve found an inner peace in bringing both together through the magical art of drag.

Denim: World Tour @ Soho Theatre - 10 Jan - 3 of Feb