What it means to be young, gay and Muslim

Story by Ramishah Maruf

Photos by Hanna Wondmagegn

Yusuf Brebner should definitely be in third period right now.

But instead of class at Durham’s Riverside High School, he is standing at the front of the small prayer room of the North Durham Islamic Association. It’s a Friday afternoon in fall 2019 and facing him are dozens of his new brothers and sisters — waiting for him to say his shahada, which will officially make him a Muslim.

The high schooler had been visiting the mosque for months, asking the imam the most basic questions about Islam. At first, he kept it from his mother, who was raised Catholic, though he was taught to choose whichever religion he believes in.

“How do I know when to pray?”

“Do I need to learn Arabic?”

“What can’t I eat?”

And then, the most pressing question.

“Can I be queer and Muslim?”

But that didn’t matter right now. Because Brebner had said the shahada, and now the mosque uncles, with their pot bellies sticking out, were hugging him and kissing him three times on the cheek.

A new member of the community is one of the brightest days in the mosque, Imam Mohammed Othman said. So much so that a volunteer who works with young converts had driven all the way from Texas to record the moment. It’s important to document these moments.

“Welcome to Islam!” they said.

And finally, in that one moment, Brebner felt as if he found his people.

“You’re telling me that no matter where this other Muslim is, no matter anywhere around the world, they’re from, if I’m a Muslim, and I can go up to them and say ‘Salaam Alaykum’ to them, they will like say it back to me,” Brebner said.

High school is difficult enough when you’re 17. But when you’re queer, a new Muslim and have an eye for the flamboyant, a whole new set of challenges arises.

The bullying began soon after. Some saying, both to his face and behind his back, that he wasn’t really a Muslim. That he was going to hell for being queer. And that he should be killed for who he is, “just like the old days.”

His phone will go off sometimes, dozens of notifications at a time.

Brebner will check but he already knows who it’s from. For months now, this person has made different accounts to harass him on Instagram. Brebner will read the messages.

“Kafir!”

“Kafir!”

“Kafir!”

Kafir translates to disbeliever in Arabic. The messages go on and on. Brebner blocks the user immediately.

“They look at me and see I’m different,” Brebner said.

Brebner is different. He has pink shaved hair that is now dyed black for fall. Blue eyeliner carefully applied in intricate patterns. But he is proud to be the person who he is, the way he was born.

It’s lonely being a Muslim convert. Many report feelings of isolation, often from their families and other from the Muslim community.

Almost a quarter of American Muslims are converts to Islam, according to a Pew Research study. The majority of converts come from Christian backgrounds, like Brebner.

The high schooler found Islam after reading “The Life of Pi,” a novel in which the main character challenged the reader to understand the spirit of Islam.

“Why not?” Brebner said.

Brebner was drifting, just as the character “Pi” had been in the book. It was endless, like being on that raft in the sea, Brebner said, and finding the small mosque is what pulled him out, just before a self-admittance into a residential psych ward.

“It was like everything had meaning again,” Brebner said.

He told his mom in the car one day. She slammed on the brakes.

“You’re going to be radicalized!” she said.

She came around. She met with Imam Othman, who told her that Brebner is a son to him now. Now, Brebner said, she is as supportive as can be, driving him to the other side of Durham to go to the mosque. Finding rides is always a challenge in high school.

Othman has a background in science — he has a Ph.D in toxicology and he is a visiting professor at Duke — and he taught religion to Brebner as such. He drew a chart like a scientist and with each visit they moved to a different section, one on how to pray, the other on basic Arabic.

Brebner did not bring up his sexuality until the fourth or fifth meeting. Inside that small mosque, between a pre-school and a barber shop, Brebner shared what he had been thinking for so long.

“If we’re created equal, then why are people discriminating against me?” Brebner asked.

Othman warned him about what would come: the stares, the bullying, the backbiting. He said people are people, and some are right and some are wrong.

“I told him it was prohibited in all religions, but it will not affect my acceptance for you,” Othman said.

Othman said Brebner will always have a place in his mosque. And Brebner stayed.

“Not everyone is like Dr. Othman,” Brebner said. “Not everyone will accept me. I’m probably not going to be accepted majority of the time.”

Islam, like many religions, finds life in community. “Shoulder to shoulder!” the imam always announces over the intercom during Friday prayers.

On Fridays, the prayer hall can be overfilled, its congregants praying together as if they’re in a sardine can.

Youth are constantly playing games of pick-up basketball in the mosque parking lot, trying to avoid uncles parking their cars. Their parents share cups of hot tea outside.

Many of these congregants grew up going to these mosques — it’s a place of refuge, of home. Brebner has always yearned to be part of this.

“(Converts) always have these lofty goals that they’re going to be part of this close-knit community,” Brebner said.

But Brebner did find that community in Durham. He visited Othman often to learn how to read the Quran in Arabic and pray on Fridays. He attended almost every community dinner — the first one was to celebrate his conversion — and said he drank the best chai he’s ever had there.

Then, the COVID-19 pandemic hit North Carolina, just as the holy month of Ramadan was to begin.

Ramadan is a time when the mosque community comes even closer together — fasts are broken together, children passing down plates of dates and water every sundown.

But there was no large family to break fast with, or a mosque to attend in a global pandemic. Instead, Brebner ate his fruit alone in a dark kitchen, just as the sun was about to come up every morning. At sundown, he ate the leftovers his mom left him, hours after his family ate.

Then, Brebner found Deenville – a play on N.C. native J. Cole’s Dreamville — through Instagram.

A group of North Carolina college students formed the group over Ramadan to read the Quran together over Zoom. Most of them were second-generation Muslim Americans, wanting to strengthen their Muslim identity over quarantine.

Brebner was one of a handful of converts.

“I felt so welcomed immediately,” Brebner said. “We were all learning together.”

The group grew as more young Muslims heard about the Zoom group. Now, they have meetings, with young Muslims joining from Charlotte to Wilmington. And it is Brebner leading most of these discussions, one of the most enthusiastic members.

It’s a stark contrast from the beginning, when many patronized him for being a new convert. He still gets the Instagram notifications sometimes, the occasional bigoted comment, but here, he says he is accepted.

One night in Deenville, the young men and women were sharing their personal stories with faith — common struggles many Muslims have growing up in America. Brebner knew that very few, if any, could relate to his experiences. He thought of his bullies, whose notifications still pop up sometimes.

Brebner took a deep breath, shaking just as he had that Friday afternoon he officially became a Muslim.

Over Zoom, to his new Muslim brothers and sisters, he told his story.