A review by afjakandys
Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H

challenging emotional informative reflective medium-paced

5.0

 I wouldn't be surprised if this becomes one of my favorite books of the year. It's just such an incredible, striking read —educational in many ways and relatable in many others. Writing a book like Hijab Butch Blues is an act of vulnerability in and of itself, and that vulnerability brings every page of Lamya H.'s story to life in vibrant color. I was struck by the raw honesty that they write with, the openness with which they describe their feelings. They make things that I have struggled to verbalize my entire life seem simple, completely understandable—and I appreciate her all the more for being able to do so, because there is nothing easy or simple about the feelings that Lamya describes.

What I want instead is to disappear. Stop living, more like. I just want to stop being alive. It’s a constant ache, this wanting to disappear. A craving that’s always there, even when I’m with my friends, even when I’m outwardly joking around or playing games or making people laugh. Even when I’m doing things that have previously brought me pleasure, even in situations where I look like I’m having fun. I just don’t want to do this thing called living anymore.

And this passage on gender identity, which literally floored me:

How every cell in my body recoils at that thought — of being a man — and yet how harrowing it is that the only way I can get out of my bed and make it through the day is by wearing masculinity on my body. As if I’ve never held dear my feminist rage, never thought about how I feel so politically aligned with womanhood, and yet hate inhabiting it. Hate it when my body is read as such.

And this, because... wow.

I feel confronted with the flipside of being this way with other people. A way that’s based in fear of people leaving, that prevents me from asking things of people in turn. That makes me recoil when others try to be there for me, even when I don’t ask. That prevents me from being vulnerable, setting up a double standard where I’m convinced that vulnerability is a repellent in myself but not in others. I cried in that theater for myself, for decades of friendship where people were closer to me than I was to them. For this person I’ve become who wants more out of relationships, who wants intimacy and interdependence, who can only give but can’t receive, who is too scared to risk anything and everything for fear of being left.

The amount of self-reflection that this book forced me to do, and likely will have me doing for a long time after, is insane. It's honestly a little scary to be confronted with so much of yourself in someone else, but also intensely comforting. It's nice to feel connected to a stranger, someone whose experiences are so different than my own but who manages to describe feelings I've never been able to put words to with so much honesty and grace. It reminds me of one of the core messages of this book: that connection is more important than division, that we are all complex and separate and yet entirely interwoven. No human being exists in a vaccuum; no human is without flaw. And yet Lamya H. makes a point of loving even when it's hard, opening herself up to the struggle of interconnectedness.

This book is not self-loathing, despite the struggles Lamya H. describes. It's a story of resilience and happiness, of self-acceptance and growth. I loved being able to follow Lamya on their journey of growth, and I appreciate how much faith and hope it gives me for my own. Absolutely transformative.