Fleeing violent persecution in Pakistan, Ahmadi Muslims have scattered across the globe—including to Brazil. In Petrópolis, a city historically associated with exiles, one missionary imam and his family spent 11 years constructing an Ahmadi mosque open to all. While promoting pacifism, the Ahmadiyya community continues to express itself politically through international missionary activity, including in Israel. Fleeing violent persecution in Pakistan, Ahmadi Muslims have scattered across the globe—including to Brazil. In Petrópolis, a city historically associated with exiles, one missionary imam and his family spent 11 years constructing an Ahmadi mosque open to all. While promoting pacifism, the Ahmadiyya community continues to express itself politically through international missionary activity, including in Israel. Prithi Khalique, antage of Baitul Awal. Acrylic painting and graphic artwork, 12 x 8 inches. Artist Petropolis AUTHOR · AUTHOR · AUTHOR 21 Jan 2025 st · FEATURES REPORTAGE · LOCATION The Ahmadis of Petrópolis The Baitul Awal mosque is a surprise. Located in Petrópolis, Brazil, a mountain city of about 300,000 , a little more than 40 miles outside Rio de Janeiro, the mosque's expanse belies its unconventional setting. A handsome white structure that rises from a fringe of gardens, it sits halfway up a mountain slope with houses hanging off. A sign says that it belongs to the Ahmadi Association of Islam in Brazil. When you assume its vantage point, looking in the direction it faces, you see a shallow valley that blurs into the Serra dos Órgãos mountain range. Brazil may not be a country known for its Muslim population, but it is where enslaved Muslims from West Africa led one of the most important revolutions against slavery in the Americas in 1835. Roughly around the same year—sources vary—Mirza Ghulam Ahmad was born in Qadian, Punjab, then part of British India. In 1889, Ahmad established a new Islamic movement called the Ahmadiyya Jamaat and declared himself its first caliph. One year prior, slavery was finally abolished in Brazil. The fifth and present caliph, Mirza Masroor Ahmad, has governed the Ahmadiyya community since 2003. Wasim Ahmad Zafar, an Ahmadi Muslim imam and missionary from Rabwah, Pakistan, organized the construction of the Petrópolis mosque. He has lived there with his family since 1993; before this, he was posted in Guatemala. Among Islam's heterogeneous adherents, Ahmadi Muslims distinguish themselves by explicitly subscribing to a missionary ethos, sending emissaries around the world to proselytize. Despite having outposts in virtually every country of the world, they make up only about 1% of Muslims. “The Ahmadiyya Jamaat isn’t another school of thought,” Zafar said in an interview. We spoke in Urdu after lunch at his home. “Our school of thought is Islam.” According to Ahmadi Muslims, Mirza Ghulam Ahmad was sent to unify the Muslim community in response to its fragmentation during the late colonial period. They view him as the messiah and mahdi, a ruler prophesied to arrive in the end times to integrate a variegated global faith. Although they preach nonviolence, they have been subject to violent persecution from many other Muslims. Meanwhile, the community has also experienced a fracture, with the 1914 separation of Lahori Ahmadis. “In the whole world, there is only one Muslim community with a caliph,” Zafar said. “And to have a caliph, this assures us that Allah Ta’ala is with our community.” There is a disconnect between how a large number of Muslims perceive them—as foreign to Islam—and how they perceive themselves—as torchbearers of its essence. Ahmadi Muslims regard their centralization under a living caliph as evidence of divine sanction and yearn to bring others under the umbrella. The community even has a motto: "Love for All, Hatred for None." The Baitul Awal Mosque, located in Brazil's Petropolis. Courtesy of the author. This April, following Eid ul-Fitr, Zafar and his family hosted the 30th jalsa salana , or annual assembly, at the mosque. It was presented as an inter-faith exchange, with speakers including a Jewish woman leader, Black Buddhist monk, Umbanda priest, and representative of the civil police. His sons, Nadeem, Ijaz, and Takreem, alternately emceed, translated speeches into Portuguese, and sang Urdu ghazals, and the woman sitting in front of me teared up. Zafar presented a single red rose to every speaker. Afterwards, the women of the family served a meal in the garden that they had prepared. I spoke to Zafar's youngest daughter, Aila, a dentistry student who had invited her friend, an Indigenous biologist-in-training who talked about the jewelry she makes out of insect wings. For our interview a few months later, the women cooked another meal. Zafar's wife, Anila, and their daughters-in-law, Nida and Maria, brought chicken curry, chickpeas, pulao, parathas, salad, fruit, and gajar ka halwa to the table. They served it in their home, which is situated next to the mosque. Zafar pinched red chili powder from a bowl and sprinkled it over his plate. He had just returned from a jalsa tour of sorts: from Virginia, to Toronto, to the global Ahmadiyya headquarter s in the town of Islamabad in Surrey, England, where 43,000 guests had joined. In keeping with the Ahmadi motto, outsiders are encouraged to come as they are to the mosque. This stands in contrast to the majority of mosques, which police women's dress, yet can also feel geared towards conversion. “Some time ago, a women’s group came, with girls too. It’s obvious that non-Muslims will be without dupattas, with bare heads. I uploaded photos of them like that and some Muslims messaged me saying that I did something wrong allowing these women inside,” Zafar said. “So I responded to them with love, saying that if we don’t allow someone inside and don’t show them the beauty [of our faith], how will they realize it?” The first time I went to the mosque, the weekend before Ramadan, I was wearing a jumpsuit covered with red zebra stripes. No one seemed to mind. I was struck by the hedge in front landscaped to read “Paz,” or peace, and the second-floor library with copies of the Qur'an translated into 60 languages as widely ranging as Bhojpuri and Russian. Select copies of the Qur'an written in multiple different languages housed at the Baitul Awal Mosque. Courtesy of the author. Ijaz, Zafar's middle son and a civil engineer who aims to improve Petrópolis' resilience to landslides, led a tour of the mosque, showing the visitor apartments built into it. His youngest son, Takreem, brought freshly brewed chai and biscuits from the house. He said that he wanted to be a missionary like his father and perhaps go to Africa. For the Zafar grandchildren, the third generation here, the garden is a playground. Switching between Urdu and Portuguese, they run around looking for hummingbirds and butterflies. As of 2024, Zafar said that there are approximately 53 Ahmadi Muslims in Brazil. He claimed that the community used to be larger, but many professionals moved on to Canada or the US for work. His missionary activity in Brazil involves traveling — he has visited all 26 states — and using political platforms to increase awareness of Islam as a religion of peace. Several Brazilian converts appear to be married to members of his extended family who are based in the country. The community's small numbers in Brazil do not seem to deter Zafar. "Our work isn’t to bring people in, unless their hearts are in it,” he said. Since its beginning, the missionary tradition has been a fundamental aspect of Ahmadi Islam. The earliest overseas Ahmadiyya mission dates to 1913, in London. By 1920, missions had spread to the Middle East, Southeast Asia, China, West Africa, the Caribbean, North America, and Europe, according to historian Nile Green . For many communities around the world, the Ahmadiyya community was their first introduction to Islam. I wondered if, and how, this family in Petrópolis thought about the damage evangelical missionaries have historically wrought in Brazil, from incursions into Indigenous territories to pro-Bolsonaro pentecostalists in favelas. Green notes how the multiplicity of religious organizations that emerged in South Asia at the turn of the twentieth century worked in a competitive religious marketplace, borrowing methods from Christian evangelicals and contributing to the “ market production of sectarianism. ” Ahmadi Muslims made a point of building mosques in their new territories and taking advantage of the technologies available to them, founding and distributing newspapers to disseminate their beliefs. Newspaper articles tend to follow Zafar's travels. After the interview, he pulled out a binder to show me Portuguese clippings he has collected about the community since the 1990s. "The media here is so good,” he said. "They write what we believe, even when it’s different from what they believe.” But he added, "In freedom, they [Brazilians] have gone very far. And they don’t want any prohibitions. With affection and love, we want to show them that freedom happens within a limit. If you go outside of the limit in the name of freedom, then it will not be freedom.” He drew a parallel with the need for traffic rules while driving. "This is a simple matter that we’re trying to teach them. It will take time, but with love, we’re guiding them.” This kind of paternalism is perhaps intrinsic to the missionary project, regardless of religious tradition. A clipping from a local newspaper covering the Ahmadi community in Brazil. Courtesy of the author. Zafar opened the mosque in 2016, having begun the process in 2005. It took a long time to get permission from the Petrópolis city council to build it, because the neighborhood it is in was zoned as residential. Designed by a Pakistani architect, its construction was funded by the Ahmadiyya community. "We do dua that Allah brings faithful people to our masjid and it fills up," Anila Zafar told me. Pakistan has the world’s largest population of Ahmadi Muslims. Here, the competitive marketplace of Islamic variants has hardened into institutionalized persecution of non-Sunnis. Declared non-Muslims by the constitution in 1974, Ahmadi Muslims are forbidden from basic Islamic practices, such as saying salam, playing the adhan from their mosques, or referring to their mosques as such . They have to identify themselves on their documents, which leads to discrimination at school and work, affecting livelihoods and economic mobility. In recent years, they have again lost the right to vote , as well as, Zafar chuckles at the absurdity of this, to carry out qurbani , or sacrifice animals for the hungry, on Eid ul-Adha. The latter contributes towards zakat, one of the five pillars of Islam. Most gravely, they face a constant threat of arbitrary arrests and detention by the state and state-sanctioned extrajudicial violence, disappearances, and murder just by virtue of their interpretation of Islam. Zafar was born in Rabwah, Pakistan, in 1959, the city created post-Partition as a home for the Ahmadis . When he was a teenager, he began the seven-year-long process of missionary training, where he had a scriptural education in the Quran and hadiths, as well as in how to cultivate qualities important to a missionary such as patience and restraint. His family is originally from Qadian, the birthplace of Ahmadi Islam, and his grandfathers on both sides converted. While he acknowledges his pain at the mistreatment of Ahmadi Muslims in Pakistan, this also shores up his faith: "We forget that any prophet meets disbelief and resistance from the people,” he said. His preferred method of arbitration lies in the spiritual realm, even though he engages with the political sphere in Brazil—a duality ingrained in the Ahmadi Muslim approach. When we first met, he had just returned from Brasilia, the capital, where he said he had been providing a Muslim perspective on Palestine. Although the Ahmadiyya caliph has released statements in support of Palestine , pointing to the Ahmadi Muslims who live and have suffered in Gaza, the community continues to maintain a mosque in Haifa, Israel . "I've heard of it, but I've never seen it," Anila Zafar said. "There is one in every country…We have a presence everywhere." There does not seem to be a point at which the community will boycott Israel, closing their center or reducing their missionary presence there. What does it mean to be a persecuted Muslim minority with a missionary presence in Israel, supportive of Palestine but also conveniently painted by Israel as the “ good Muslims ”? "If there is oppression in Palestine, if all this is happening in Pakistan, should I gather a group here, go on the road, bother people, what’s the use of that? If I break some car windows here, will that have any use? That’s why this isn’t what the Ahmadiyya community does. If we have certainty in our hearts, that there is God, and Allah Ta’ala loves us, then what else do we need?” Wasim Zafar asked. He referred to an incident in Pakistan in 2010 in which Ahmadi mosques were attacked and over 90 Ahmadis were massacred. Following that, he stated, there were no Ahmadis on the roads protesting because of their motto. They chose peace, he said. To him, the conflicts that have affected Muslim states are further proof of their dividedness. According to Zafar, the fate of places like Palestine and Iraq, and the reason for their experience of oppression, has been the lack of unity among Muslim states. The reason the Arab countries have not been able to handle Israel is also a result of their lack of unified leadership. This focus on division within the Muslim world echoes the position of the global Ahmadiyya leadership, departing from mainstream clerics in places like Pakistan and the United States who frequently point to empire's excesses to explain contemporary crises. The German immigrants who initially settled Petrópolis recreated an alpine community in the subtropical Serra dos Órgãos mountains. Similarly, the Zafars and the community they have built have rooted themselves here, bringing with them perceptions, leanings, and desires from their homeland. Anila Zafar leads the women's wing, which was meeting the afternoon I was there. "Women can understand what other women say better," she said. She closed her words with a Portuguese-Urdu-Arabic mashup: "Vamos fazer dua.” Let’s make dua. It may not be surprising after all that there is an Ahmadi Muslim mosque in Petrópolis. The city, named after the Brazilian emperor Dom Pedro II, is associated with exiles. Probably the most famous is Stefan Zweig, the Austrian writer who overdosed on barbiturates along with his wife Elisabet, upon realizing that they could not leave behind the horrors of war in Europe, even when in the mountains of Brazil. Their house is now a memorial to exiles. Petrópolis is also synonymous with its many house museums. There is of course the Brazilian royal family's summer palace , comprising a dual escape: from Napoleon in Europe and from the heat in Rio. Then there is the Franco-Brazilian aviation pioneer Alberto Santos-Dumont's house without a kitchen. Finally, just down the road from the mosque where the Zafars live, there is the House of Seven Errors, whose right and left sides are purposely incongruous—not unlike the curious intersection of a community persecuted at home, while willingly serving as missionaries abroad. Among this list of house-museums and exiles, settlement and flight, lies the Ahmadi Association of Islam in Brazil. Courtesy of the author. 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Profile Petropolis Brazil Ahmadi Ahmadiyya Baitul Awal Mosque Persecution Religious Conflict religious divide Pakistan Lahore Punjab Ahmadi Association of Islam Brazil Ahmadi Association of Islam pacifist pacifism Jalsa sectarianism messianic faiths Islam extrajudicial violence Extrajudicial Killings syncretism religious syncretism Atlantic forest diaspora missionary missionary faith dawa market production of sectarianism Mirza Ghulam Ahmad Mirza Masroor Ahmad Ahmadiyya Jamaat Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

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VOL. 2 .333 Jaan-e-Haseena An essay about the varied temporalities and intensities of māṭam—a form of ritual mourning in Shia Islam—as a way to mark how grief, when dislocated from its centers, takes on different velocities and visual registers. Start Now Paul and Ondine What does it mean when a love letter becomes political graffiti? This essay traces the afterlife of queer activist Xulhaz Mannan’s words. Through the collapse of Hasina’s regime, the co-option of gender rights, and the silencing of queer life, it asks: can a new Bangladesh truly emerge if it continues to deny the existence of those it has consistently tried to erase? Start Now Efadul Haq In the Kashmir Valley, the spirit of Kashmiriyat remains resilient. Yet, the ongoing struggle for autonomy often overshadows the region’s many intersecting identities, both religious and sexual. When even the majority struggles to assert itself under New Delhi’s authority, what space remains for those at the margins to live and be who they are? Start Now Larayb Abrar and Anamitra Bora From Assam’s National Register of Citizens offices to Lahore’s streets, trans and queer communities confront policing, displacement, and erasure while continuing to build worlds of resistance, care, and possibility.
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This essay traces the afterlife of queer activist Xulhaz Mannan’s words: once hidden in a drawer, now scrawled on Dhaka’s walls amid mass uprising. Through the collapse of Hasina’s regime, the co-option of gender rights, and the violent silencing of queer life, it asks: can a new Bangladesh truly emerge if it continues to deny the existence of those it has consistently tried to erase? · THE VERTICAL Opinion · Dhaka This essay traces the afterlife of queer activist Xulhaz Mannan’s words: once hidden in a drawer, now scrawled on Dhaka’s walls amid mass uprising. Through the collapse of Hasina’s regime, the co-option of gender rights, and the violent silencing of queer life, it asks: can a new Bangladesh truly emerge if it continues to deny the existence of those it has consistently tried to erase? "Phobia Ends Here" (2023), acrylic in canvas, courtesy of Dipa Mahbuba Yasmin. A Grammar of Disappearance Authors' Note: We wrote this article in the hopeful aftermath of the July 2024 uprising last year. But since then, we have witnessed a troubling resurgence of attacks on the trans and queer community in Bangladesh, some even led by organizers in the uprising. "W hy would the ones—those I cannot stop thinking about—forget me? Why cannot I live out my love freely? This is so unfair." In 1994, gay rights activist Xulhaz Mannan wrote the above in a letter, possibly addressed to his lover. Twenty years later, Mannan was murdered for publishing Roopbaan , Bangladesh's first LGBT+ magazine. Since then, his letters remain stashed away in a closet of his residence. Last year, two queer archivists, including the authors of this op-ed, retrieved and digitized them. Excerpts from Mannan’s letters now appear on one of Dhaka’s freshly graffitied walls. On 28 July 2024, Bangladesh’s then Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina imposed a curfew , issued a shoot-on-sight order, and cut off telecommunications in an attempt to suppress a student uprising. In response, coordinators of the student movement turned to guerrilla art. Armed with spray cans, they scrawled messages like "Hasina is a killer" on walls, streets, and riot vehicles before disappearing. People across the country joined in. The Hasina regime fell on 5 August 2024. Street art now covers the city. But Mannan’s graffiti stands apart—it is not a demand, nor a slogan, nor a call for justice. What does it mean to find a love letter rendered as political graffiti? In a country where homosexuality remains criminalized and queer lives are violently erased, this graffiti blends love and mass uprising. It now sits beside an image of disappeared adibashi activist Kalpana Chakma . Together, they reveal the interwoven violences inflicted on queer people and dissenters under Hasina’s ultra-nationalist rule. "Phobia Ends Here" (2023), acrylic in canvas, courtesy of Dipa Mahbuba Yasmin. Mannan was murdered in 2016, during Hasina’s tenure. The Home Minister at the time condemned the victims: “Our society does not allow any movement that promotes unnatural sex.” Hasina herself repeatedly denied the existence of queer people in Bangladesh. In a 2023 interview, when asked about the criminalization of homosexuality in the country’s constitution, she responded , “That is not a problem in our country.” The Hasina regime also attempted to co-opt the gender rights movement. A 2013 government gazette recognized hijra as a gender category, allowing inclusion in official documents and transgender women to run for reserved parliamentary seats . But instead of expanding public understanding, the policy collapsed hijra, intersex, and trans identities into a single vague category that enabled abuse. In 2015, hijras applying for government jobs were forcibly subjected to medical examinations . This flattening of gender identity eroded organizing efforts. In the years that followed, state-aligned gender activists and NGOs gained prominence. They argued that Hasina’s authoritarianism was necessary to protect gender rights from Islamist groups. But their fear-mongering proved hollow. Violence against gender and sexual minorities only intensified under Hasina, whose politics local organizers now describe as “hijra-washed.” "Phobia Ends Here" (2023), acrylic in canvas, courtesy of Dipa Mahbuba Yasmin. One telling example came when progressive organisers included a subsection on trans rights in a school textbook. Islamist groups led by Asif Mahtab Utsho mobilised violently, forcing sexual and reproductive health NGOs to shut down. The Hasina regime offered no protection. The trans content was officially removed in June 2024. Queer people were targeted not only in public but also in digital spaces. The regime’s Cyber Security Act 2023 severely restricted internet freedom , forcing queer Bangladeshis into online silence. From dating to organizing, their digital presence was strangled. As the Hasina regime collapses and new proposals for justice emerge, we must remember that the freedom of queer Bangladeshis is linked with the liberation of all marginalized groups. Mannan’s murder, the co-optation of gender rights, and the crackdown on queer life were all part of a broader regime—one marked by extrajudicial killings , the repression of journalists , activists, artists, and human rights defenders under the guise of digital security, and the systematic violation of women and girls, particularly in indigenous areas , in the name of development. Hasina's ouster does not mark the end of authoritarianism. When the dust settles, we may once again see the rule of Bengali Muslim cis-men. In such a moment, Mannan’s graffiti offers a sharp reminder that Bangladesh is made up of many communities. If queerness continues to be criminalized, denied, and erased, the country will simply reproduce the same systems of violence. Queer people in Bangladesh have always fought for collective liberation—including in this very uprising. The question now is not whether they exist. It is whether the new Bangladesh is willing to coexist with them. ∎ "Phobia Ends Here" (2023), acrylic in canvas, courtesy of Dipa Mahbuba Yasmin. SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Opinion Dhaka Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. 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This essay examines the varied temporalities and intensities of māṭam—a form of ritual mourning in Shia Islam—to show how grief, when dislocated from its centres, takes on different velocities and visual registers. Jaan-e-Haseena offers the work of impassioned cultural organizing around the fabulation of Pakistani transness as a means of disrupting and reconstructing ontologies of indigeneity and survival. · THE VERTICAL Opinion · Lahore This essay examines the varied temporalities and intensities of māṭam—a form of ritual mourning in Shia Islam—to show how grief, when dislocated from its centres, takes on different velocities and visual registers. Jaan-e-Haseena offers the work of impassioned cultural organizing around the fabulation of Pakistani transness as a means of disrupting and reconstructing ontologies of indigeneity and survival. "Nomi G in schizophrenic time I" (2025), photograph, courtesy of the writer. mourning in schizophrenic time I. I n the margins of Shia geographies, ritual is often modulated by proximity to power, risk, and memory. Māṭam, rhythmic chest-beating performed during Muharram, tends to surge with speed, volume, and physical force in Shia-majority zones like Karbala, Qom, and areas of southern Lebanon. But in peripheral or diasporic communities, such as those in Pakistan’s Sunni-majority regions or in Indonesia, māṭam often becomes slower, shaped by local constraints and the need for cautious survival in hostile environments. The tempo of mourning is not just a cultural register, but a geographic one; rhythm marks distance from safety. Abbas Kiarostami's Taste of Cherry sees the protagonist’s quiet unraveling met with dismissal by an Afghan refugee who, invoking deeper trauma, repositions his own survival as the legitimate benchmark for suffering. This exchange does not directly map onto caste, but echoes what Akhil Kang calls upper-caste victimhood : the act of weaponizing one’s suffering to foreclose or delegitimize others’ expressions of pain. In both cases, grief is stratified: some forms are allowed to be loud, fast, and public (like māṭam in Karbala), while others are contained, policed, or rendered excessive. Caste, here, becomes less about origin and more about access to public mourning, about who is allowed to linger in loss and who is asked to move on. In the budding stages of my gender-mutation as a Syed-Shia Zaidi, I found myself drawn to the expanded aesthetic and temporal imaginaries offered by rave scholars like McKenzie Wark and Juliana Huxtable . The conceptual interplay between caste, time, tradition, and the body made intuitive sense. Māṭam for me is no longer just a religious rite but a temporal logic that mirrors how I live and move. In the context of my life, work, and history, it makes sense to cognize māṭam as a kind of sanctioned schizophrenia: a public display of grief for someone never met, a body long dead but made urgently present through sound and pain. It sutures past and present into a single rhythm, collapsing historical time into the immediate now. In this sense, it enacts what Deleuze and Guattari call “ schizo-temporality ”, the refusal of linear time, the refusal to let the past stay in the past. The mourned are always returning. The ritual is a wound that won’t close; a beat that insists and manifests into a cultural practice surviving generational accusations of heresy. The recursive temporality of māṭam, then, finds echoes in the sonic ruptures and visual residues of contemporary trans art in Pakistan. This essay, and the work it contains, are situated in that schizoid rhythm: where mourning is method, illegibility is survival, and art becomes afterlife. This schizophrenic temporality also aligns closely with Black paraontological thought : Frank Wilderson III writes about Blackness occupying a position not simply of exclusion from the category of the human, but of foundational antagonism to it. Blackness is not marginal to ontology, it is the rupture that reveals its limits. Similarly, Pakistani transness, especially as embodied by moorat performers and khwaja-sira rituals, inhabits a space of ontological impossibility. Paraontology, put simply, names the condition of being that which both exists within and disrupts dominant frameworks of existence. This is not about comparing Blackness and transness, nor collapsing them. Rather, Zenaan-Khana (a trans-led, multi-disciplinary art collective) and its work echoes paraontology in the way it renders Pakistani transness as a figure not of lack, but of structural impossibility. It is not a minoritized identity seeking inclusion, but a structural non-being indigenous to this land, struggling to remain. II. Zenaan-Khana’s visual and sonic practice inhabits this paraontological terrain. Our Boiler Room set in 2025 marked a shift, a curated refusal that belonged to a new generation. Rather than reproducing inherited forms of ritual, we set out to disrupt the dominant aesthetics of elite cultural production in Pakistan: event spaces owned by white-collar elites, anti-paindoo (a colloquial Punjabi and Urdu term, often used in urban Pakistan to describe someone from a rural or rustic background. Depending on context, it can carry a pejorative sense of “backward” or “unsophisticated.”). In their politics, ironically in charge of curating multiculturalisms. We channeled the dissonance of Gen-Z moorats: pulsing beats, industrial noise, synthetic rupture. It was less about recognizable grief and more about building a sonic texture of disidentification . Our set cracked open Lahore’s elite space-time by refusing smooth transitions or legible representation. We merged mujra rhythms with underground Black soundscapes, shifting BPMs to mimic breathlessness and collapse. At one moment, a Somali trans artist reinterpreted Islamic devotional terms over a distorted, syncopated beat; in another, I rapped my song Bakwas , a critique of the male gaze on trans bodies, layered over a chopped-and-flipped sample of Rihanna’s Rude Boy . These fragments weren’t meant to cohere. They glitched, tangled, and surged. What emerged was a sonic narrative unraveled by longing, surveillance, ecstasy, and rupture. What we performed was not representation; it was sanctioned schizophrenia staged at the edge of collapse. To truly understand this tactic, one must return to what scholars like Saidiya Hartman and Christina Sharpe describe as the afterlives of structural violence. Hartman’s “ afterlife of slavery ” is not just about historical trauma, it is about ongoing conditions that frame Black life as always already dead. Sharpe’s wake work names how Black existence navigates grief that never ends. Pakistani trans life is also wake work. We are asked to live without lineage, perform without legitimacy or care, and survive without history. Our practice extends beyond sound. The visual work showcased here, developed with Misha Japanwala as the project maidaan-e-jang mein murjha gulaab (wilted roses on a battlefield), is not supplementary to this essay: it is its embodied continuation. This piece emerges from the same conditions of sanctioned schizophrenia: scattered timelines, ontological foreclosure, ritual excess, and aesthetic refusal. But this was not an abstract exercise. A (name redacted), an iconic Lahori trans-femme and longtime collaborator, co-ideated the shoot with me, as well as other designers, friends, and a retired mujra artist deeply connected to many of the muses in our campaign. Together, we sat with the muses, listening to stories of exile, longing, and survival, and asked: what does a fugitive image look like? We staged shots that lingered in the affects of dislocation. This image is not a token of trans life; it is its fragment, its echo, its unfinished utterance. Saidiya Hartman’s idea of “the afterlife of slavery,” posits death not as an event but as a condition. Similarly Zenaan-Khana’s work asks: what does it mean to be a body whose ritualized mourning, whose māṭam, is itself a form of failed ontological recognition? What does it mean to grieve a self that was never legible? What kind of time is this? III. The moorat figure, an Urdu term reclaimed in recent years through movements like the Sindh Moorat March (SMM), carries with it a layered history of religious excess, colonial residue, and social abandonment. Once used ambiguously, even derogatorily, moorat is now being politicized as a counter to Western gender terminology, refusing the flattening translations of “transgender” or “nonbinary.” The moorat performs what might be called a schizophrenic temporality— not in the pathological sense, but in Deleuze and Guattari’s terms: a breaking down of dominant flows of time and coherence. But unlike D&G’s celebration of deterritorialization , here schizophrenia is not freedom. It is a way of enduring dislocation. It is survival in fragmentation. The images in maidaan-e-jang mein murjha gulaab do not seek to explain, they glitch. They fold history into flesh, grief into gesture, rupture into residue. The trans body here does not aim for legibility or inclusion; it mourns its own exclusion from the ontological field. Its visibility is always ephemeral/unstable. Its presence is always partially posthumous. Take, for instance, N (name redacted): a trans woman who runs a house for trans sex workers in Narowal. After surviving a brutal act of violence where her ex-boyfriend shot her leg for leaving him, N now moves through the world with a prosthetic. She is not a symbol of victimhood, but of refusal, of organizing beyond state visibility, of care that persists even when the body is denatured. How does one represent this? Not with clarity, but with tension. Our visual work strives to hold this contradiction: the simultaneous presence of mutilation and resilience. It asks how to archive fugitive ethics, how to remain faithful to their opacity without rendering them legible for the comfort of the viewer. Paraontological realities echo through our work, staging Pakistani transness not as a minoritized identity, but as a structure/fabulation/imagination of non-being, a body whose relation to the visual field is one of misrecognition. In that sense, the visual art accompanying this essay does not close an argument, it opens a wound. It performs what theory can only gesture toward: the feeling of life after the possibility of life. This is how we mark time: holding the ephemeral to extend its impact in this moment of subcontinental psychosis. This is how we remain. This is our proposition: not clarity, but sensation. Not theory for the page, but affect rendered legible through performance and image. Between misrecognition and survival, we find a form. Between ontology and paraontology, we mark presence, not as claim, but as trace. What remains is not always evidence. Sometimes, it’s a psychotic pulse that doesn’t stop. That is where we build a politics. maidaan-e-jang mein murjha gulaab also builds on the legacy of the Moorat March, one of the most disruptive and generative trans political formations in recent years. A movement that directly birthed the incentive that I needed to advocate for a space like Zenaan-Khana in Lahore. SMM is not just protest. It is legacy work. It continues a lineage of trans, queer, Shi’a-oriented and feminist organizing in Pakistan, grounded not in global human rights discourse but in indigenous ethics and moorat epistemologies. It marks a return to gender plurality as cultural inheritance, reviving cosmologies of embodiment that the colonial and postcolonial state sought to erase. Crucially, it is not just symbolic. It is materially disruptive. SMM builds grassroots power in Sindh, cultivates new kinships across class and caste, and challenges the state’s monopoly on gender recognition. It is precisely within this political genealogy that Zenaan-Khana’s current visual collaboration with Misha Japanwala emerges. The images (including the one offered here) do not illustrate the march; they carry its aftershocks. They hold the schizoid time of moorat rebellion: ishq-filled, subversive in their expression of trans-psychosis, glitching in fragmentation. They don’t document, but distort. And in doing so, they uphold a politics of wake, of misrecognition, of remaining. There is no pride in cultural organizing during genocide. But there is grief. There is glitch. There is residue. And sometimes, that’s enough to break something open. ∎ SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Opinion Lahore Pakistan Gender Violence Essay Ceremony Culture Culture work schizo-temporality Shia geographies Shia Matam Mourning performance performance art afterlife wilted roses Sindh Moorat March Zenaan-Khana Cultural organizing solidarities queer and shia beyond symbolism religious rite Karbala reclamation grief victimhood paraontology Pakistani transness Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. 27th Oct 2025 AUTHOR · AUTHOR Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. 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From Assam’s National Register of Citizens offices to Lahore’s streets, trans and queer communities confront policing, displacement, and erasure while continuing to build worlds of resistance, care, and possibility. · THE VERTICAL Essay · Assam From Assam’s National Register of Citizens offices to Lahore’s streets, trans and queer communities confront policing, displacement, and erasure while continuing to build worlds of resistance, care, and possibility. "A Coat of Our Arms" (2025), digital illustration, courtesy of Priyanka Kumar. Trans Counterpublics P ooja Rabha, a tribal transgender woman from the Charaideo District in Assam, trembled as she told SAAG about a haunting scene from her visit to the National Register of Citizens (NRC) office. The office was swarming with border police and old heaps of paper documents. When called to the service desk, Rabha was asked to provide all the details of her origins, including a birth certificate, land document, and bank records. She stood behind her mother, her heart racing with anxiety. “I knew they were looking at my body,” Rabha recalled. Within minutes of standing there, a border police officer approached her and mockingly asked, “Are you a boy or a girl?” She froze. The officer screamed, “Go stand in the boys’ line!” NRC inspection and verification is a lengthy process and typically incomplete without biodata, photographs, and documents proving lineage. For many transgender people in Assam, the process is especially resource-consuming due to the need for consistent documentation that reflects their current identity. Many find this difficult, particularly if estranged from their families or if their official documents still reflect their birth-assigned “dead” names. Critics also believe the NRC is effectively a xenophobic exercise to identify and deport undocumented immigrants from neighboring Bangladesh—many of whom arrived in Assam following the 1971 war of independence. In 2019, the process excluded approximately 2 million people from citizenship, creating severe consequences for Assam’s transgender population, who face disenfranchisement alongside others left off the list. In Rabha’s case, even the discrepancy between her gender presentation and the gender identity indicated on official documents is enough to arouse suspicion. Should people like Rabha fail to be verified under the NRC, they are essentially rendered stateless: at best, unable to vote in elections , and at worst, likely in danger of imprisonment at a detention center. Unfortunately, transgender marginalization for political gain is not new in modern day India and Pakistan, where many Hijra and Khwaja Sira communities —an umbrella term in Urdu for transgender, nonbinary, and gender nonconforming people—share a rich history in connection to the land. A Long-Held Colonial Legacy Pre-colonial India demonstrated openness to sexual fluidity. Themes exploring gender and sexuality can be seen in ancient texts such as the Vatsyayana Kamasutra, Jain religious writings from the 5th century, Sufi poetry from the 13th century , and erotic literature from the Mughal period in the 17th century. In fact, many researchers and historians of South Asian studies have also highlighted links between queer desire and the sacred. Shayan Rajani, for instance, delves into the documented homoerotic relationship between Madho Lal Hussain, a 16th century Sufi mystic from Lahore, and a married Brahmin man. Rajani explains that while the relationship was considered unconventional, even transgressive, it finds a home within the religious canon when seen through the lens of Sufi thinkers and practitioners. Across various written accounts, and in Persian verse, this queer relationship was understood through “Metaphorical Love”—a Sufi literary tradition in which the imagery of human love is used as a metaphor to describe love for the divine. This same elevation of queerness is seen in Vinay Lal’s explication of the ancient Indian epic the Ramayana , particularly how many hijras connect to the epic through their resistance to categorization. In the story, as Rama prepares to go into exile with Sita and Lakshmana, he instructs his subjects, “Men and women, please go back and perform your duties.” Per Lal’s interpretation, hijras, identifying as neither men nor women, would have remained at the same spot of his departure, where they would greet Rama upon his return fourteen years later. For their devotion, they would be blessed by Rama. In both Rajani and Lal’s analysis, queerness is deeply woven into the fabric of the region, through spiritual, literary and cultural traditions. Their work demonstrates the relatively expansive ideas of queerness in the erstwhile Subcontinent. However, the colonization of the Indian subcontinent by the British East India Company, brought with it a steep decline of the Khwaja Siras’ cultural significance alongside a wave of discrimination through the Criminal Tribes Act (CTC). Under the Act,. Khwaja Sira were criminalized based on a strict, orthodox understanding of gender roles. Men wearing female attire and homosexuality were deemed punishable offenses. This legislation effectively enforced gender norms, while picking away at artistic traditions that embedded queerness within them. “They [the British] criminalized our bodies back in the 18th century,” Pakistani trans activist Hina Baloch explained to SAAG. “So branding us as foreign agents or ‘others’ has a very colonial politics attached to it.” Although the CTC is no longer in effect in present-day Pakistan and India following their independence, its influence persists as a key colonial legacy, shaping societal attitudes and laws. Queer Rights Amid Religious Conservatism In Pakistan On May 19, 2023, the Federal Shariat Court of Pakistan rendered the Transgender Persons Act of 2018 incompatible with Islamic principles. This law had allowed people to choose their gender and to have that identity recognized on official documents, including national IDs, passports, and driver’s licenses. The recognition meant that transgender people could press charges for cases of discrimination and exercise their political right to vote while showing up as their authentic selves. While activists like Baloch are currently in the process of appealing the court’s decision, the reality is that the Khwaja Sira community remained the victim of violence and dehumanization even while the bill was in effect, she said. “We never had faith in our judicial system, and to a large extent, we saw this coming.” In recent years, the Pakistani government, fueled by netizens’ religious uproar, has curtailed many forms of queer and trans expression in the country, creating a firm bedrock of support for the overturning of the Transgender Persons Act. As Hussain “Jaan-e–Haseena” Zaidi, a trans-feminine artist based in Lahore, told SAAG , “By being very public about your queer identity, you’re inviting other people to criticize and try to discipline you back into their framework of being a Pakistani.” This sentiment is echoed in the backlash against the film Joyland , which depicted a love affair between a man and a transgender woman, in November 2022. Spearheaded by prominent figures from Pakistan’s religious right, including fashion designer Maria B and religious evangelist Raja Zia Ul Haq, the mudslinging evolved into what seemed to be a broader campaign about the religious and cultural identity of Pakistan as a nation. Hashtags like #JoylandvsIslam gained traction, with critics denouncing the film as part of a foreign-funded agenda to destroy Islam. The discourse included other extreme reactions as well, such as equating transgender identity with pedophilia . [Embedded] “The filthy venture named ‘Joyland’ is in fact promoting a one-way ticket to hell. The West has shortlisted this LGBTQ+ film for the Oscars as it openly mocks the teachings of Islam. We must reverse all decisions and actions based on the Transgender Act 2018.” ( Tanzeem-e-Islami ) While Joyland was ultimately allowed limited release following significant cuts of ostensibly vulgar material, it remained banned in Punjab , Pakistan’s most populous province . In a country where any violation of the harsh blasphemy law can result in punishment by death, accusations of being “un-Islamic” or “mocking the teachings of Islam” can have dire consequences. Moreover, vigilante justice is common in blasphemy cases, which are increasingly settled with violence outside the courtroom, with mob and targeted attacks against those accused. On March 17, 2024, a violent mob of over 100 men attacked and severely wounded transgender women in Gulistan-e-Johar, Karachi. According to Shahzadi Rai , a transgender woman present at the scene who is also an elected official of the Karachi Municipal Council, the incident originated at a local marketplace. A member of the Khwaja Sira community had politely requested a shopkeeper to exchange a torn banknote. However, a nearby man responded with sexually suggestive comments, implying she engaged in sex work. “Mind your own business,” the woman retorted. The situation escalated as the man proceeded to verbally abuse and physically assault her. Within moments, said Rai, the commotion attracted a mob hurling transphobic slurs, inappropriately touching the women, attempting to tear their clothes off, and threatening them with death. The mob accused them of “ruining society, “dirtying our neighborhood” and threatened to burn them all. As of 2021, at least 89 people have been extrajudicially killed due to blasphemy accusations over Pakistan’s seven-decade history, and the numbers have further risen since. At this point, policing blasphemy is woven into the social fabric of the nation. In Haseena’s words, “There’s this normalized [policing] which can range anywhere from verbal to violent harassment. And this can be from family, people you know, or random strangers.” This normalization of vigilante-style policing coupled with dehumanizing smear campaigns on social media has resulted in what Baloch calls “a very systemic and organized transphobia.” Ultimately, trans erasure and persecution is equated with strengthening the religious morals of the nation. “The Pakistani state has failed the Khwaja Sira community on violence,” Baloch added. “There is domestic violence like honor killing and homelessness [that] we face from our birth parents. Then, there’s intimate partner violence at the hands of our boyfriends and partners. And then there’s casual everyday violence.” In India, The Trans Body in Conflict With Hindutva Logic On the other side of the border, Dominic Amonge, a 34-year-old trans woman recounted an incident during her university days when, prior to her physical transition, she was raped during her stay at a men's paying guest (PG) house in Guwahati, India. Seeking justice, she approached the Station House Officer, but according to Amonge, the officer dismissively stated, "That's because it's your fault; you are queer." "I dealt with it," she said. "I lived with the abuse." Dominic Amonge is not alone. Sumitra Ghosh, a 22 year-old non-cis passing trans woman, faced similar challenges in Guwahati. Her landlord evicted her after discovering she was undergoing hormone therapy, assuming she would engage in sex work. In reality, she was on the verge of completing her BA 3rd Semester. With few housing options, as many metro states of India still demand cisgender married couples or bachelor men, Sumitra reluctantly moved into a boys’ PG in August, 2024. Within days, however, her male roommate sexually assaulted her. Aniruddha Dutta explores the construction of an “elsewhere” within Hindutva rhetoric, highlighting how marginalized communities are framed as “foreign threats” to the dominant sociopolitical order. Dutta defines “elsewhere” as any group or identity that does not conform to the rigid boundaries of Hindu nationalism—this includes Bangladeshi immigrants, Muslims, Dalits, Adivasis, and certain queer and trans people who do not fit within the upper-caste Hindu framework. Specifically, Dutta examines an incident from July 2021 where a brutal video of a trans woman named Ratna Chowdhury torturing a younger hijra circulated on WhatsApp. Without excusing the violence of the incident, Dutta traces how the event became a Hindutva talking point. As the case progressed, Dutta noticed that “Chowdhury was repeatedly singled out to direct blame towards Bangladeshis and Muslims and otherize them within hijra communities”—all while packaging it under the guise of safety concerns for trans individuals. Dutta notes that Hindutva may, at times, co-opt queer politics to project Hinduism as uniquely tolerant and inclusive. However, this assimilation can be slippery and rests on exclusionary and binary thinking—logic that would otherwise flatten Dominic Amonge and Sumitra Ghosh’s experiences into mere outliers or stereotypes. Trans women from Bengali or Muslim immigrant communities in Assam, for example, face compounded challenges under the current political climate. The Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) government perpetuates ideas of a “foreigner-free” homeland for Assamese people, banking on middle-class Assamese anxiety to push the envelope for an updated NRC. While the 2019 Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act , promised legal protections such as the ability to modify names on birth certificates, bureaucratic hurdles and the preoccupation with accurate citizenship continue to block progress in Assam. Trans women must provide proof of gender affirming surgery to update their legal identity, while those identifying as "transgender" must receive approval from the District Level Screening Committee. “Government offices demand an extra level of patience to deal with,” said Sumitra Ghosh, who struggled for months to receive her TG card (identity card for trans people) in Tezpur, Assam. “These offices are overburdened with work, and the employees either work slowly or continue to postpone their tasks until they become urgent. They rejected my certificates so many times in Tezpur,” she said. Often, due to additional document requests, “pictures, biodata proofs, and affidavits.” The stories of trans women like Dominic Amonge and Sumitra Ghosh illustrate that despite legal protections and selectively inclusive talking points, these women remain vulnerable to sexual violence, eviction, and systemic neglect by government officials. Their experiences also point to how queer people can easily slip between “legitimate” and “illegitimate” depending on the interests of the state. On September 11, 2023, Assam Railway Police arrested three Muslim trans women—Kusum, Durga, and Puja—for begging for change on the Bangalore Express train. The women were subjected to degrading and illegal bodily inspections . Despite trans people’s right to self-identify per the Supreme Court of India, the police falsely declared their trans identity as “fake” due to the absence of gender-affirming surgery. The media’s portrayal of the incident exacerbated the women’s plight. They were not only deadnamed and misgendered but also labeled as “impostors,” vilifying them in the public eye. The narrative largely appealed to the importance of pure, sanitized spaces—another prominent Hindutva talking point—and framed them as deceitful individuals, who were harassing passengers and collecting money under false pretenses. “With my queerness and gender, nobody needs to worry about my body,” asserted Durga in contrast to the circulated story. “Police are always worried about what’s between my legs more than myself.” Resistance Efforts On Both Sides Of The Border Faced with national erasure, queer communities in Pakistan and Assam have created grassroots initiatives that prioritize solidarity, joy, and community-care. In Assam, prominent trans activist Rituparna Neog leads the Akam Foundation , an organization dedicated to nurturing feminist education through community-building projects. Growing up witnessing the oppression of Adivasi children in Jorhat, Neog’s activism is informed by a commitment to radical compassion. Her organization’s initiatives include establishing free libraries in remote Assamese villages to break down barriers and educate communities on gender and sexuality. The foundation’s first library project, Kitape Kotha Koi launched in August 2021 and offers a safe and accessible space for learning. The focus is on library education and ensuring reading materials are free for those who need them most. Similarly, Palash Borah, a gay activist from Assam started Snehbandhan (Bond of Love) in 2015. Originally a support-based WhatsApp group of trans and queer people in Guwahati, the group has evolved into an officially registered organization. Major initiatives include activities like meet-ups and donation drives with Kinnar Trust and Donatekart . Currently, Snehbandhan is running a project with Azim Premji Foundation called Sahas to provide necessities like hormones, laser treatments, and registration certificates to the transgender community in Assam. "At first, I was nervous about all the activist talk and labels,” shared Dominic Amonge, who works for Snehbandhan. “I'm not a so-called activist. However, how else would I learn where to get a safe doctor or a good job?" Likewise in Lahore, Haseena founded Zenaan Khana in March 2023 following a slew of anti-trans attacks and rhetoric since the heated discourse on Joyland . Drawing on the region’s deep historical ties between art and queerness, Zenaan Khana positions itself as part of a broader artistic resistance. “Art is crucial in resistance movements because art has the power of providing a visual, auditory and literary toolkit,” said Haseena. One of Zenaan Khana’s goals is to create media that depicts queer and transness specific to the context of Pakistan, exemplified in one of its first projects: a series of photoshoots highlighting trans beauty, prominently featured on the group’s Instagram page. In one striking image, a trans woman is adorned in traditional jewelry, rings and henna, paying homage to the region’s aesthetics while questioning what types of bodies get to participate in this specific visual culture. “Our idea was to get photographers, stylists, and visual artists together to showcase queerness that is specific to the Pakistani context, and even pushing back against Western notions of LGBTQ+ identity,” Haseena noted. In many ways, “Ishq,” one of Zenaan Khana’s central ethos, captures the community-care politics at the heart of queer resistance. Ishq can be translated to mean an unending love filled with infinite possibilities. By anchoring itself in Ishq , the collective not only imagines a possibility for queer liberation in the Urdu language, but also expands the definition of the word itself to encapsulate the chosen families in queer circles, community building, and love beyond the binary—an ethos applicable on either side of the border. Whether through education, art, or funding, queer activists from Karachi to Assam demonstrate a shared commitment to queer liberation in the face of state-sanctioned erasure. Haseena neatly captures this pillar of resistance: “expanding people’s imaginations of queer and trans possibilities.” ∎ SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Essay Assam Kashmir Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. 24th Oct 2025 AUTHOR · AUTHOR Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. 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Zara’s poem moves through the swagger, danger, and bruised glamour of urban Pakistan to show that being both woman and legend can make you a spectacle, a liability, and a survivor all at once. · BOOKS & ARTS Poetry · Lahore Zara’s poem moves through the swagger, danger, and bruised glamour of urban Pakistan to show that being both woman and legend can make you a spectacle, a liability, and a survivor all at once. Untitled (2025), digital illustration, courtesy of Mahnoor Azeem. To be Woman and Hip in Dunya I learned how to be hip from girls who sat at dhabas – It was 2018; I was nothing and no one, And shudh desi leftism was still a dream the kids had. I waded through the decay of urban Pakistan - The waterless boat basin - In my white platform boots. I was not the only girl who figured out life so. This is the manifesto of hip woman Who ate the apple, and risked jihad Baadalon se giri, bijli ki tarhan Bazaar-e-aam main — afwah uthi Ye kesi mystical saazish hai! Issey dewaar main chunwa diya jaye Jahanpana! Shehenshah: My only weapon is my poetry. When your soldiers visit the marketplace Encroachment notice and batons in hand I see them at the gate, While in the midst of my dance — I am not a dancer so I entertain children. Meanwhile, jesters, poets, and ustads Grace the King’s colony! For my own safety, I am not invited. Hip woman is: She’s got the law cowered Her gait relaxed, magnificent night suit chic Fists up, she raises a new independence slogan: Yeh jo dehshatgardi hai, Isske peeche wardi hai. How everything is metaphor! Last Friday, when I dressed up as girl I bruised myself to win a race Now, it hurts to be teased and caressed Waisay masoom banti hun magar pata hai mujhey — Hot boys are dangerous to me This is not the first time I have hurt myself so. To be woman and hip: Is to be okay not being woman at all, To be unafraid of androgyny Allow yourself all the ugly of humanity I am maila like my city. Meri shalwar key paainchon per Meri mitti ka daagh hai: The beggar’s pleading, My daddy’s corruption Let the truth slap the princess out of me For to not be woman and hip Is to be dream deferred, girl interrupted. Aik naya pollution metric propose karti hun: Khwabon ki kirchian kitnay gigaton carbon emit karti hain? When they make a liar out of a girl, I want you to kill me as tribute. SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Poetry Lahore Karachi Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. 24th Oct 2025 AUTHOR · AUTHOR Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

In the Kashmir Valley, the spirit of "Kashmiriyat"—a philosophy of inclusion and coexistence—remains strong. However, the struggle for the region's autonomy, known as Tehreek-e-Azadi, can sometimes overshadow the diverse identities that coexist there, whether religious or sexual. In this complex context, how can one live and assert their identities in a place where even the majority identity struggles to thrive under New Delhi’s control? The Vertical collected stories of everyday resilience, offering a glimpse into the lives of those who continue to navigate existence in a region where the broader independence movement can sometimes obscure the more intimate and plural realities of its minorities. · FEATURES Photo Essay · Kashmir In the Kashmir Valley, the spirit of "Kashmiriyat"—a philosophy of inclusion and coexistence—remains strong. However, the struggle for the region's autonomy, known as Tehreek-e-Azadi, can sometimes overshadow the diverse identities that coexist there, whether religious or sexual. In this complex context, how can one live and assert their identities in a place where even the majority identity struggles to thrive under New Delhi’s control? The Vertical collected stories of everyday resilience, offering a glimpse into the lives of those who continue to navigate existence in a region where the broader independence movement can sometimes obscure the more intimate and plural realities of its minorities. "The Long Bloom (the figure in white)" (2020), graphite on watercolour paper, courtesy of Moses Tan. Existing in Kashmir T he sun has disappeared behind the Pir Panjal range of the Himalayas, which encircles the Kashmir Valley. Administered under the Indian union territory of Jammu and Kashmir, the Valley is a Muslim-majority region, situated on the border with Pakistan. It has remained at the heart of a territorial conflict since 1947. At night, Suthsoo—a rural village near Srinagar, the summer state capital—is alive with men advancing along the main street, chanting slogans and religious hymns while rhythmically beating their chests. It is Eid al-Ghadir, a Shia festival commemorating Prophet Muhammad’s appointment of his son-in-law Ali as his successor in 632 AD, a moment that began the ongoing split between Sunni and Shia Muslims. The men gather in front of the mosque, raising their voices before entering; the women take a staircase to observe the celebrations from the first floor, which is reserved for them. Songs and speeches follow one another under a portrait of Ayatollah Khomeini, the founder of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Rohan, a young queer influencer, is one of the performers that evening, singing under the eyes of his family who have come to listen to him. The 29-year-old TikToker regularly visits a "cruising park" in central Srinagar to meet his partners. With its 1.7 million inhabitants, Srinagar is often seen as a more liberal space compared to the rest of the valley, offering sexual minorities a partial escape from cultural and religious pressures. "My village is very conservative," Rohan laments. "That's why I prefer the city centre." In Srinagar, Rohan enjoys the relative anonymity of urban areas. Members of the LGBTQ community interviewed by The Vertical regularly visit mosques and the sacred sites of Kashmir, such as the Hazratbal Shrine, which houses a relic of the Prophet Muhammad. "At the mosque, you pray for yourself," explains Zia*, a bisexual son of a police officer, "no one pays attention to us or judges us." Mahnoor*, 21, who identifies as a transgender woman and works part-time at a beauty salon in Srinagar, adds: "Allah gave me a body that I respect. I won't undergo gender reassignment surgery." Like her, many transgender women in Kashmir choose not to undergo surgery, partly to ensure they can have Muslim funeral rites. "Living in a region under Indian military occupation—where Kashmiri identity is constantly challenged—triggers a defensive reaction that leads sexual minorities to prioritise their Kashmiri and Muslim identities," explains Batul, a queer activist from New Delhi and a transgender woman. "Similarly, local politicians often subordinate all other demands to the cause of Azadi , seen as the absolute priority over social and individual issues." In this region, one of the most militarised in the world with nearly half a million Indian soldiers stationed, minority identities can sometimes be overshadowed by the independence movement, often viewed as the primary collective cause. Furthermore, Kashmiri society places great value on marriage and family formation, making the acceptance of relationships outside of marriage, whether heterosexual or homosexual, difficult. Under a chinar tree, a symbol of the region, Rohan shares: "My family is putting a lot of pressure on me to marry soon." Although the colonial-era law criminalising homosexuality was repealed in 2018, the subject remains taboo in the valley, as does transgender identity, despite the Indian Supreme Court’s official recognition of a third gender in 2014. Queer and transgender individuals are often forced to hide their sexual and gender identities from their families to protect their reputations. "In New Delhi, I wear crop tops and get compliments every day. In Srinagar, I don't dare dress as a woman or shave my beard," reveals Mahnoor*. Discrimination against sexual minorities sometimes takes tragic turns. Batul explains: “Sexual minorities live in constant fear in the Kashmir Valley. Some parents do not hesitate to resort to violence, even murder, when they discover that their child is queer. For lesbian women, the situation is even more distressing, as they face both homophobia and misogyny.” Faisal*, a 17-year-old gay man, was raped by two police officers in a police station in Srinagar. "Making a complaint would be pointless," he confides. Zia* speaks of the pervasive denial that exists within families: "My family does not want to acknowledge my sexuality. We never talk about it." In 2015, he received threats from masked and armed men who burst into his home. Following this incident, he decided to give up dancing, which he had pursued at a professional level. He now resides in New Delhi, where it is easier to perform his sexuality and find job opportunities, which have become even scarcer since the abrogation of the state's autonomy in 2019. Batul, who dreams of one day opening a queer artist residency in Srinagar, laments: "There is still much to be done regarding the rights of sexual minorities in Kashmir, where the queer community is poorly structured. Those who can leave the valley, where they suffocate." Furthermore, the revocation of Article 370 of the Indian Constitution, combined with the internet shutdowns and mobility restrictions that followed, has further intensified the isolation of sexual minority members, depriving them of essential means of communication and support networks. Additionally, some local activists denounce the Indian state’s "pinkwashing," accusing New Delhi of instrumentalising the rights of sexual minorities to position itself as a defender against a Muslim population perceived as homophobic. The discourse from New Delhi, highlighting the defence of LGBTQ rights in Kashmir to justify the abrogation of Article 370, has generated increasing distrust towards local LGBTQ activists, who are sometimes seen as colluding with the central government. Similarly, New Delhi seeks to exploit religious divides. LIVING AS A SHIITE IN KASHMIR At the Zadibaal Imambara, preparations for the evening majlis are in full swing. In front of the building, shop stalls overflow with various items related to Shia rituals, alongside flags bearing the image of Ibrahim Raisi, the former Iranian president who tragically died in a helicopter crash last May. Inside the Imambara, workers hang red and black banners. Women come to pray. On a patchwork of multicoloured carpets, idle workers sip their noon chai , the traditional Kashmiri tea, which is pink and salty. The papier-mâché ceiling fans, a source of pride for the faithful, help to dispel the heat. Daylight filters through the stained-glass windows made of wood. A devotee tests the microphone: "Ya Ali, ya Hussain." The Zadibal Imambara houses a relic: a hair of the third Imam, Hussain. According to legend, this hair turns red during Ashura, the day of commemoration of Imam Hussain’s martyrdom at the Battle of Karbala in 680. Located in a predominantly Shia neighbourhood of Srinagar, it has suffered no fewer than twelve arson attacks since its construction in the 16th century, reflecting the recurring outbreaks of intercommunal violence. Nevertheless, the imambara has not been set on fire since 1872 and intercommunal relations have improved. Author and art historian Hakim Sameer Hamdani attributes the easing of intercommunal tensions to two events. Firstly, a 1907 memorandum addressed to the Viceroy of India, Lord Minto, signed by leaders of both sects, presenting their traditions as part of a single integrated Muslim community. Secondly, the Ashura processions of 1923, which took place for the first time during the day, defying established routines. The Twelver Shiite minority constitutes about 10% of the population of Kashmir, which has been predominantly Sunni since its Islamisation in the 14th century. They are spread throughout the region, primarily in Srinagar, as well as in the districts of Baramulla and Budgam. This community has long remained marginalised from local political life. Kashmiri academic Dr. Siddiq Wahid, an expert in international relations and governance issues, explains that the limited involvement of Shiites in the armed movement of the 1990s, which was largely dominated by Sunni Islam, may have led to a certain mistrust towards them. Sameera, a seventy-year-old resident of the affluent Rajbagh neighbourhood, offers a nuanced perspective, recalling that many Shiites supported the independence cause by hiding militants and taking up arms. “In the valley, identities intertwine and overlap like Russian dolls,” explains Dr. Siddiq Wahid, highlighting a complexity that goes beyond apparent divides. During the recent Indian general elections, the first since the revocation of Kashmir's autonomy in 2019, one of the strategies employed by the Indian central government was to exploit divisions between Sunnis and Shiites. However, this strategy did not succeed in Kashmir, where the population remains united against New Delhi: the residents of the valley came together against the local parties allied with the BJP. Cleric Agha Rahullah, from the influential Shiite Agha clan of Budgam, even won one of the seats in Srinagar on the National Conference ticket, a historic local party that secured two of the three seats in the Kashmir district. This victory has instilled pride within the Shiite community. Enayat, a Shiite resident of Srinagar, expressed his "great pride in seeing a member of his community represent Kashmir as a whole," noting that his election would not have been possible without the support of Sunni voters. CONNECTING MINORITIES BEYOND ETHNIC OR RELIGIOUS BOUNDARIES Despite the challenges of breaking the taboo around sexual minorities and advancing their rights — issues often overshadowed by the region’s political uncertainty — some NGOs are engaging in grassroots efforts. The People's Social and Cultural Society (PSCS), active since 2008, is dedicated to the sexual health of transgender individuals and men who have sex with men (MSM). It provides HIV testing, distributes condoms, lubricants, and antibiotics free of charge. A true "safe place" in the heart of Srinagar, the PSCS premises offer a refuge where everyone is welcome. "The people who come here feel supported and find a haven here. Many things have changed in the valley. Ignorance about HIV was once widespread, but thanks to nurse training nurses and prevention campaigns, attitudes have evolved," explains Dr. Rafi Razaqi, the director of PSCS. In this building, tucked away at the end of a quiet courtyard, bonds of solidarity transcend divisions, and struggles intersect. A visibly religious man jokes with visitors and social workers at the centre. This is Mustafa*, who works in the NGO’s branch that provides support for drug users. Batul, who also works as a tour guide, is organising an upcoming five-day inclusive trip to Srinagar for members of the LGBTQ community from New Delhi. She intends to take the group to PSCS to help them build networks with the local LGBTQ community and to meet a Kashmiri Hijra guru, who will share personal experience from the 1990s insurgency. “This programme aims to raise awareness about the realities faced by sexual minorities in Kashmir while showcasing the rich Islamic heritage of Srinagar, including its Shiite legacy, and fostering connections across ethnic and religious boundaries,” she explains. “The goal is to challenge the Kashmiriphobia and Islamophobia that persist among some queer activists in India,” she adds, referring to the controversy during Mumbai Pride 2020, where certain members of the organising committee distanced themselves from slogans supporting Kashmiri independence. She concludes: “this trip offers a unique opportunity to engage directly with Kashmiris. After all, isn’t it the essence of humanity to seek understanding of what is unfamiliar?”∎ SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Photo Essay Kashmir Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. 24th Oct 2025 AUTHOR · AUTHOR Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

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