Commentary: God in Pink by Hasan Namir

For the Decolonize This Book Club’s June discussion, we read Hasan Namir's God in Pink-- a brutal yet profound page-turner capturing the Queer experience in Iraq in 2003. I shouldn't say "the queer experience" since there is never just one defining experience for a large, diverse group of people. I should say, "Ramy's queer experience", as our protagonist navigates existing as a Gay man in a dangerous, anti-gay environment.

Namir weaves together two very different yet linked experiences by two very different yet linked men in Bagdhad. There's Ramy's story as a young student, living with his older brother and sister-in-law; he falls in love only to be grotesquely confronted by the impossibility of establishing a life with any of the men he loves. Then there's Ammar's story-- an older, devout Sheikh who lives with his wife and son. Their paths cross when Ramy sends a desperate letter to the Sheikh, pleading for help after his lover dies by suicide. Ammar does not know Ramy's name-- all he knows is that he must speak at the Mosque about homosexuality and if he uses the code word "pink" in his commentary, then Ramy will know that Ammar is willing to help him. While Ammar grapples with the religious denouncement of homosexuality, he meets the angel Gabriel and his opposite counter-part, Abaddon, who advocates for the strictest adherence to the Quranic laws. All the while, Ramy negotiates as to whether or not to tell his older brother the truth. Mohammed pushes Ramy to marry-- a woman, to Ramy's dismay. Not only does Ramy wonder if he can tell his brother the truth; he wonders if anyone can know the truth. With Ramy’s secret, Ammar is also burdened— is there anyone a Sheikh can turn to?

While Ramy and Ammar's stories inch closer and closer together, they seem to blend, picking up from one another through the thread of queerness. I won't share more, to avoid spoilers. Ultimately, the story takes us to some gruesome depths of violence against queer people, yet there are also brilliant moments of queer love, of queer expression, and of spiritual connection with the queerness of the Divine. 

I wrestled with my commentary for this book. Not for any lack of love-- I gobbled this book up in one sitting on a Saturday morning. I struggle to know what to say other than, "Being gay is fucking hard, but it's also fucking beautiful." There is nothing new in these words. There is nothing new to me in reading about the struggles of being queer, especially in religiously devout spaces, where being gay is either a flat-out sin or at the bare minimum a thing to be ignored and brushed under the rug. As a queer Jew, I struggle with this myself. I especially struggle with the concept-- central to this book and to many gay people's lived experiences around the world-- of conformity; gay people are expected to conform to the heteronormative way of life. In God in Pink this demand of conformity reaches an extreme, as several of our gay characters are murdered for their queerness. It's difficult to read stories about queer folks being forced to marry someone they don't want to, or being forced into silence, or being so terrified of being found out that they can't trust even themselves. But no matter how difficult such stories are to read, they are still true for many, and so they are important to read, to listen to, and to honor. 

One thing unique to God in Pink, particularly with respect to being gay in Baghdad, is just how intrusive anti-gayness is in every single moment of every single day. If you're gay, your life is in constant jeopardy. If you know someone who is gay, your life is in jeopardy. If you imply any level of queerness, especially in physical appearance (shaving your beard, having long hair, or even moving in a 'feminine' way) then your life and well-being are at risk. Captured on paper, this translates into a hyper-aware experience, where every movement is questioned and carries risk. There is a sense of being watched while reading God in Pink-- not just your neighbors watching, not just your family and friends, but the Divine as well. The privilege of privacy feels less like a right and more like a battle against the inner and the outer. Contradictions between the two blur. This blurring effect can push people into lives they don't want. But it can also push people into lives they do want-- beginning with feverish terror and culminating into an eerily calm sense of self, at any cost. 

We put on lipstick with the bedroom door locked, yet we forget to care whether or not we wipe if all of before heading back out into the world.