As I sit on the terrace of a bar in Munich sipping on a beer, a WhatsApp notification appears on my phone screen. Papa. I hesitate before opening the message that says, “Girls, it’s confirmed, Ramadan officially starts tomorrow, inch’allah!” The beer goes down my windpipe; it completely slipped my mind. Perhaps my father is aware of this, which is why he gives the annual reminders—yet another false pretense. I’m on vacation in Germany at the moment. I’m sure to check the sunset hours and am careful about the photos I post and stories I tell, because for the next month I’ll be pretending—for my father’s sake—to be a practicing Muslim. The truth is, I don’t really believe in God anymore, or at least not as avidly as I used to. It was the Haram police that drove me away. Haram to drink, to smoke, to shave, to have sex, to love, to doubt, to get a tattoo, or even to scream too loud. I spent my twenties zigzagging between what was forbidden and allowed until deciding to cut myself off, to stop everything, to no longer play by the rulebook so my mind and body as a woman could finally have some peace and quiet. This decision is impossible for my father to understand, he who was born into a rural, devout Algeria. Being Muslim permeates his entire being, embedded in his genes, a way of life handed down from generation to generation. From the time I was a child, my father strove to test my faith. From the ages of 8 to 13, I spent every weekend at the Mosque sitting on dusty rugs and learning to read the quran and recite the surahs by heart beneath the shadow of a strict teacher wielding a wooden baton. Telling my father that I’ve lost my faith would be a blow that would force him to confront his own failure. For him, it could mean having a small taste of what hell is like, and would condemn him to distancing himself from me. It’s better if I play along rather than risk hurting him by asserting myself. He would see me as a transgressor, a kouffara, a gawria.
My colleagues, family, friends and partner all have a certain image of me, but not one, not even me, is able to put the full puzzle together.
In an Arab culture where the family and the place of the women are put on a pedestal, I was taught to succeed at everything I did while bending to the expectations of others. I had to be a model daughter that was both independent and career-oriented while also able to uphold cultural and religious heritage. Growing up with an absentee mother due to illness, my father was my only true parent. From an early age I took on a maternal role with my younger sister and was my father’s helper. At the age of 12, I was already an adult. I’d wake up early to take care of the housework, pack my sister’s school bag and handle administrative documents that I’d translate from French to Arabic for my father. The sword of Damocles was hanging over my head, whispering, “Don’t disappoint your father” in my ears. Even in this balancing act, my transgressions have been perfectly calculated. Residing 700 kilometers away from my parents, I secretly live with a non-Muslim boyfriend, taking care not to cross too many moral boundaries while still maintaining the idealized image my parents have of me. Stuck within a narrow conflict of loyalties, I find myself torn between my duties as a daughter and my own desires. In this confined space, it’s impossible not to suffocate at some point. I find myself drowning in the various representations of myself until I know longer know who I really am. My colleagues, family, friends and partner all have a certain image of me, but not one, not even me, is able to put the full puzzle together. In this identity crisis, a feeling of guilt invades my consciousness and remains there for years. I spend my time lying, and I continue to lie in order to interlace all my lives, the fear of being a bad person, an ingrate, an outcast to be disowned following me everywhere, because I understood early on that women are never forgiven for anything.
How can I possibly fight sexism in my family and advocate for individual freedom without serving up the colonial soup?
Moving away from my family is the only escape route. Just before turning 20, in a prolonged period of feeling stifled, I decided to reject my social standing, my religion and my origins. All that I have inherited hinders me, in spite of myself, from becoming the person I want to be. Honestly, I don’t know what exactly I want to become, but I’m blazing my own trail, driven by an instinctive thirst for freedom that drives me to tear off these internal chains. I was born in the 90s in a poor northern town of Algeria and had very few female role models to look up to. In my family as in society, women who look like me are divided into two sexist, racialized categories: traditional women and integrated women. The latter group would renounce their origins and religion to assimilate into mainstream society, embodying the republican ideal of the integrated Maghrebi woman. They are seen as “traitors” by their community for embracing their sexual and economic freedom without reservations. In contrast, the others are perceived as submissive, traditional, and closed-minded. In this narrow framework, I have long leaned towards the first category, believing it would lead to greater social and financial success. However, this republican ideal has offered new perspectives for charting my path, yet it has proven to be an illusion, disconnecting me from a crucial part of myself, my family, and my culture.
I am surrounded by white friends, none of whom understand my struggles. “You’re over 18 and independent, you don’t owe your parents anything, you’re doing nothing wrong!” my friends say naively. None of these words help ease my pain. A world separates me from my friends, but I’m the only one capable of truly measuring the actual distance. I hide within my silence while I listen to their stories about love and sex, revealing nothing about myself. My afflictions seem small when compared with theirs; I fight simply to have the right to doubt God’s existence, to love who I wish to and to possess my own body. “Archaic, outdated struggles,” a white woman in her fifties wrote to me on Twitter when I was invited onto a national radio to discuss my book and the issues of feminism and identity. Throughout my twenties, an overwhelming solitude consumed me. I dreaded the thought of confiding in a psychologist, of confronting a white person who would inevitably accuse my Muslim family of all my problems without understanding the complexities of my situation. I’m not a victim, nor am I complacent. I simply wish to live my life. Yet I’m aware of yet another thing weighing me down: the burden of race. How can I possibly fight sexism in my family and advocate for individual freedom without serving up the colonial soup? Despite myself, my body and mental health are political territories.
I want to sift through what I have been bequeathed, figure out a way to transmit my heritage, and continue to maintain a strong link with Algeria through origins and language all while taking possession of my body and my sexuality.
As a racialized woman, my psychological state isn’t taken into consideration. On the one hand, my family doesn’t appreciate the weight of these contradictions and yet out of modesty, we never share this kind of inner questioning. Confessing my suffering would give them the opportunity to impose religious reminders on me, whether I liked it or not. “Get closer to God to find the answers, pray more to ease your mind” are catchphrases I’ve heard before. On the other hand, living in a middle-class white environment, I’m unable to find sympathetic listeners or psychologists that are sensitive to racism and sexism. I’m on my own. Back in 2021, driven by inner rage, I left Paris and moved to Nantes. I abandoned myself to the writing of “Nous, les transgressives,” an autobiographical essay published by Les Arènes that gives an account of my double life and desire to create a third path removed from fixed categories. I want to sift through what I have been bequeathed, figure out a way to transmit my heritage, and continue to maintain a strong link with Algeria through origins and language all while taking possession of my body and my sexuality. I refuse to compromise, seeing my economic independence please my family while my emotional and sexual emancipation disturbs them. Ultimately, being transgressive, defying family expectations, means seizing a freedom denied to women. In moments of solitude, writing serves as my true therapy. Through writing, I have reconnected with every facet of myself, embracing all aspects without reservation. As I approach the age of 30, many of these inner struggles have eased. In Nantes, I found a skilled psychologist to guide me through my healing journey. Above all, “Nous, les transgressives” has formed a community of racialized women united by shared pain. Since my book, I’ve become part of something larger than myself, a sense of solidarity that empowers me, empowers us all. Surrounding myself with other Maghrebi women and forging deep sisterly bonds has been profoundly healing for me.
My book forced me to “come out” to my mother and sisters, who are all proud of the person I’ve become. The only fly in the ointment is my father, from whom I continue to hide a huge part of my life and identity. Despite the book and numerous interviews, he still doesn’t know that I’m living with a non-Muslim man, nor that I’m no longer a Muslim myself. The most painful thing is not the lie itself, but the fact that my father doesn’t hold his rightful place in my life. I’d like to share the important moments with him, like the joy of being a published author, of living with someone that makes me happy, of having great friendships. Through difficult times, I regret not being able to confide in my father and feel his presence and guiding force. Despite the gulf between us and the ambivalence of our relationship, we still share a strong complicity and our love for Algerian culture strengthens our bond. Each year we travel around the country together, and he continues to tell me stories of his childhood and share his dreams about the future. But if I tell him who I truly am, will he still be present in the same way? Now on the brink of turning 30, I am finally taking the risk. In a few months, my partner and I are uniting our lives with a PACS agreement. We plan to throw a party in honor of our love as a couple but also to celebrate the strength it has taken to assert myself as I am before the world without compromise.
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