Struggle for acceptance: On the difficulties of being queer and Muslim in Cape Town

Imam Muhsin Hendricks, who was killed in Gqeberha, created safe places for queer Muslims to practice their faith. His murders are still free. (Triangle Project/Facebook)

By Zackie Achmat

12 Mar 2025

Following the killing of Muhsin Hendricks, the openly gay imam who created safe places for queer Muslims to practice their faith, Zackie Achmat reflects on the dangerous ways religious communities fuel hate — and his own banning from the community more than 30 years ago.

When I heard about Imam Muhsin Hendricks’ killing in Gqeberha, it was like a punch to my brain. Though my encounters with Muhsin over the years had been distant — I’m an atheist and he was a believer — news of his death crashed into me like a truck. I felt a boiling up of anger and immense sadness that finally exploded into rage.

His murder, in my opinion, wasn’t random. We still don’t know the exact details, but I believe it was an execution, not a hijacking or a robbery. Muhsin’s killing is the ultimate expression of the violence that queer Muslims face every day. Social media has only fuelled that violence, creating global communities of hate on every continent with support from fundamentalists in every religious community. These communities of hate applaud autocrats like Donald Trump and his all-out assault on the LGBTQI+ community, particularly trans people.

I know the hate and isolation it breeds intimately. It’s been 30 years since members of the Muslim Judicial Council have prohibited my family from contacting me because I am an atheist and queer.

Imam Muhsin Hendricks, who was killed in Gqeberha, created safe places for queer Muslims to practice their faith. (Triangle Project / Facebook)

But the discrimination based on my sexuality started way before this — in school.

I was in a Muslim primary school where, for three years, I was seriously assaulted daily by other boys. The only time I was safe was if I managed to get out of the classroom before them and run to the girls, who would protect me. If you're a queer kid or a trans kid in any religious school today — it doesn't matter if it is a Christian, Muslim, Jewish or Hindu school — you feel that hate even when it is not directed at you. You’re made to feel like you don't belong in the very community that should offer you sanctuary.

Suicide

But there are other ways that I was lucky. My mom saved me when I attempted suicide when I was 10 years old. I told her I was in love with another boy and she said: “It’s fine. Just don’t tell anyone.” I would come to learn that depression and mental health issues are often a part of existing as queer in the world.

My mom’s religion was not the religion of hate. She had the greatest faith in God, but I never saw a word of hate come out of her. My father, whom I miss daily, accepted my sexuality, too. It would be my atheism that caused him to ban me from our home in 1994 on instruction from so-called Muslim leaders.

During that time, my mom would call me and say: “Your dad’s not here, come and jump over the wall at the back and come in.” It's one of the few things in my life that I regret, not spending that time with her. I would tell her: “If you want me to come, you tell him that I’m going to come through the front door.”

The banning from my family came from religious bigots. As an atheist, I consider myself culturally Muslim. But, because of the banning, I can’t be part of Cape Town’s traditional Muslim culture. I can’t attend weddings or speak the Malay Afrikaans of my sisters, brothers, parents and aunts. I can’t eat and laugh at the Eid table or have the kinds of conversation that no one understands except that group of people sitting there.

Divine punishment

Muhsin’s path was different. He went to study to be an imam in countries where you can be stoned to death for being queer, and came back to Cape Town, married a woman and had children.

Coming out for him was an article of faith. He wanted to be open about who he was because if he lied, he was lying to himself and his God. But first he had to convince himself that he was not a criminal. He had to learn to love himself. And above all, he had to accept that he was not sick.

It was by breaking that triad of oppression in himself that he could provide a home, the Inner Circle, where queer Muslims can laugh, marry and pray without judgment; where they can be themselves without losing their faith community.

I had a queer family member, also a Muslim, whose story ended up the way too many queer lives end. He knew he was gay but he married a woman and had a child, just like Muhsin. But he would go on sexual binges with men and drug-using benders.

His mental health got so bad that his dad asked me to speak to him because I was living with HIV openly and taking medication. By then he was dying of Aids-related pneumonia and refused treatment because he saw his illness as divine punishment. How can you heal physically when you believe your very existence is a sin?

That says everything about what happens when people use religion to promote hate, division, intolerance and disrespect. It doesn’t matter which religion it is. When you believe you’re a criminal, a sinner and mentally ill on top of all that, it affects everything — how you care for yourself, whether you seek help, how you manage any health conditions.

Many young queer Muslim kids, older queer men and lesbians cannot get access to counselling services, healthcare services, education about health issues or mental health issues. You just don't want anyone to see you in places where queers gather. The fear of being recognised, ostracised from your community, or even reported to religious authorities creates insurmountable barriers to accessing essential services.

‘Ons sal nie wegkruip nie’ (We won’t hide)

After Muhsin’s death, there was an outpouring of support from the queer community and some in the Muslim community. Progressive Muslim intellectuals have stood firm, which is remarkable given the levels of threats against them.

The United Ulama Council of South Africa put out a statement saying “Islamic teachings and traditions unequivocally prohibit same-sex relationships,” before adding, “However, United Ulama Council of South Africa condemns all forms of extrajudicial killings.” The question is whether the word “extrajudicial killing” is deliberately chosen. Does it mean if we get you in Iran, we will make sure your head is cut off or you’re stoned to death?

In 2022, the Muslim Judicial Council, regarded as orthodox yet at times liberal, issued a fatwa — a ruling on a point of Islamic law — saying that when you’re queer, you put yourself outside the community of faith. That is a code for hate, a wolf whistle. They don’t explicitly say “go kill”, they just say “no Muslim should have contact”. They somewhat retracted it, but ultimately the damage is done.

All human beings need to belong somewhere. For some people, belonging is related to faith and culture. For me, it’s related to politics and culture.

What matters is that we create spaces where everyone can belong, where no one has to hide who they are or fear for their lives because of who they love. That’s the legacy Muhsin left us, and it’s one we must fight to protect.

Unless we speak out about his murder, they will come after us one by one. We have to show people: Ons sal nie wegkruip nie (we won’t hide) — We may be afraid, but we’re not going to run away. DM

Zackie Achmat is a socialist who has been active in politics since 1976.

This story was produced by the Bhekisisa Centre for Health Journalism. Sign up for the newsletter.

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South Africa

Suicide

Divine punishment

‘Ons sal nie wegkruip nie’ (We won’t hide)