How You Make Me Feel
How You Make Me Feel | Digital | (2022)
CONTENT WARNING: Self harm, suicide, abuse, homophobia
There is a lot I want to say about this piece. I draw in an unplanned, organic way. When things appear in my imagination, I add them in.
I imagined hands coming down as spiders, throwing out hooks, manipulating my face, my emotions, how I appear to the outside world.
The hooks would pull and tear at my skin, as the lines pulled through bone and sinew.
Why illustrate such violence towards oneself? Well for one thing it is better than hurting my physical body.
Through the process of this illustration I realised I was expressing some deep traumas that I have not really addressed directly. When I look back at the body of my work, it is obvious where I have subconsciously explored these feelings. In deciding to make this piece with more focus, I found that it drained and took a lot out of me. I worked on it tirelessly until it all came into focus, and when it did, I felt a tidal wave of exhaustion but also relief.
I feel like the time is right to share these stories. They will provide context for this work.
My first crush was a pretty blonde girl. We were in first grade, at a primary school in Sydney. She taught me how to tie my shoes.
My second big crush was one of my teammates on my swim team. Tall and beautiful, an adolescent boys dream. We were in grade six, going to one of the nicer public schools in Male’ City. It was around then when my troubles began.
While I had this crush, I was also experimenting with a classmate. Another boy. We would try things together, but he would never kiss me. No, that would be too gay.
A few months into this, it came time for the annual school play. The teachers were so shit that I had to write and direct it myself. It was about a satirical news channel called Crazy Lunatic News. I even managed to sneak in some nonsense making fun of Maumoon, who was still ruling as a dictator at the time (with a sketch about going to the moon, real original right?).
While hanging out with the kids in that group we would chat about the dumb things that kids that age would talk about. When the topic of sex came up, I boldly offered the proposition that guys had it way better because we could f*** but also get f***ed.
You see for me, I had never really thought of as being straight was a thing. I thought people just liked who they liked.
My schoolmates obviously did not think the same. Soon rumours swirled that I was gay. Super gay. Just absolutely bent. All while I had this hopeless crush on this girl.
To add to this tragedy, another girl, who apparently I guess might have had a crush on me, started claiming that she was my girlfriend. In retrospect its clear that she was trying to protect me. But at the time it really pissed me off because I thought it would hurt my chances with the girl that I liked. So I did the totally rational and understanding thing of yelling at her in front of a bunch of people about how she should stop telling lies.
All of a sudden I understood all the homophobia that I had been growing up with. The big insult then, and still now, for a gay male is firihen kulhi (lit. male play - the popular slur for lesbians being anhen kulhi or female play). The walls of the school, the tables, the toilet walls, would be littered with scribbles saying FK this FK that.
I should mention that by this point I had already been getting shit all my life for my name, Hani. It sounds too much like honey. Harmless enough most places, but in the Maldives, Honey was the name of an infamous cross dressing person (they may also possibly be trans, I am not sure). Honey was constantly getting arrested for wearing dresses, which most Maldivians found to be the absolute height of comedy. They got so much entertainment from his ostracisation and suffering that the fallout fell onto me. Hani. The boy with the name that sounds like Honey.
All of a sudden I became labeled as FK. And that made me scared that maybe I really was gay. If I was gay, then I would be FK, and then people really wouldn’t leave me alone. And not only the people, but god too. God would make sure I didn’t escape even if I died.
So when high school started, I buried everything and went and hid deep in the closet. I would not really think about my sexuality beyond straight or perhaps a tiny bit bicurious for years to come.
Instead, during the early days of high school, I would lie in bed and choke myself, hoping to die. Luckily this is almost impossible to do to yourself.
When the 2004 tsunami hit the Maldives, I was in grade 9. Fearing that we would all go to hell, the extremist preachers stepped up their game and started what would be a very successful radicalisation campaign. Fearing that their children would get lost at sea, parents all over got their kids mobile phones. Phones we would use in class to share dirty photos and porn.
Somehow at least two homophobes got my number and immediately began to send me hateful messages non-stop. At this point I was deeply in denial so it was incredibly distressing. Who would I even talk to about this? If I told anyone then I would really be like Honey.
In the meantime I began to express my self hatred upon my own body in increasingly more violent ways. It is kind of a blur so I am not entirely sure when or how it started. I think it might have been even before the tsunami and the texts.
I would steal away matches and light little fires on the back of my hand. Onto this same spot I would pour candle wax, and sometimes just push the candle and matches inside. The skin eventually would break and form a gross wound. Smack dab in the middle of the back of my right hand. Hardly a hidden spot. Yet nobody really noticed anything.
In a truly bizarre cry for help I would hide the shape made by the wound in the design of a birthday card I made to invite my schoolmates.
It was also around this time that I discovered that sniffing glue made you high. I am pretty sure I tried it immediately after hearing some PSA about the dangers of it. This led to experiments with various cough syrups, most of which had extremely not fun chemicals in them like DXM and Diphenhydramine. I also learned how to crush pills and extract codeine. None of it really helped. There is more beyond these anecdotes that I will share when the time is right.
In a way this piece is the mirror to my previous self portrait “My Hijab (In Bloom)”. If that work represents me in my current state, this one represents how I was.
Being torn apart and manipulated. Forced to hide my true self. Yet through the wounds you can see flowers blooming. Flowers that would protect me, guard me, nourish me. They represent my queer family who have always been there for me, even when I did not know it.
It is 2022, and the Maldives still does not recognise LGBTQIA+ people, and neither does it recognise freedom of conscience, the right to believe what you want to believe. Queer atheists and people from other religions are just as subjugated as queer Muslims. Even being an ally is dangerous.
In essence, the Maldives does not recognise the right of its citizens to have their own identity. There is much talk of mental health initiatives, but what of the mental health of people being bullied and ostracised by an entire nation for who they are? You really expect some kid to be able to tell a therapist or whatever their deep fears and traumas are, when they do not even have the comfort of asking the police for help? Calling the police is not something queer or non-Muslim Maldivians do. There is much to say about this but I will leave that there.
I once hid my scars, but the time for that is now long past. I feel like I have awoken from a long sleep.