Living Life on the Margin, From Iraq to Denver

Interview with Sociologist and Activist Mais Al-Nima

As a queer immigrant born in Iraq, navigating her childhood and education in multiple countries during a period of war before finally moving to Denver just before her 21st birthday, Mais Al-Nima has a distinct experience, and it’s shaped the way she traverses the world.

Al-Nima was born in Baghdad, Iraq and stayed there until she was about 11 or 12, a period she called the most consistent of her life. Her mother is half Syrian; her father is fully Iraqi, and by 2003, the Iraq War had begun. They stayed for about a year before it became unlivable, and from there packed up as a family and headed to Syria.

In Syria, Al-Nima finished middle school and started high school, and by her senior year, her father got a job in Kuwait, and it was time to move again. Al-Nima wrapped up high school and completed college with a major in computer science, staying in Kuwait for five total years.

Her father worked for the army for an extended period and qualified for a Special Immigrant Visa (SIV), which allowed the family to immigrate to the U.S. just before Al-Nima’s 21st birthday. That’s when Al-Nima found herself in a completely new environment, Denver, Colorado.

Al-Nima is no stranger to alienation. “I’ve always thought of myself as someone on the outside looking in, like someone who’s living on the margin,” she says. Back home, this was due to gender and sexuality.

“I was always the tomboy, right? Someone who didn’t really adhere to the girly-girl gender role, and my sexuality came later, actually. I think gender was something I struggled with first … I always felt my attraction was something that was, you know, maybe all queer kids (feel this way) in some way, shape, or form, like, ‘This is an abomination; This is not normal; there’s something wrong with me.’ So I felt like an outsider in that regard.”

Though, in reference to her immigration to the United States, Al-Nima says, “I think being in the U.S. in general has its own type of alienation. 

“Probably, if you see me on the street, you’ll think Hispanic, or I can pass, right? But the second that I open my mouth, it’s like, ‘Where’s your accent from?’” Al-Nima says. 

But the reality is that in many Middle Eastern countries, LGBTQ folks still can’t be out and proud, Al-Nima says, and moving to the U.S. allowed her to finally, openly explore her queerness. But, with that, she also was able to feel just how different she was from others in the queer community and the Denver community as a whole.

Al-Nima says it was a “really interesting time” to move to the U.S., citing the shift toward Trumpism and the general political shift “where people got really empowered to be racist,” she says.

“I was just too Arab, right? I was just too ethnic. I was just too different in a way that I didn’t really find belonging, necessarily, in the dominant queer space,” Al-Nima says. “It’s predominantly white, especially in Denver, and I want to be mindful of the different geographical differences across U.S. cities. They’re not the same; I just happen to be in Denver.”

Al-Nima also says that she was used to affirming to herself that she was “queer enough” throughout her adolescence and young adulthood, and coming to Denver brought up that question again: “Am I queer enough?” Though, the new environment was also a reminder of all the different aspects of her identity, how they all inform her queerness, and how they all interact.

“I was already done growing up or whatever,” Al-Nima says. “I never felt like I necessarily fit right, and so it really makes you question that universal thinking that we have. Is there actually a universal identity, right, when it comes to being queer? Is there a universal identity when it comes to being feminist? Is there a universal identity when it comes to fill-in-the-blank, you know?”

For Al-Nima, coming to the U.S. was the beginning of her journey in terms of accepting that.

“The beauty about this is that you are all of these things at once, and who cares about fitting in, right? You create your own narrative in every single aspect of your life.”

Al-Nima also dove into this conversation for her master’s in sociology, where she completed her thesis on queer Muslims. She admits that a huge part of the thesis was searching for herself and connecting to folks like her, or folks who came from similar backgrounds. She says in this, and in the broader scheme of the LGBTQ community and others, it’s important to remember that our similarity is not the only point we can come together with.

“It’s all of these points of divergence that enrich us as people who have different experiences that are marginalized, right? And I hate that word, but as people who are living outside of the script in some way or the other, some of us are living outside of this script in different ways, pertaining to different identities. Some of us might be living outside of that in one of their identities, so how can we have a conversation about that and say, ‘Here’s my side of the story. How does it look on your side?’ And actually listen to each other, right?”

Al-Nima also admits that she hates labels, though she recognizes the need for them, especially at the beginning of every movement. She is cautious when it comes to putting each other in boxes and the assertion that, once a person takes on a label for themselves, it’s the lane they must stay in their entire lives.

This also applies to her immigrant identity. Some SIV holders are colloquially referred to as refugees, though Al-Nima has personally never identified as a refugee. 

“My experience, when I look at so many other people that I know, is actually very privileged,” Al-Nima says. “Yes, I lived through a couple of years of war, but I was actually able to transport myself to another country, and from there, kind of like the crescendo of my life, it was always better. I always moved to a better place than the one that I was before.”

Al-Nima carries this sentiment into her work as a member at the Colorado Refugee Speakers Bureau (CRSB), where she’s been since 2018. She says she tries not to take too many engagements because of her specific experience, though she cites the last talk she delivered, “basically coming out in front of like 500 people, in a very subtle way.” (She says those who were paying attention got the message.)

“I really find passion in making people uncomfortable, and not for the sake of just discomfort, but to really help them reflect back and think about their values, things they might not have questioned.”

Al-Nima says her work at CRSB allows her to uplift that aspect of her identity, though she also works as an advisor for graduate students and wants to continue elevating these conversations, especially in that hope they reach folks who need to hear it.

“I think my biggest struggle as I was even coming out to myself was like, ‘Are there even queer Muslims?’ Like, who the hell am I, right?” Al-Nima says. “It’s really hard to be looked at as an impossibility as you’re trying to figure out yourself. So just because you don’t hear about us, that doesn’t mean that we aren’t here.”

Photo courtesy of Niama Al-Nima