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185 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 1, 2020
Jamil F Khan doesn't shy away from speaking his truth, in this important and powerful memoir. He takes up space, the way the marginalised often can't. He turns his body, as he writes, into a weapon of choice. But, it wasn't always like this.
'Khamr' refers to alcohol, something that is forbidden in Islam. 'Waterslams' refers to Muslims who use alcohol, someone "diluted not only in practice but also faith." Khan grew up in a Muslim household, with an alcoholic father, a man sees by Khan as a "ruler and controller". While Khan is close to his mother (they were the best of friends, he writes) he hides his truth from her, not knowing how she would react. It's also a relationship that's co-dependent, which isn't always healthy. His mother, too, drank when Khan was younger, though she gives this up, a choice that helps to make Khan feel safer.
Khan only comes out as queer after his childhood is over, but he knows he is different from an early age. "I was always aware of my sexuality. I am not sure whether I had the language for it, but I knew I was not going to grow up to live the lives I saw around me. More importantly, I knew it was forbidden." Even now, because of his religious upbringing, he sometimes feels "pressured" to hide his sexuality.
Khan writes about many things: how some Coloured people are urged to assimilate into whiteness; the weight of intergenerational trauma; the violence (often through language) experienced by queer bodies; and the power structures that enforce heteronormativity. I'm tempted to call this book a kind of bildungsroman or coming of age story, which in part it is. But, more accurately, it's a story of coming into personhood, of how you cannot be accepted until you accept yourself.
Raw, tender and sensitive, this book will upend your world, before remaking it. Khan's every word is powerful and imbued with meaning. A stunning memoir.