Whether it’s a popped-up collar, a clean V-neck cut or a boxy boyfriend fit, there’s gender euphoria to be found in football shirts. 

WORDS BY ZOYA RAZA-SHEIKH
IN COLLABORATION WITH VERSUS
HEADER DESIGN BY JACK ROWE

Growing up, men’s football was all over the telly. My older brother was a massive Manchester United fan and would watch every game he could, sometimes I’d even watch with him. I loved seeing the players beeline across the pitch, socks pulled up over their calves, sweat-soaked shirts hugging their chests. I would examine their bodies and think: “Why don’t football shirts look like that on me?”

Gender isn’t easy to figure out. The world we live in primarily operates in a binary manner. Men, women. Straight, gay. They’re still very much considered the default – even more so in football, a sport that’s deeply rooted in old-school views of masculinity. So, it might seem odd that football shirts have provided me with an avenue to experiment with my own gender. Or is it? 

Back then, watching those games with my brother, I didn’t quite know how to describe the feelings I felt as I sat captivated by the slick movements of Louis Saha, Wayne Rooney and Paul Scholes. But now, I’d call it gender envy. There’s no right way when it comes to figuring out your identity and where you fit in a world obsessed with labelling people as simply one thing or another. But for some reason, football shirts have always helped me on my gender journey. 

Shirts have become a core part of my gender expression – I feel more at ease with who I am when I wear them. They provide me with a level of comfort and breathability, both literally and metaphorically. It might seem somewhat trivial, distilling something so big as gender into a brightly-coloured 80s-inspired football shirt. But often it’s the small, everyday things that help us to make sense of the emotions we’ve struggled for so long to engage with – let alone make sense of. 

There’s an unquestionable euphoria in football fashion. Whether you want to call it ‘blokecore’ or ‘ladcore’, the revival of retro kits undoubtedly pulls on iconic British fashion that flooded the streets and terraces throughout the 80s and 90s. Today, both football die-hards and casual matchgoers are experimenting with kits – something we’ve also seen bleed onto the catwalk in recent years (will there ever be a better collaboration than Wales Bonner x Jamaica?). And while the blokecore trend might feel gendered, the style isn’t. It’s a lens of fashion that has been an escape, a place where I can find synergy between my outward presentation and internal feelings. 

Finding sanctity in football shirts was an unexpected port of call, one that caught me by surprise, even as a long-time football fan. Yet I can’t shake the gender-affirming sense of self I find wearing my beige Barcelona 2004-05 shirt. As your identity shifts – whether it’s labels, pronouns, or something bigger – there’s a want to create cohesiveness in how you feel and fashion is the easiest way to signify who you are. From pairing oversized baggy blue-wash denim jeans with a bright yellow 2010-13 Arsenal away number, to matching chunky silver rings with my crisp white Real Madrid top. In football shirts, for me at least, there’s no immediate call to dress femme, instead, you can play around with presentation. This level of openness has given me the freedom to pick and choose what feels best. A feeling I’ve not always experienced in either my surroundings or myself. 

How the Women’s Super League became the pinnacle of UK sapphic culture

As a South Asian baby masc, I’m used to comments of all kinds: ones to do with race, gender, sexuality, you name it. You learn to acclimatise (not always quickly) to the soft racism or how your eyebrow slit, thin silver chain or vocal joy for Chappell Roan can make people feel a bit uncomfortable. “It’s a bit much”, I’ve been told. The level of prejudice – and sometimes even abuse – I’ve experienced over the years for trying to feel at home in my own skin, is perhaps why I’ve never watched a men’s football match in person. 

We’ve all seen and heard stories about how homophobic and racist the men’s game is. Watching Manchester United’s first team with my brother might have been my football entry point but it’s the women’s game that’s welcomed me for who I am. I’ve found women’s football to be a space that’s more inclusive of diverse identities than most – I’d even go so far as to say that I’ve found a community. Being queer in women’s football, both for the players and the fans, isn’t the exception; if anything it’s celebrated. The camaraderie of the women’s game feels more like home for me because I don’t experience the same level of interrogation for wearing my oversized “men’s” shirts and gender-fluid fits.

Many of us spend years following our favourite players from club to club as they evolve with their teams. And while I can’t pull off striking Ballon d’Or-worthy shots like Aitana Bonmatí, I can empathise with growing through motions of change. In a way, through shirts, I do the same. 

Each one brings a different feeling – a sense of home and comfort for a different reason. Sometimes it’s an affirming colour choice or even a modest boxy cut that brings an unexplained feeling of ease for me. Football traditionally hasn’t been a space welcoming of people like me – those who don’t conform to gender norms. So, perhaps there’s some irony in me gaining as much comfort in shirts as I do. But if they help me get to grips with this beast called gender, then it looks like I’ll need to make more space in my wardrobe. 

You can read Zoya’s article on gender and football fashion at Versus here. 

The post How football shirts help me understand my gender appeared first on GAY TIMES.

The comedian on his absurdist new BBC series Juice, the common comfort of flamboyant tracksuits, and finding his voice in a Parisian clown course. 

WORDS ZOYA RAZA-SHEIKH
PHOTOGRAPHY KATE BONES
FASHION UMAR SARWAR
ART DIRECTION JACK ROWE
HAIR AND MAKEUP JOSH KNIGHT
LIGHTING ASSISTANT PHIL BRADLY
FASHION ASSISTANT OLIVIA MCGUIRE
RETOUCHING BY DANIELLE PAINTING

Mawaan Rizwan wants you to get acquainted with the unconventional. Yes, really. Known for his viral internet skits and on-stage antics, the London-based comic began his days as a self-made YouTuber. Here, online, you’re never too far from a bootleg zany parody or satirical spoof. Nowadays, however, Rizwan is known for his gigs on the telly and acrobatic reinvention of creativity. Whether he’s scripting a jingle about mangos or quipping about his amusing relationship with his South Asian parents, you can bet the London-based actor is imagining a wacky new idea. 

Right now, Rizwan is settling down at Edinburgh Fringe Festival (it’s his tenth year at the staple event); a place where he comes to test the waters and absorb the genius splattered across stages. Each return, for Rizwan, is a recipe for inspired evolution — add a pinch of salt, silliness and unreadiness and you’re almost there. “Every year I come back, I try and break the mould I created last time. I try and push myself,” he says. The method, madness and motive all boils down to “reinvention”. You see, growing up, Rizwan wanted two things: applause and to be interesting. Whether he was shining under the glare of a stage light or the off-white hue of a laptop screen, the actor knew he wanted to be seen. Nothing, not even the prodding, off-putting comments online was enough to deter him. So, without industry contacts or a flowery degree behind him, Rizwan stepped up – trackies and all – and garnered his own sense of self. “I’ll be really honest, I started it all for a very vain reason, I wanted external validation. I wanted to be clapped and that’s why I became a performer,” he explains. 

The glimmer of indefinite applause – and validation – trailed behind the comedian like a shadow in a circus. Soon enough, the crossover of presenting comedy and being public-facing placed Rizwan in a “very unhappy place”. He recalls his ascension online as negativity and prejudice came his way. The answer – or logical “foundation” as he puts it – went back to his DIY roots and, coincidentally, a Parisian clown course. “My clown teacher, Philippe Gaulier, very helpfully said to me, ‘Don’t go out into an audience looking for the validation of your parents. Validation from your parents is not gonna be in the audience. It’s got to come for you, otherwise, every bad gig you’ll have an emotional breakdown’,” he says. Now, the star’s success no longer feels like walking a tightrope but an opportunity to pull off playful sketches and spoofs with a healthy mentality. “If all this goes to waste, I can still go back into a room and I can make a sound on my keyboard and make a song. I could go and perform it to twenty people and I get a buzz out of that,” he smiles. 

He’s faced walkouts, had Subway sandwiches chucked at him, and there’s still no stopping Mawaan Rizwan. Breaking into the comedy circuit is enough to put plenty of people off, but not this guy. With over 100,000 followers, the comic’s crafty tone has routinely assured him a cult following. It’s not a Rizwan show without a funky dance break, flashy clothing, or a skit that will have you chuckling in disbelief. When he’s not making fruity tunes about mango chutney, you can find his credits dotted around the TV scene. He’s appeared on Taskmaster, The Great Celebrity Bake Off, landed writing credits for Netflix’s Sex Education and, now, is spearheading his own fantastical-meets-physical BBC comedy series, Juice. Uniting his clown education and off-the-cuff internet demeanour, Rizwan’s new project is gloriously surreal and over the top. Juice is cunning, emotionally cutting, and an effortless crowd-pleaser. The trippy comedy follows a South Asian gay Londoner as he stumbles through the overwhelming every day. The catch, however, is that not everything is as it seems. Here, the comedy closet doesn’t just feel like it’s closing in on you, it actually is. In Rizwan’s emotional in-sync comedy cosmos, physical comedy comes to life, literally. 

Watching Juice you’ll be curiously led, episode to episode, hooked on sharp screenwriting and tongue–in–cheek humour. So, how can a show couched in splashy, thrilling relationships maintain its endearing heart? “My mum always used to say, ‘Be bad, but don’t be boring!’,” Rizwan exclaims with a grin. “It’s insulting to an audience – they pay their ticket money and you’re gonna come on and do something mediocre? Put on a show! Give it your all because a lot of people live through you. They go to see a performance so that they can live vicariously and watch someone who is free, whether that’s physically, comedically or emotionally.”

Juice, in all its glorious pulp, is exactly this. When life gives you mangos, why not make mango lassi? The seed of Rizwan’s therapeutic series was planted in 2018, as he exercised an hour-long early rendition of Juice. Soon after, the actor began pitching to broadcasters. Almost a year later, during the pandemic, Rizwan got what he has long been waiting for — the green light. “[Juice] is a little capsule of everything I’ve ever wanted to do all in one place with all the people I wanted to work with. It’s a dream,” he says earnestly. And, of course, the eventful series pulls on his familial relationship – particularly his parents – who often make the punchline of his on-stage comedy gags.

Here, however, identity isn’t peeled apart and micro-analysed. Instead, he admits that his on-screen character shares similarities with him just because he can. It’s true, there’s no grand reveal made about queerness or being a young British Pakistani man in London. Instead, the production becomes a family affair with Rizwan’s brother (Nabhaan Rizwan) and mum (Shahnaz Rizwan) co-star lighting up smaller scenes. Juice becomes more than a funny title but a hearty series with a dysfunctional Pakistani dynamic as Urdu cuts across quick-fire dialogue, Rizwan makes out (and then some) in the toilets, and intimacy gets, well, weird and intimate. It’s a side of comedy and representation that’s not often given a chance. Rizwan, nodding, acknowledges the familiar sentiment. 

“We have this story that we tell ourselves, that we’re not creative people, we don’t do artistic careers, or we have to be this or that and be conventional,” he gestures. And as an East London boy, he admits, the stakes were high. “There wasn’t room to fail. We had to be success stories because, otherwise, what was all the sacrifice for? That’s what parents tell us. At the same time, I feel like we’re inherently creative people in the South Asian diasporic community. We grow up around so much music, dance and artistic prowess. It’s all there, it’s in our blood. I can only really speak for myself, but I grew up in a very creative family.” Rizwan attributes his instinct for creativity to his mum who ran community events, functions and plays at his school. “My mum, whether she knew it or not, was a really big influence. She was subversive and didn’t fit into any box, she had this immigrant work ethic and was working hard, doing three jobs, raising kids and really wanted us to get an education, but in the same breath was doing the painting competition for the local community.”

This immersive free upbringing, Rizwan reflects, gave him the creative intuition to push on with a career in the arts. “[My mum] was very strict and she wanted us to really study and get our grades, but at the same time, I was like, ‘Hey, mum, I want to make a YouTube video. Will you wear this wig and do this rap battle with me?’ And she was like, ‘Yeah, sure!’” he laughs. “She was this charismatic, funny person. Growing up around someone who contains so many multitudes was really profound, whether I knew it or not and has informed how I make my work now.” 

At 24, Rizwan made a life-changing decision: he came out to his Pakistani parents. Then, fresh off the out-the-closet boat, the actor fronted a BBC Three documentary, How Gay Is Pakistan? A well-intentioned exploration, Rizwan took an investigative eye to the country he was born in, notably Pakistan’s LGBTQ+ laws and lifestyle. “I look back at that and I don’t feel like that really represents what I’m about artistically. I feel like it’s a brash thing to make. Sometimes, I think for the creative process to prosper, you need to get things like that out of the way. It’s very identity-led and that does some good in terms of visibility,” he explains.

This immersive free upbringing, Rizwan reflects, gave him the creative intuition to push on with a career in the arts. “[My mum] was very strict and she wanted us to really study and get our grades, but at the same time, I was like, ‘Hey, mum, I want to make a YouTube video. Will you wear this wig and do this rap battle with me?’ And she was like, ‘Yeah, sure!’” he laughs. “She was this charismatic, funny person. Growing up around someone who contains so many multitudes was really profound, whether I knew it or not and has informed how I make my work now.” 

At 24, Rizwan made a life-changing decision: he came out to his Pakistani parents. Then, fresh off the out-the-closet boat, the actor fronted a BBC Three documentary, How Gay Is Pakistan? A well-intentioned exploration, Rizwan took an investigative eye to the country he was born in, notably Pakistan’s LGBTQ+ laws and lifestyle. “I look back at that and I don’t feel like that really represents what I’m about artistically. I feel like it’s a brash thing to make. Sometimes, I think for the creative process to prosper, you need to get things like that out of the way. It’s very identity-led and that does some good in terms of visibility,” he explains. 

Now, several years later, Rizwan’s affinity with the documentary has shifted. “I know it helped a lot of people and it would’ve helped me growing up because I would’ve seen someone making a thing about a certain intersection of identities that we’re told are not allowed to co-exist,” he explains. “You’re like, ‘Woah, there’s hope! I can live like that?’”

As the documentary served a creative purpose, he hoped presenting the project would give younger South Asian queer people a chance to see a version of themselves on-screen. “Looking back at it, my projects now are more nuanced and deal with certain complexities and don’t have titles like that. I think that feels like a more grown-up place to make work from.” Among the received controversy and hateful comments, Rizwan lightly admits he found a silver lining — “I also learnt that I don’t love being a documentary maker. It’s really exposing and it’s hard to make a documentary that’s nuanced and get across all the complexities of an issue like that.” Pausing, the comic mulls over where to lead next and gently adds, “But it changed my life doing that project. That’s all I can say about the project. It’s a tricky one.”

With YouTube virality on his roster, Apollo shows in his pocket and notable writing credits to his name, it’s not unsurprising that Rizwan seeks distance from the overexposure of a hard-hitting documentary. “Artistically, it’s not what I want to be making now and at the same time it was a coming-of-age thing that helped people; I appreciate both those sentiments. I think the reason I don’t wanna bang on about it is because I’m really glad it’s out there and it’s helped people and at the same time, it’s limiting,” he explains.

The personal repercussions of How Gay Is Pakistan? weren’t solely about the backlash but, rather, the creative repercussions, too. “Representation isn’t about getting a person from a marginalised community and pigeonholing them into making projects repeatedly about those identities. Once you make a project like that in the industry, you’re told, great, this is your thing now. You do stuff about being gay and you do stuff about being Pakistani, if you can do both at the same time, ding, ding, ding! Here’s your commission,” he says. 

Moving away from the hyper-personalised documentary style gave Rizwan room to breathe and be reclassified in his creativity. “It’s so limiting as an artist because I wouldn’t be afforded all the same freedoms that the average artist gets,” he says. “With Juice, it happens to be a queer relationship and someone from a Pakistani background. We speak Urdu in it, in a matter-of-fact way, not because we’re trying to make a story out of it or being like ‘Hey, we’re the brown people who tell this story only!’ We’re just existing and it’s about being afraid to commit to a relationship and getting to know your parents better.” So, while the inroads of Juice pull on similar home truths, the writer is boldly able to retroactively look at his identity – on his terms – without the bigger personal pressure. “I get to just make what I want to make. Representation is about giving more opportunities to more of us so that we get a fuller spectrum of stories.”

It’s the height of summer and, surprisingly, Rizwan is not wearing a tracksuit. Throughout the comic’s career, the easy-going clothing staple has become a recognisable token. Even in Juice, Rizwan’s character cuts about London in a bright red trackie. Whether he’s kitted out in high-end designer gear or your everyday sports brand type. For many working-class South Asians, the commonality of tracksuits was a given. Who had thought a simple streetwear staple could become a visual bridge between Britishness and our broader identities? For Rizwan, it’s a bit of both but, he admits, it’s largely the ease of the clothing. “It is a comfort thing! Growing up I was always in tracksuits. So it feels true to the younger me, but also I remember doing gigs and wearing tracksuits. My agent said to me, it looks like you’ve not really made an effort. I was like, ‘No this is my best tracksuit!’,” he laughs.

In classic Rizwan style, he’s never strived to be conventional and uses his signature look to challenge gender expectations. “I started customising them and I would bejazzle my tracksuits and make them out of special fabric and stuff. That’s how I ended up having shiny glittery tracksuits. It was because I wanted to dance in my shows. It was boring because every other comedian was wearing jeans and a T-shirt.”

With over 10 years in the comedy game and new projects unfolding, Rizwan’s grateful for the moments he gets to reflect. Progress and passion were something instilled in him from an early age. As the release of Juice nears, the writer can’t fathom how an audience will react, but he’s hopeful for a positive response. “There’s so many hoops to jump through in telly. Me and the directors, we love visually surreal stuff, it really makes us get excited and jump up and down on our sofa when we’re watching TV, especially if shows go to a place you don’t expect them to. I hope people latch onto that and get as much pleasure out of it as we did making it,” he says. 

The end game, for Rizwan, has always been simple: deliver something outrageous and enjoyable. And, with Juice, he’s held up his end of the bargain. “I think it’s hard to make stuff that feels emotionally truthful and visually adventurous and surreal and that is what I get excited about in terms of the show. When you go to watch it, the sentiment should be ‘Strap in!’ and you’re like ‘Woooh!’,” he jokingly imitates over Zoom. “Surrender, like when you’re a kid and you’re on a rollercoaster, and trust it to take you [away].”

Juice is out on BBC Three and iPlayer this September.

The post The surreal comedy cosmos of Mawaan Rizwan appeared first on GAY TIMES.

With community lying at the heart of British South Asians’ radical history, we look at the notable queer spaces that continue to draw on cultural traditions today.

WORDS BY MISHTI ALI 

South Asians make up the largest minority group in the UK, with British Asians making up 9.3% of the population. It might surprise you, then, that 2023 marks only the third South Asian Heritage Month in the UK.

South Asian queer history is rich, from kinky Mughal paintings of women repurposing carrots as sex toys and the renowned carvings in many Hindu temples of orgies, to the revered hijra (often translated as ‘third gender’) communities across the subcontinent, who are invited into homes to bless newborns. Yet with both South Asian history and LGBTQ+ history frequently overlooked, the same is true of the intersection of the two.

Dr Rohit K Dasgupta is an academic at the University of Glasgow. Together with Dr Churnjeet Mahn, he worked on the Cross Border Queers project, which sought to uncover and celebrate the rich history of British South Asian queer community. Immigration occurred largely in waves throughout the 20th century, from bursts from the subcontinent in the 1950s and 60s following the breakup of the Empire to desi refugees from Uganda in the 1970s.

“When we started our Cross Border Queers project, we already knew that [links between anti-racist and queer activism] existed in some form or another. What we found important was especially the role of arts and culture in community activism, which was directly linked to the wider issues around [politically] Black solidarity and anti-racist campaigning.”

British South Asian queer artists were loud and proud, with radical community-based action laying at the heart of their work. One such artist was Sunil Gupta , who was heavily involved in HIV activism and used his Ecstatic Antibodies exhibition to engage with issues of race and ethnicity, frequently overlooked in discussions of the illness. Despite the double-edged sword of South Asian queerness, facing racism and homophobia/transphobia, organising in the diaspora revolved around bringing together radical politics from the subcontinent and from other diaspora communities. What lay at the heart of it all was the strength to be found in one another.

“I was recently reading a book by Niharika Banerjee and Kenneth Brown called Livable Lives,” he explains. “There’s this amazing sentence from a Bengali soldier about [the differences between] bije taka and teeke taka. The first means to live, the other means to survive. And you know, for us as South Asian queer people, it’s not about survival itself, it’s about what makes our lives worth living. And what are the conditions that make life livable?”

Today, these traditions are continued by members of the community who work to continue the work of their radical forefathers. One such member is Ryan Lanji, who found himself in need of community after moving to the UK from Canada.

“I just kind of felt really displaced, like I just didn’t belong anywhere. I would go to the gay clubs and try to make friends but there was only…cis white gay culture. I just remember being so lonely,” explains Ryan.

One night, he went home and decided to listen to the Bollywood music that he had grown up with and was inspired to create a space where he, and others like him, could truly belong. In 2017, Ryan contacted the owners of the Glory in Dalston and set about creating what would become Hungama.

“Back then, they were like, ‘Let’s have a big Indian wedding!’ And I was like, the only way I can do that is if I marry myself and my culture, to get my queerness and my culture together. Otherwise, it wouldn’t feel right to me.”

Ryan smiles as he recounts how he set about creating sets which combined the songs he heard in his mum’s car growing up with the quintessential pop that is so ubiquitous in queer nightlife, from Britney Spears to Lady Gaga. The result was a hit with both South Asian queer people and the wider LGBTQ+ community at large. Ryan’s achievements with Hungama have been huge, from DJing popular clubs like Ministry of Sound and featuring on main stages at Pride events, to holding a night in tribute to late Bollywood actress Sridevi at the Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall. 

“I remember vividly having a lesbian couple tell us that they…hadn’t heard Bollywood music like this since their wedding. I remember watching a South Asian queer person dancing to Kuch Kuch Hota Hai and it was just like this weird awakening.

“It was a radical engagement of actually taking up space unapologetically, and the kids that showed up are now considered the family of Hungama,” continues Ryan. The pride that he takes in the various members of the community is palpable. “They’ve done some incredible things, like starring in movies or magazines, or they’re drag queens that are really well respected around the world. Hungama has a sound that travels way further than the Glory.”

Continuing the traditions of South Asian culture in an LGBTQ+-inclusive way also lies at the heart of the hen-nah party, founded by Amani Saeed. The party is a series of interdisciplinary open mic nights geared specifically to LGBTQ+ South Asians, “for those of us who love the vibrancy, community, and flavour of a henna party – without the drama, judgement, and gender norms of a wedding.” Amani explains that the collective came about off the back of an Arts Council-funded poetry collective. 

“When the funding ran out and the collective disbanded, I felt a strange sense of responsibility to our audience. At the time, there weren’t any consistent spaces for South Asians that I knew of – they came and went. And I wanted to make a dedicated space for us.

“More and more, I believe that we need our own distinct spaces to dig deeper into our art and heritage in a room full of people who just ‘get it’…I also wanted to explore my own gender and sexuality in a place that could genuinely hold all of the different parts of my identity at once. So, as a stereotypical eldest brown daughter would, I made the thing I needed in order to survive: a night that prioritises queer South Asians.”

The use of art as a tool for healing and nurturing is one that both South Asian and queer culture have in common, from mehfils and nights filled with qawwali music to ballroom culture. It comes as no surprise, then, that the art form such a bedrock for LGBTQ+ South Asian community spaces.

“Gender fluidity and queerness are embedded into our religions (like Ardhanarishvara), our poetry (like many Sufi poets), and many ritual aspects of our culture (like the blessings of hijras at key life events), and yet we are often shunned,” explains Amani.

“Our subcultures, styling, and taste help form the bedrock of mainstream cultures; yet we’re often overlooked for these contributions…Given the rich artistic cultures and histories of the subcontinent, an arts-centred space feels like the right approach to both continue and also to subvert, or queer, our traditions.”

Both Ryan and Amani look across oceans and history for inspiration for their respective nights, but they also look to the future.

“Community is not a homogenous thing,” Amani states. “To me, real community is celebrating the plurality of your people..it’s knowing there’s a space for everyone. A community is strong when it can discuss issues openly and respectfully, and grow together. It’s dynamic, full of love, and for that reason, can make space for the good, the bad, and the ugly.”

Dr Dasgupta notes how the far-right nationalist Hindutva rhetoric of India’s ruling party, the BJP, also pervades queer spaces, with fundamentalism beginning to shape the way queer organising takes place both in the subcontinent and in the diaspora. To Amani, crucial to making this space durable for the future is addressing our history and conducting open, honest conversations about the issues that we face, such as colourism, casteism and Islamophobia.

“This is not easy; it requires a hell of a lot of nuance, self-awareness, and willingness to grapple with complex social issues,” she admits. “But I have faith that we can do this. One, because I see it happening in pockets: the conversations between children and parents and grandparents around dinner tables.

“And two, because it’s in our history. We come from places where community is at the core of our cultural norms and values…there is plenty we can learn from that will help us in our journey forward, if only we take the time to do our research and understand how it’s been done before. Then we can do what we do best as queer folk – subvert, take the best of it, make it work for us as we are now.”

The post Uncovering Britain’s queer desi history appeared first on GAY TIMES.

We’re bringing you a taster of the South Asian brands that we’re obsessed with this South Asian Heritage Month.

Words by Olivia Lawrence

abacaxi SS22
From $95, www.abacaxi-nyc.com

Named after the Portuguese word for pineapple, abacaxi blends a tropical spirit with an NYC lifestyle. After a decade of experience designing for other brands, Sheena Sood first started abacaxi with a capsule of silk garments that showcased vintage embroideries collected in Rajasthan, India. Over the years, the creative project has transformed into a growing fashion label, one that allows Sheena to tell new stories with every collection, and to create more opportunities for artisans practising ancestral crafts that are at risk of disappearing. The Spring/Summer 2022 collection is a saturated explosion of colour, with pieces ranging from heeled flip flops to press on nails, shorts and shirt co-ords to maxi dresses. abacaxi garments make use of traditional textile techniques from India and all across the globe. Handloom weaving, mirror work beading, schiffli embroidery, and plant-dyeing are just a few of the processes involved in this collection. These pieces are perfect for the hot summer months, making the sticky, sweaty days a little bit more sweet!

PULP – Illustrated Prints
From £5, www.studiopulp.co.uk

PULP was born from the brand owner, Jaz Bhogal’s, fascination with the female form. Natural and soft curves and contours all lend to her unique way of portraying the beauty of the bodies we live in. One of PULP’s main objectives is to empower their audience with carefully curated pieces that speak on diversity and inclusion. The range of prints available showcase all types of bodies in a chic and delicate way. Bhogal has intertwined her cultural heritage with her love for western design practices beautifully  in all of her prints. The soft colour pallets at the centre of these gorgeous collage prints will suit every home, no matter the style of interior. The prints come in a range of sizes so whether you have a small gap between hoards of artwork on your walls or a big empty space to fill, there’s something for you.

MEERA BEAUTY – BOMBAY BABY
$25, www.meerabeautyco.com

Let’s face it, South Asian women make pure magic with their hands. It’s in the DNA darling. Meera Beauty is a BIPOC and LGBTQIA+ makeup startup that is a feast for the eyes. When you go on their website it’s like stepping into the cave wonders, but our eyes instantly locked onto the Bombay Baby palette. This gorgeous 12-pan palette is inspired by the rich and colourful culture of Indian heritage, whilst still paying homage to the owner’s Atlanta, Georgia upbringing. A bright yellow shade named Turmeric and a deep green glittery shade named Jal-Jeera, are the perfect pigments to frame the window to your soul – your eyes! The Bombay Baby palette truly is a love letter to all of the children of the Indian Diaspora. Each shade in this palette is ultra-pigmented and formulated for rich and vibrant pay-off on all skin tones. The pallet consists of both matte and shimmer shades, so dive into the colourful world of Meera Beauty.

Alighieri Jewellery
From £210, www.alighieri.com

Alighieri’s beautifully imperfect style of creation is inspired by the brand owner Rosh Mahtani’s upbringing in Zambia and her Indian heritage. A demi-fine jewellery brand rooted in literature and art, Rosh sculpts each fragmented talisman in wax, a spiritual and cathartic process that dates back centuries. These unique pieces transcend anything on the market right now. The classic image of gold and pearls juxtaposed with the gritty hand sculpted shapes makes for a dynamic piece that will never go out of style. The brand’s ethos is to create pieces that only the bravest storytellers will wear. These delicate yet edgy pieces will become the modern heirloom, following in the footsteps of Mahtani’s grandparents that brought only their jewellery with them on their migration from India to Zambia in 1944. So adorn your neck, ears, and body with the finest treasure in the land.

See our full list of must-have products in the August issue of GAY TIMES here.

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Sharan Dhaliwal on writing Burning My Roti, navigating labels, and advocating for greater representation in the publishing industry.

WORDS BY ZOYA RAZA-SHEIKH

Sharan Dhaliwal, the founder of South Asian publication Burnt Roti, has established a career creatively dissecting subjects on culture, queerness and womanhood. In her debut book Burning My Roti: Breaking Barriers as a Queer Indian Woman, the journalist-turned-author introspectively dives into the facets that make her whole. 

Taking an honest look at her queer coming of age experiences, colourism, and her own navigation of British-Indian cultural intersections, readers are greeted with a memoir-meets-guidance book. Packed with stories and conversations guided by Sharan, the author reveals that it was South Asian women that brought this book to life: “The team behind the book are all South Asian women and that’s something that I really appreciated. Burning My Roti wouldn’t look the way it does without any of them.” And in this collaborative effort, a work hemmed together by the support of women, Dhaliwal wears her emotions on her sleeve as she guides the audience through conversations with family, friends and self-reflection. 

With her new memoir readily available, GAY TIMES interviewed Sharan Dhaliwal to hear more about how Burning My Roti came about, writing in lockdown, and why inclusive representation in the publishing industry is overdue.

Hello! Congratulations on the release of your debut book Burning My Roti. What’s the reaction to the launch been like?

It’s been really great to hear people saying things like it’s nice to have a book like Burning My Roti out. It’s only gone out to a handful of people really at the moment, but it’s more knowing that it’s out there and that there is a sense of happiness around the fact that it exists. It has been really well received and it’s nice to hear those little messages from people.

You write a lot of Burning My Roti during lockdown. What was this process like for you?

It was a form of therapy that I really needed at the time. A lot of the conversations I have in the book are internal and external conversations. The signing of the book was during lockdown, but the idea was conceived a couple of years before. This agent approached me and said they would like to read something about you your story and Burnt Roti and it kind of evolved from that. So, the book became an evolution of the conversations I’ve had over the years with Burnt Roti and the things I’ve been learning. I created Burnt Roti to learn more about South Asian culture, religion, communities and my own queerness, so writing the book was a track of that journey. 

Throughout Burning My Roti you’ve blended an engaging visual style with anecdotes, mini-essays and passages of text. Why did you opt for that style?

There’s an illustrator Aleesha Nandhra and she’s just amazing. A lot of the conversations were had while she was drawing, including the cover as well. This book is like me telling my story as well as other people as well speaking. I don’t want it to be singular. I don’t want it to be one representation of one idea. We wanted it to have a bunch of South Asian people on the cover and representative is possible without being stereotypical. There’s this really old Indian matchbook kind of illustration style and I wanted to incorporate that design. When visiting India, as a child, and seeing hand-painted art all around me and on trucks or billboards that had always kind of sat in my head. So, when I saw Aleesha’s work and I knew that’s exactly how I wanted it to look.

Burning My Roti is sectioned into chapters where you unpack different topics, sometimes with yourself and other times in conversations with others. What was an important lesson you learned from writing this book?

The writing was cathartic, but within my own understanding of my identity, there was there’s still a lot missing. It was nice to write down something in the now, but knowing that the whole idea of it is still is a question mark. It’s an interesting ongoing journey. I’ve stopped calling myself bisexual and I just say queer now and I don’t know if I would have come to that conclusion since the book. I am still questioning so many things because I don’t really want to associate my sexuality with my history. It really stifles your ability to explore when you just stick to a history you have. Maybe it was forced heterosexuality and I’m still unsure about the way that I would define myself, but I’m also quite happy with not having a full definition.

I’ve stopped calling myself bisexual and I just say queer now and I don’t know if I would have come to that conclusion since the book.

One of the reasons I didn’t come out until I was 34 was because I wasn’t aware of it so I lacked that in representation. Take Bend it like Beckham’s “I thought she was a Pisces”. I didn’t know there was any queer South Asian representation that I could see and have an internal conversation about that. There was a fair amount of South Asian representation in the sense we all watched Bollywood and Indian soaps at home. It’s our culture was ingrained in the way that we grew up, but it was when we left our home and then the representation suddenly lacked. I do think it’s so much more prevalent now. It’s amazing how much I see now. I love it. It would have been nice for us to all have had compassion and empathy for humanity in the sense that we would have been welcoming of all people, because we haven’t lived in that kind of society. So our progress is something to be celebrated.

We’ve seen that the publishing industry has a statistically low figure of non-white writers within the industry.  Do you think Burning My Roti will is participating in creating spacing for more representative writers in the field?

I think it’s interesting. It’s not a straightforward answer. You will see this boom of loads of books by people of colour coming out. Loads of people got signed during the first lockdown and what’s happening is that [publishers] all realised that they are being noticed so they have started to fill quotas and all these authors that are queer, non-binary, trans writers are doing so well right now, which is great because those voices get out and their books now exist. These people now have platforms and they get to talk about their experiences. It’s great that it’s happening, but it doesn’t stop the publishing industry from being racist. We still have a lot of things going on. 

Queer, non-binary, trans writers are doing so well right now, which is great because those voices get out and their books now exist

The publishing industry is still going around in this circle of power and money and carelessly throwing women of colour under the bus. The industry is not really contributing to a conversation about anti-racism, they’re contributing to racist ideology, and that’s still within the institute of publishing. It’s just because I’m in it. I’ve just noticed it a lot more. The publishing industry is giving people more voices, but it is inherently, still racist and will be until the idea of the power structure is redefined.

What do you hope readers from the LGBTQ+ South Asian community take away from this book?

I want Burning My Roti to be something that will empower someone to say well ‘now I’m going to write about my shit now as well’. They know there are books of queer South Asian women out there, but now they can feel like they can write and share theirs too. I want to read everyone else’s stories.

Burning My Roti is now available via Hardie Grant Publishing and can be bought here. 

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Queer Parivaar is a South Asian musical short celebrating queer love and will be premiered at this year’s BFI Flare: London LGBTQIA+ Film Festival.

The BFI Flare film, which pays homage to South Asian queer communities, was directed by Shiva Raichandani and executive produced by Huma Qazi.

Queer Parivaar (which translates to ‘Queer Family’) is a dynamic short film that puts trans, non-binary, and gender non-conforming identities front and centre.

The LGBTQ+ short meshes Bollywood influences and powerful storytelling to introduce the audience to a world of self-discovery and family.

Queer Parivaar narrates a story of a queer couple forced to confront past family secrets after an estranged family member crashes their joyous wedding.

A moving story, the production takes a look at LGBTQ+ identities in a South Asian cultural context and the powerful existence of interfaith romances, chosen families, and intergenerational differences.

Actor and activist Jameela Jamil shared news of Queer Parivaar’s first trailer on Twitter. Jameela Jamil, who is of South Asian heritage, came out as queer in March 2020.

“In partnership w/ I Weigh, I’m thrilled to present the trailer for #QueerParivaar, a new film directed by @ShivRaichandani: https://youtube.com/watch?v=QaXJbqWT0i8,” the presenter posted. “It’s a captivating musical celebration of South Asian queer love & community..check it out & catch the film at a festival near you!”

https://twitter.com/jameelajamil/status/1504021951215509506?s=20&t=1poSt68obqLSqSsxa8p3Bg

Welcome to the family ♥️✨ #QueerParivaar https://t.co/pSOuzPMU5B

— Shiva Raichandani (@ShivRaichandani) March 16, 2022

Speaking on the musical short, director and producer Shiva Raichandani opened up about what the production meant to them: “Showcasing positive and joyful imageries of queer south Asians in love and being loved for who they are is incredibly powerful and rare.

“I created Queer Parivaar to let people be part of a film that brings those identities and their wider intersections to the forefront – both on and off-screen. It’s a celebration of the many ways in which we find love from others, like chosen families, and from ourselves. To have Queer Parivaar debut at the prestigious BFI Flare is nothing short of a dream come true.”

Queer Parivaar will be premiering at this year’s BFI Flare Film Festival. Executive Producer Huma Qazi described the film as “important storytelling” for all generations and all cultures and that it “gives audiences a glimpse into parts of our community, relationships, identity and simply being loved for who you are”.

Audiences can buy tickets to see Queer Parivaar premieres at the BFI Flare: London LGBTQIA+ Film Festival 2022 on 17th, and 18th March.

Queer Parivaar will include some of the biggest names in the South Asian queer scene including Britain’s first out Muslim drag queen Asifa Lahore, DJ Ritu Khurana, and intersex activist Anick Soni.

The film’s original soundtrack includes contributions for the likes of Rushil, Abi Sampa, Leo Kalyan, Grammy-nominated MNEK and Oscar-nominated Bombay Jayashri.

You can watch the first trailer for the BFI Flare film here or below.

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South Asian LGBTQ+ activism has come a long way and here are the trailblazing figures leading the movement.

WORDS BY ZOYA RAZA-SHEIKH

South Asian Heritage Month (18 July – 17 August) might be over, but that doesn’t mean our drive to uplift outstanding LGBTQ+ figures must come to an end. Over the recent years, we’ve seen numerous actors, activists and entertainers become leading voices in the queer community. Together, they have continued to spotlight their unique experiences and advocate for greater acceptance within the South Asian community.

In the feature below, we’ve named a range of multi-faceted creators, entertainers, and activists who have been outspoken about the intersection of South Asian and LGBTQ+ identities. Homophobia and hate have no space in our community and, here, at GAY TIMES, we seek to platform and uplift marginalised voices to share their diverse stories.

Check out the list below to learn more about some of our favourite British South Asian icons.

Mawaan Rizwan

Mawaan Rizwan is an actor, comedian and writer. Rizwan is most notably known for his stand up work and, more recently, his writing role on Netflix’s hit show Sex Education.

In 2015, the comedian travelled to Pakistan, where he was born, to film a documentary that looked at LGBTQ+ communities existing under Islamic law. Same-sex relations are currently criminalised under the Penal Code 1860 and the Hudood Ordinance 1979, according to the Human Dignity Trust.

Throughout his BBC Three documentary, How Gay Is Pakistan?, Rizwan talked to members of the LGBTQ+ community living in fear of persecution and tried to understand the anti-LGBTQ+ culture prevalent in Pakistan. You can learn more about the 50-minute film here.

 

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Reeta Loi

Reeta Loi is a musician, writer and activist. Loi is the CEO and founder of Gaysians; an umbrella brand for the South Asian LGBTQIA+ community. They are also an active writer on LGBTQ+ topics and has contributed to GAY TIMES over the years, including an important feature unpacking why South Asian representation is necessary within the drag community. You can read their feature here.

 

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Mohsin Zaidi

Mohsin Zaidi is a barrister and author. Zaidi is best known for his acclaimed coming of age memoir, A Dutiful Boy. The debut book explores his experiences growing up gay in a Muslim household in Britain. The deeply emotional memoir follows Zaidi as he sought to find acceptance and closure within his family, religion, and himself. A Dutiful Boy is a must-read that will move you.

 

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Jameela Jamil

Jameela Jamil is an acclaimed actor, model, and activist. Jamil is best known for her charity work and activism in tackling damaging Hollywood and model industry standards. The 35-year-old has also received international recognition portraying Tahani Al-Jamil in NBC’s fantasy comedy, The Good Place.

 

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Sharan Dhaliwal

Sharan Dhaliwal is the founder of the leading South Asian magazine, Burnt Roti. The magazine is a pioneering outlet offering space for stories of breaking taboos and covering diverse identities.

Dhaliwal has become an outspoken public figure by using her platform to address the representation of young women, South Asian women and queer women.

 

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Raheem Mir

Raheem Mir is a drag queen and an outspoken activist who recently hosted a TEDx Talk which explores the adornment of gender identity through Kathak dance.

Mir studied an M.A. in Contemporary Performance and Practice from Royal Holloway, University of London, and has used their skill of dance to challenge gender norms and encourage body fluidity.

 

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Shiva Raichandani

Shiva Raichandani is a multidisciplinary non-binary performance artist who uses art and dance to inspire social change. Raichandani uses their platform to debunk stigmas around mental health, sexuality and gender identities.

More recently, Raichandani won the inaugural Netflix Documentary Talent Fund and has been commissioned to direct a short documentary, titled Peach Paradise, on Japanese-Irish drag artist ShayShay and their Pan-Asian collective, The Bitten Peach.

 

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Lucky Roy Singh

Lucky Roy Singh is a well-known drag queen and activist. Singh’s book, Take a Walk in My Big Indian Heels: Mr Singh’s Diary, encapsulates the struggles they encountered as an LGBTQ+ person and artist.

Sigh received significant press attention for their story. The 28-year-old was forced to live as a woman in order to marry their partner. Their struggle highlights the challenges of being accepted within the Asian communitiy and finding self-acceptance.

 

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Dr Ranj

Dr Ranj, Ranj Singh, is one of TV’s most recognisable British Asian presenters and doctors. Ranj has been committed to educating audiences on healthcare as well as speaking out on LGBTQ+ issues.

Singh most recently competed as a celebrity dancer on Strictly Come Dancing. The doctor also gained attention for co-creating (and presenting) a CBeebies children’s show, Get Well Soon, from 2012 to 2015.

 

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Asifa Lahore

Asifa Lahore is a Muslim drag queen that has been spotlighting Brown drag art in the industry. In 2016, Lahore took part in the #OpenLetterstoQueerBritain project hosted by Levi’s, Queer Britain, and Royal Mail. The project was donated to the archives of the UK’s first LGBTQ+ museum.

In 2015, Asifa featured in Channel 4’s documentary on Muslim Drag Queens, which was narrated by Sir Ian McKellen. A year later, in 2016, she was also the face of Channel 4’s diversity campaign, True Colour TV.

 

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South Asian drag is some of the most beautifully decorated and culturally diverse drag in existence.

Words by Reeta Loi

Let’s talk about the incredible South Asian drag queens and kings on the UK scene because frankly, we need to. There’s absolutely no denying that Drag Race has been an unparalleled platform for the positive mainstreaming of drag culture, and hence for drag artists across the globe, and has been instrumental in bringing this aspect of queer culture into the mainstream on our terms, rather than through appropriation.

We loved watching Sum Ting Wong – and let’s face it, their ‘hiding in plain sight’ – as a Drag Race UK queen in season 1, whilst simultaneously being in the closet to their family, which is highly relatable content for us Asians.

In 2019, on the second season of the Thai version of the show, we saw the first South Asian queen take part after 11 years of Drag Race, which is nothing short of shocking. Genie – who became the first North American queen to compete in Drag Race Thailand, the first Hindu queen, and the first queen of Indian descent (so many firsts!) to compete on Drag Race – was some long overdue representation for South Asian drag performers. A year later, we saw Indo-Guyanese Canadian queen Priyanka win Canada’s Drag Race. South Asian drag is some of the most beautifully decorated and culturally diverse drag in existence, and the fact that the world has only seen snippets of that through Genie and Priyanka during their respective appearances is a huge shame.

There has also been plenty of discourse over the years surrounding the gender inclusivity and trans erasure of the show, with one of the main phrases being ‘Gentleman, start your engines and may the best woman win’. In Season 13 we have the first trans man competing in the competition with Gottmik, while two non-binary contestants competed on season two of the UK show. It meant this phrase was changed to ‘Racers, start your engines and may the best drag queen win,’ so there has definitely been some progress in terms of inclusivity.

Many of us would love to see more conversations and platforming around drag kings in the franchise. Drag has a beautiful history, one that has served our community for centuries, but it cannot go unnoticed that much of drag’s history is shrouded in misogyny, which in modern day displays itself as the disparity in popularity between queens and kings. A man performing as a woman can be more celebrated than other forms of drag. There are even times on the show where the queens are chastised for not ‘creating the female illusion’ as if the only acceptable form of drag is ‘becoming a woman’. In reality, drag is diverse and creative, it’s wacky, wonderful and weird. It is so much more than just a man performing as a woman.

RuPaul’s Drag Race has proven to us all that drag culture is mainstream, but now it’s time for us to include all of the beautifully creative and culturally diverse parts of drag in that – including drag kings.

For the avoidance of doubt, here are some incredible South Asian kings and queens in the UK that we should all be celebrating. I asked them what drag means to them and what their feelings are about representation.

Asifa Lahore

 

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Our very own former GAY TIMES Magazine cover star and probably the UK’s best known South Asian drag queen, Asifa burst into our lives as a force to be reckoned with as ‘Britain’s First Out Muslim Drag Queen’. More recently having come out as trans, she would be a strong contender as an experienced and not just hugely representative, but also much-adored Drag Race UK queen if given the opportunity.

In fact, Asifa led a campaign in 2020 to call for more South Asian representation and showcased a bunch of stunning talent from around the world. I asked Asifa why she thinks we’re not getting cut through and what more we can do:

“I do think it’s quite blasphemous that despite being the biggest ethnic minority group in the UK, there is yet no representation on Drag Race UK,” Asifa told me. “The reasons for this are firstly who is casting, the criteria given and whether they would even think to look for a South Asian drag artist in the first place. Even with the show’s history, across the franchise including in the USA, we find huge under-representation. We could say the same for Canada as even though Priyanka won, we don’t see in any way a representative number of acts overall.

“Secondly, many if not most of the drag queens from the South Asian community aren’t out and so we need to consider whether queens in the South Asian diaspora are auditioning. Perhaps they don’t feel they can or it’s for them, which of course may be because they don’t see themselves represented already. I would urge South Asian drag artists to go out there and represent, no matter where they are on their journey. The UK is known for its plethora of Bollywood and Bhangra LGBTQ+ nightclubs and we are the largest collection of South Asian drag queens in the world, so let’s represent!”

Asifa adds: “Drag to me is very much about full blown self-expression and allowing each of your identities. I think as British South Asian people living in the UK, we are quite multi-faceted in our identities and how we see the world. We kind of take the best of all our cultures and put them together. So for me, drag is about full blown self-expression without any barriers in order to perform, entertain and change the world.”

Lucky Roy Singh

 

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Lucky has an incredible story and is known for their book Take a Walk in my Big Indian Heels: Mr Singh’s Diary. Lucky was a drag performer when they met their partner and upon getting married to him, Lucky was forced to live as a woman by their in-laws. They have talked extensively about the challenges they faced because of this experience and has spotlighted the misogyny they experienced too – something we need to talk about much more in both South Asian and LGBTQ+ culture. As well as the depth of this experience, they’re a brilliant and vibrant personality and performer.

“Drag is a not a gender, it’s an art form – an expression of my feminine artistic self,” Lucky says. “Drag is so important as it wakes people up to acknowledge so many things from abuse to political liberation. South Asian drag is so needed now more than ever as the erasure of Brown people in general and QPOC is on the rise.

“To me, Indian drag is a showcase of my heritage, my love, my art and a statement to acknowledge my art, fashion and Indian makeup. It should be included on a wider spectrum and in more queer spaces to show other young femme/queer/LGBTQ+ kids they matter and have representation.”

Bolly-Illusion

 

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Anthony is best known for their Bollywood dance performances and performance night Bolly-Ilusions.

“Drag means I can be my true authentic self in whatever form I want to be, with a beard – without a beard,” Bolly-Illusion says. “I can express my feminine energy freely on stage, and performing on stages helps with releasing this feminine energy that lives and grows within me.

“And the scene being representative? Well honey, let me tell you that I feel I am a token Brown South Asian queer artist on these line ups full of white queens, and I’m tired of it. I want to see people that look like me and I want to hear Indian/Bollywood music. I love that I am representing South Asian drag, but at the same time I’m in Britain and I can’t be the only South Asian queen who is representing! I want to find more fab POC queer artists who can headline shows. It’s about seeing the change we want to be, and seeing more POC artists slaying. But I’m also super grateful for venues like The Glory and Dalston Superstore in East London who showcase POC queer talent and see us as family.”

Hardik Mistry

 

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Prinx brings the desi boy charm and humour we have come to associate with our Bollywood heroes and delivers, in their words, ‘Big Desi Energy’. They describe their work as “a heady blend of Eastern mysticism meets Western cynicism.”

“Drag is a way for me to explore how my queerness, gender identity and South Asian heritage sit side-by-side,” Prinx says. “I’m a third culture kid so, despite being brought up ‘British’, I always feel like an outsider. The same is true for queer culture, where as a Brown, gender non-conforming person I so often feel invisible in a space that is supposed to be open and welcoming.

“A couple of years ago, I reached a point where I was fed up of other people defining me; too queer for Brown spaces and too Brown for queer spaces. My drag persona allows me to project a version of myself that other people don’t seem to see in daily life, and to simply and unapologetically take up space. Drag also gives me a platform to explore what it means to be a queer British Asian and celebrate my heritage. Meeting queer Asians on the drag scene is helping me find the queer spaces I’m looking for, but I haven’t yet found other Desi drag kings. Hopefully that will change, so if you’re out there, hit me up!”

The post Why we need to see more South Asian queens on Drag Race UK appeared first on GAY TIMES.