When I was 18, I left Islam, becoming something of a rarity: a Palestinian Ex-Muslim atheist. After all, Palestinians tend to be deeply religious Muslims. Now, in my mid-30s, I’ve been reflecting on that major life transition and wondering: what would I be like today if I had never left Islam?
That question was undoubtedly inspired by the glut of movies and books that explore alternative versions of characters in parallel dimensions. This concept features heavily in the Marvel superhero franchise, and it’s the central focus of the film Everything Everywhere All at Once, which won the Best Picture Oscar in 2023.
Taking that film’s premise as a launching point, I imagined an “alternate-dimension Aleem” who never left the Middle East for Canada, my current home. I visualized this other Aleem as a practicing Muslim—someone who believed he’d go to heaven while disbelievers burned in hell. He prayed diligently and attended the mosque every Friday for Jummah prayer. Muslim Aleem celebrated major Islamic festivals like Eid al-Adha and felt a profound connection to the global Muslim community during the pilgrimage to Mecca and the fasting of Ramadan. I pictured Muslim Aleem as a married misogynist, convinced that, as a man, he had authority over my wife. He taught his kids Islam, instilling in them the belief that LGBTQ people are unnatural and mentally ill.
The more I thought about alternate-dimension Aleem, the more I recoiled in horror at what that person would be like. But if I’m being completely honest, I envied certain aspects of his life—particularly the communal ones. It reminded me of how hard it is to be an Ex-Muslim.
As a Palestinian who has spent more than half my life in Canada, I lead a life far removed from that of a typical Palestinian. I’m caught between two worlds and cultures, and I don’t fully belong in either. I’m a hodgepodge of both.
I play ice hockey and prefer Western literature and films over Arabic ones. Yet, I feel a much stronger connection to Palestinian cuisine and legendary Arab musicians like Umm Kulthum than I do to Canadian dishes or iconic Canadian musicians like Leonard Cohen. Even my inner thoughts are a hybrid of languages. When I’m thinking about my to-do list for the day, that internal monologue is typically in English. But if I’m angry or frustrated, those emotions often manifest in Arabic.
I’d almost call this hodgepodge of values an inner rift, or perhaps the feeling you’d have if you attended a fancy social function wearing an ill-fitting suit or dress. You never feel comfortable, and all you want to do is leave. But no matter which function you go to, your clothing still doesn’t fit. You don’t belong anywhere, so you make do.
Only in recent years have I taken stock of how this reality has affected me in ways I hadn’t consciously noticed when I was younger. The only way for me to close the inner rift is to return to the fold of Islam. This is because Islam is interwoven into the life of a Palestinian Muslim. As I mentioned earlier, Palestinians are usually very religious. They come from one of Islam’s holiest lands and find spiritual comfort in the face of Israel’s occupation, since no other kind of solace is available. Islam is present in everyday phrases like “Inshallah” (God willing) and in the rhythm of life centered around the mosque and Islamic community centres. Marriage must follow Islamic guidelines, newborns are circumcised as part of Muslim tradition, and the deceased are buried according to Islamic funeral rites, with an imam presiding.
Because I’m no longer Muslim, I don’t—and can’t—participate in these practices or hold the beliefs that underpin them. Being a Palestinian Ex-Muslim is lonely, precisely because I’m cut off from the things that bind Palestinians together. I get no spiritual comfort when I reflect on Israel’s occupation of Palestine. I don’t frequent mosques or Islamic community centres. If I were to marry, have children, or bury loved ones, I wouldn’t involve Islam in them. It is difficult for me to have romantic connections with the majority of Palestinian women, and almost as arduous to build meaningful friendships with most Palestinians. Overall, I’ve lost the sense of community because participating in that community would mean living a lie. That would be an even more ill-fitting suit than the one I wear now, whether I’m among Canadians or Palestinians.
This loss of community highlights one of the key ways Islam holds so much power. It’s far easier to remain a Muslim than to dismantle your spiritual and moral foundation, and start from scratch—exactly what I had to do when I left Islam. Without Islam, I had to confront what initially felt like a void of meaninglessness in an uncaring universe, where I was just a tiny speck that exists for a fleeting moment. Over time, I found ways to cope with that and carve out my own meaning and purpose through storytelling—something I still do today, whether as a journalist, fiction writer or YouTube content creator.
After leaving Islam, I also sought to find a new community by connecting with the group closest to my experience: fellow ex-Muslims. There are many of us around the world, and we’ve formed support groups like Ex-Muslims of Toronto, the group nearest to me. I’m grateful to have found like-minded individuals, some of whom have become close friends.
However, building an Ex-Muslim community comes with challenges, and I still don’t have a clear solution for overcoming them. While Muslims are united by beliefs and practices that tell them what to think and how to behave, Ex-Muslims are united by a negation—a lack of belief. Ex-Muslims share similar experiences, but our values and perspectives often diverge significantly. This became starkly apparent to me when I discovered that many Ex-Muslims I respected supported Israel’s ongoing potentially genocidal actions in Gaza.
To address these sorts of divergences, I’m currently part of an international effort involving Ex-Muslim activists and content creators to develop a shared set of principles that can serve as a foundation for all former Muslims. Rooted in humanism and personal freedom, these ideas are universal while also resonating with individual Ex-Muslims. It’s a promising initiative, and it gives me a lot of hope.
I still think about alternate-dimension Muslim Aleem—married with a couple of kids, going to the mosque, believing God is on his side. He has a community he’s fully embedded in, something I’ve never truly had. It’s something I’m now trying to build with my fellow Ex-Muslims. And yet, despite my efforts, I can’t deny that this community I’ve joined will never have the same binding power or strong roots as the Islam-centered community that Muslim Aleem enjoys. But I take solace—and even find personal growth—in the fact that I can be myself among Ex-Muslims. And part of being myself is accepting that I don’t entirely fit in anywhere. An ill-fitting suit might be the lot in life for Ex-Muslim atheist Aleem in this dimension, but it’s my truth, and I wouldn’t live my life any other way.
Secular Spirit (Aleem)
