How to Hug a Unicorn Inside an Islam Home
It’s a curse to be born gay. Double that if you’re born into an Islamic family.
Cruising through the complexities of being a queer young man within the confines of a conservative Moro household was an uncharted journey for me. I grew up in a small city in Sultan Kudarat where I wandered through my double life without a compass, no guidebooks to light the way, and no helping hands to navigate the twists and turns. From what I knew, all that I had was my father.
My late father, a staunch conservative, a former trial court judge in Iloilo City, and a legal practitioner in his late 80s, stood as my sole parent following the tragic loss of my mother to a brutal murder when I was only four years old. He was authoritarian — cold, strict, and loved sticking to his old-fashioned ideals. My dad had strong beliefs about how things should be, and frequently, they didn’t always match how I felt inside. My naive soul was torn between trying to be who he wanted me to be and being true to myself. It was a confusing time, with no clear path forward.
In the backdrop of a typical Moro household, the struggle of being born gay was a quiet ordeal, shared by many but seldom acknowledged openly. Moro fathers, ingrained with traditional values, often expected their sons to epitomize strength and masculinity, viewing traits like sensitivity and an appreciation for fashion, western reality TV, and 2000s pop culture as foreign and incongruent. My experience mirrored this reality — facing passive disownment simply because I didn’t fit the conventional mold of masculinity. Ironically, in my youth, friends and family called me Datu, a term Moro people use for noble, courageous men of high social standing. However, I knew deep within that I didn’t fit the standard. The idea of being called Datu repulsed me for so long. So as I grew older, I chose to shed that name and adopt a different identity.
Despite the presence of a father figure in the household in my early childhood years, the absence of nurturing parental guidance left me adrift. Growing up was a challenge, compounded by the confusion of grappling with my own gender identity without a safe confidant. I faced emotional mishandling for what was perceived as “life choices” that weren’t even mine to make, as a burgeoning queer child in a remote city in the south.
My house was not a home. It was an emotional slaughterhouse for a gay moro teen with one foot already on the grave. My thoughts were overwhelmed by a flood of gut-wrenching questions, each one more painful than the one before. I kept them all tightly locked away, hidden from prying ears. But would it hurt to know how my father felt, watching me grow into someone he didn’t want? Was I ever truly loved? Did he ever wish for a different son who fit his expectations more closely? There were times when I couldn’t help but feel a hint of pity for him.
Seeing my father grow older right in front of me was an uphill battle. I had to deal with some tough questions that didn’t have easy answers. By the time I reached school age, his hair matched the color of unpolished concrete, his skin resembled a wrinkled apple, and his knees trembled with the ache of age, requiring a walking stick for support. This highlighted the significant age difference between us as father and son. I was his youngest child, born to his housemaid in Midsayap, Cotabato, where he had lived with his second wife. My mother, his third wife, was the one for whom he built a house in Sultan Kudarat. I was the only fruit of their marriage.
My father already had eight other children from his previous marriages, all with separate lives. After my mother passed away, my father remarried again for the fourth time.
In Maguindanaoan culture, we have a tradition called Duaya. Customarily, it permits men of our tribe to practice polygyny, wherein they are allowed to have multiple wives, typically up to four. This practice is deeply rooted in the community’s beliefs and values, with the understanding that a man must be capable of providing for each of his wives and their children. It’s a significant aspect of the culture, reflecting the dynamics of family and community structure. My father, following this tradition, took on the responsibility of marrying four wives throughout his lifetime.
None of his other children wanted anything to do with my father since he got tied with Analiza, the 18-year-old cashier from a diner he used to go to in the Cotabato Province. She became his fourth wife. I had no choice but to be by his side as he journeyed into old age with this woman whom I refused to acknowledge as a replacement for my mother.
My father found excitement in their relationship. It brought back his youth. But for me, it left deep unsettled scars. There were nights when I watched this woman assault my father in their fights, while I, feeling helpless and scared, couldn’t do anything to stop it. She was the kind of person who would lose her temper over small things, even tearing up money or throwing glassware in her anger. One night, their argument escalated in the living room. My bedroom was right there, so I peeked out and saw her hitting my father’s face on the couch with her clenched fists. Blood stained his mouth, dripping from his usual white tee. I knew deep inside that I wanted to defend my father, but the fear held me back. I was young and helpless. I panicked and locked the doors, tears streaming down my face. Until now, whenever I reminisce about this moment, I could see my father’s pleading eyes, staring at me in hopes of help. I felt so powerless, unsure of what to do. If only I could’ve a been braver man, maybe things would’ve been different. I cried myself to sleep that night, locked away in my room, pretending everything was normal. The day after, they made up, but I couldn’t shake the memory of that night. It’s been buried inside me for ages, but now I feel like I have to talk about it. It’s still there, weighing me down. Eventually, years later, their marriage was annulled.
In moments like these, I’m compelled to reflect on the role of religion in my life, alongside the reality of being born gay and the profound loss of my mother at such a young age. With the added burden of witnessing my father’s suffering, unable to alleviate it, I’m left questioning the comfort and solace promised by religion. How can a belief system advocating love and compassion tolerate such cruelty and violence within the four corners of our home?
Speaking about religion is like unraveling a box of complex emotions for me. I must say that my relationship with my father regarding religion has always been a bitter pill to swallow. Everything I did was for show. It was clear in my mind back then that there was no way for me to be gay while practicing Islam. It was the ultimate form of hypocrisy there is, considering queer people from other countries get beheaded for living this kind of lifestyle. But in my defense, I was a naive 12-year-old child back then. What was I to know?
Sometimes, I wonder if this was also a universal experience for gay Moro children. Was I the only one exposed to the pain of feeling alienated by their religion? Adhering to Islamic teachings while grappling with my sexuality was indeed incredibly challenging. The fear of eternal damnation for simply being gay weighed heavily on me, fostering a complicated relationship with my faith — one characterized by both love and resentment.
I distinctly recall the times when my stepmother urged me to join my father for his daily sambayang (prayers). It felt apprehensive at first but I knew I had to comply. It was one way of making up to my father. I even remember learning the full process of ablution from one of our house-help, Allan, who would guide me step by step before I join my father in prayer.
Back when I was in fourth grade, I started attending Friday prayers at the local Masjid (prayer house) and my Aunt even signed me up for basic Arabic classes which were taught by the Ustadz (prayer leader). Going back, I can say that I barely learned anything from those classes except the first four letters of the Arabic alphabet which we’re Alif, Baa, Taa, and Saa. Our mentor’s language of instruction was in Maguidanaoan so I found it extremely difficult to keep up.
At home, during my father’s daily prayer schedule, I would join him and lay on a smaller version of a prayer mat atop his bed while he, on the other hand, prayed on the floor. Observing the synchronized movements of Islamic men and women in prayer reveals a deeply ritualistic routine: standing, raising hands to the head, crossing them over the chest, and more. Yet, despite my attempts to replicate these actions, their true meaning eluded me. It wasn’t just about mimicking movements; it was about connecting with a higher power, embodying mindfulness, and expressing devotion beyond physical gestures. The prayers, predominantly in Arabic, were also never explained to me; I simply followed along, eager to please. Maybe it was because conversations between us were usually scarce, limited mainly to interactions in Filipino, as my father rarely spoke to me in our ethnic language.
Enrollment in a private Catholic school also further distanced me from my father’s culture, as I was one of the few Muslim children there. I have spent most of my formative years being influenced by Christian culture. Even the Islamic kids would be forced to study Christian Living Education (CLE) as it was an integral part of the school’s curriculum. Consequently, I never had the opportunity to fully learn about my culture, its language, or its nuances. Following my mother’s passing, my relationship with my father became even more distant. Our only tangible connection seemed to revolve around financial transactions, particularly when it came to paying my tuition fees. Each time my statement of account arrived, I would affix it to the refrigerator door with the help of decorated fridge magnets — which if my memory serves me right, were 2D plastic replicas of tropical fruits. In response, my father would leave the necessary funds in an envelope, which he also pinned back to the fridge. I would then retrieve the money and utilize it to cover my tuition fees.
As I grew older, I became more independent, managing my weekly allowances and tuition payments with minimal interaction with my father. It wasn’t until I reached junior elementary school that I began to participate in his morning walks and gardening activities, offering brief moments of shared time together. However, our relationship remained fraught with tension, contributing to feelings of confusion and identity crisis within myself. Even though I was raised Muslim and prayed with my father, I felt distant from my culture. Not knowing his language made me feel even more left out and guilty. Looking back, I regret not making more effort to embrace and understand my roots.
Our bond was like a love-hate relationship. It was far from those cheerful family-themed scenes depicted on TV or in books. But one of the most memorable days of my childhood life was helping him with his gardenwork. My father was always known for his green thumb. He had a passion for gardening, enjoying the process of planting trees, landscaping gardens, and meticulously removing weeds from our front and back yards. I often accompanied him in these mundane tasks. With his metallic walking stick, he’d point out the direction of the weeds, and I’d swiftly pluck them from the ground. It was the closest thing to a family bonding that I ever experienced. Is this how other fathers bond with their children too? I couldn’t say for sure, but it was my way of trying to please him and perhaps compensating for my perceived “sins” of being born gay.
Of all the things in this world, my father’s greatest love was undoubtedly fruit trees. On special seasons, there were times when my father would ask me to climb our massive mango trees. He’d often ask for me to wrap the fruits, stapling them in a cocoon of scrap paper to safeguard them against pests before harvest. During summer, we’d also gather fallen tambis fruits (water apples) from our giant tree and work together to prepare his special tambis jam — a delightful concoction of caramelized brown sugar and water apples, slowly simmered into a rich brown jam. He’d store it in the fridge for days, using it as a delectable filling for his whole wheat bread. If you’ve visited our estate in Sultan Kudarat, you can’t miss the giant tree that’s almost like the unofficial landmark of our house. When it’s a fruiting season, it becomes a sight to behold, like a gigantic Christmas tree covered in clusters of pinkish fruits resembling tiny apples. Its iconic flowers, reminiscent of soft paint bristles, would gently cascade from above, a sight impossible to overlook. The act of sweeping them with a broom each morning now fills me with nostalgia. Despite the tambis tree’s age, it continued to yield an abundance of fruit, often prompting us to share sacks upon sacks with neighbors or sell them wholesale at the public market. Surplus fruits found their way into my high school classmates’ bags as clandestine gifts. However, as I approach my thirties, I’ve made a solemn vow: never again will I consume a single water apple. After indulging in them for the first sixteen years of my life, I’ve simply grown weary of their taste.
Adjacent to my mother’s grave, which was also nestled inside our compound, stood a towering avocado tree, a silent witness to our family’s story. Armed with a fruit-picking pole, I would carefully navigate its branches, harvesting as many avocados as I could reach. Believe me, it was tough for me to grab fruit when I was just a little kid because I was so short back then. While I was doing it, I would sometimes look at my dad’s face, wishing to see him happy or proud. Yet, his face remained the usual — inscrutable, devoid of emotion, save for the occasional disappointment that seemed etched into his features. Perhaps, this silent disappointment fueled my lifelong compulsion to seek approval from others. Given my father’s background as a former trial court judge, I suspect he felt entitled to preemptively pass judgment on my character. It was an inevitable burden that I had to carry over my fragile shoulders. As a teenager, I felt guilty at home but couldn’t explain why. Despite the lack of visible affirmation, I continued to fulfill his wishes, driven by an innate desire to please. Each harvest would find its way to our kitchen, where our housemaids and I would diligently peel the avocados, transforming them into a delectable dessert infused with condensed milk and heavy cream. For the unripe ones, we carefully wrapped each fruit in paper, storing them in boxes until they ripened.
My father had a penchant for sweet treats, a preference evident in the abundance of fruit trees he had cultivated around our home. From the solitary tambis tree to the lush rows of papaya, rambutan, mango, jackfruit, and durian trees, our small home garden was a testament to his love for sweet indulgences and the bounty of nature. Perhaps, I inherited my sweet tooth from him after all.
One aspect of my dad that I cherished the most was when, during my fifth or sixth-grade years, he would take me to court with him. I became his little assistant, lugging around his case files and briefcase before and after trials. As he grew weaker with each passing day, leaning on a cane for support, he truly relied on my help. Thanks to him, I traveled to numerous trial courts across Mindanao. Often, his colleagues would inquire about me, and with pride, he would declare me as his son. Oh, how my heart danced with joy at that acknowledgment! It was one of those times when I felt like somehow, I was accepted by my father.
In his last days, my father was in and out of the hospital because of his diabetes, high blood pressure, and heart problems. I stayed with him during those last few years, along with his second wife, who came from Midsayap together with one of my stepbrothers, to make sure my father got the help he needed. Being by his side during those tough times was my way of showing him how much I cared for him.
I vividly recall moments when nearing 80 years old, he continued to practice law, meeting with clients despite his failing health. It was his passion, and I admired his dedication. However, as his illness progressed, he struggled to write, so I was always there to assist him. He would dictate his papers, and I would transcribe them, though my lack of knowledge about legal terms sometimes frustrated him. Yet, I remained patient, determined to support him in any way I could.
When my father’s health condition worsened around the time I was finishing high school, I couldn’t be there by his side. He fell into a coma and had to go to Davao, but I was stuck at school, not knowing how serious things were. I refrained from questioning why I wasn’t included in the family gatherings during his illness, silently grappling with my emotions. Bereft of someone to confide in or seek guidance from, I confronted the uncertainty alone, a role I had grown accustomed to. And when my father eventually passed away, I attended my graduation ceremony with a heavy heart, the weight of his absence palpable. All the efforts I had made to please him now felt futile, leaving me grappling with a profound sense of loss and emptiness.
Like many, I once saw my father as the antagonist in my life story. Yet, I also embraced the fact that he was merely a product of his time — a typical Moro father of old, raised in a generation where the voices of queer individuals like myself were stifled, much like flowers denied their chance to bloom. I understand and forgive him for not being able to shower this gay unicorn with the love it craved. Let me be clear: I never harbored hatred towards my father. I only wished he could have done better.
Growing up without a mother and lacking a nurturing father figure left me feeling apprehensive about life. While I have fully grasped the tenets of the religion I was born into, I struggled with the impossibility of hiding or erasing an intrinsic part of myself. I felt like a true unicorn — vibrant and bursting with color, yet unreal and unseen. In a sorrowful home, being a unicorn was the ultimate torment. How could one expect to find solace in a Moro household as a Unicorn?
To hug a unicorn in a Moro household demands bravery and perseverance, a readiness to question norms, and face entrenched beliefs about one’s values. It entails daring to be different, to authentically express yourself in a society that often pressures conformity. It involves discovering moments of support and empathy amidst widespread skepticism and criticism. But hugging a unicorn in a Moro home also requires patience and empathy. It means recognizing that change takes time and that not everyone will immediately understand or accept your truth. It’s about gently nudging against the walls of tradition, making room for the vibrant colors that define who you are.
After my father passed away, I’ve learned to forgive him, and I’ve also learned to forgive myself for searching for love in a place where it felt out of reach. If only we could have met in a world where love was unconditional and religion allowed for the acceptance of wounded souls like mine.
This is the weight I carry — a life marked by perpetual sorrow and isolation. I’ve now relinquished my religion and fully embraced my identity as a proud queer individual — imperfect, yet shining with authenticity and satisfaction.
As a young adult living far from the city of my upbringing, I am on a journey to heal my inner child and release burdens not meant for me. While I still hold onto my belief in Allah and the concept of a powerful deity watching over us, I currently prefer to distance myself from organized religion and keep my faith a deeply personal matter. Contemplating life within my Moro upbringing, I ponder deeply. If I could rewrite my story, I’d choose not to grapple with the duality of being both gay and Muslim. But for now, my focus remains on discovering the path that leads to my true happiness.
