Sanctuary

Adil Munim

An eight-year old finds refuge to be his truest self in a bathroom; but will the illusion last?

The house was a maze the first few days. Boxes and furniture and drywall. A shell of a home, waiting to be filled. Bilal watched his mother quickly begin unpacking household items and finding place for them in this new home. It was different from the last one. The tiling wasn’t flat and smooth, but textured and grout-filled. The walls weren’t concrete, but thin gypsum board. It was built to survive both winter and summer, unlike their previous home in the desert. But the most fascinating thing about this new home was that the second floor was all hardwood. Bilal spent many of those first few days stepping along the shiny wooden panels, pressing his toes into their smooth lacquered grain, feeling their slight give, learning which ones creaked under his weight.

“Bilal!” Bilal’s mother stretched out the second vowel in his name, as she usually did when she wanted him to do something.

Bilal obediently pushed himself up off the carpet in his parents’ bedroom, side-stepping around his Legos to follow the sound of his mother’s voice. He found her in the walk-in closet he shared with his older sister, sitting on the floor, placing clothes in neat piles on the shelves or putting them on hangers.

“Ji Ammi?” Bilal asked.

“Get me some more hangers from my closet, beta,” she said, without looking up from the pile of clothes.

Bilal zipped back to his parents’ bedroom, reaching up in their closet to find a few empty coat hangers. The quicker he moved, the quicker he’d be back to his Legos and making the most of his summer vacation. He returned to his mother and set the hangers down at her feet, waiting a beat to see if she needed anything else. Just as he was about to turn on his heels, his mother lifted up a glittery garment from the pile. It was a skirt, covered in silver sequins that shimmered under the light. Bilal had no idea where it came from, but it was the most beautiful thing he had seen.

Bilal’s mother tutted, knowing that no one would be wearing the skirt anytime soon. It had been part of an elaborate costume at some point for Bilal’s sister, who had since outgrown not only the skirt, but also dressing up and playing games, and even Bilal. She spent most days with her new friends at the mall. As his mother folded the skirt up into a small square and tucked it into a far corner of the closet, Bilal made a mental note of its exact position. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to see that skirt again.

For the next few days, Bilal considered the options. He was now eight years old and much too old to be playing with his sisters’ things. Well before moving to this new country, it had become apparent to Bilal that there were “boys’ things” and “girls’ things”. Legos and toy cars and blue button-up shirts and muscular action figures with bulging biceps were boys’ things. Barbies and vibrant lipstick and high heels and glittery skirts were girls’ things. The two didn’t mix. Boys who did girls’ things weren’t boys at all. He had learned this after being reprimanded for tossing his mother’s dupatta over his shoulders; scolded and ridiculed for playing with his sister’s dolls. Boys who did girls’ things weren’t boys at all, but only if they got caught.

One night after dinner, Bilal rushed upstairs before everyone else, saying he had to use the bathroom. He tip-toed along the hardwood, straight past the bathroom door, towards the walk-in closet. He left all the lights off, moving as silently as possible in the shadows. Kneeling on the floor, he turned his head back twice to make sure he was alone, and quickly pulled the glittering skirt from the shelf and into the waistband of his trousers. His heart was pounding. The bump along his waist was more obvious than he had hoped. He pulled his shirt around it, hunching his back to try and make it seem less prominent. He felt his body vibrate with the adrenaline coursing through it. Then he heard footsteps. Without thinking, he rushed towards the bathroom door on his toes, shutting it as quietly behind him as possible.

It took a few moments before he was able to catch his breath. Pulling up the hem of his shirt, he retrieved the skirt, unfolding it to hold it up in front of him, up to the light. The sequins glimmered, reflecting tiny versions of his own smile. Knowing he didn’t have much time, Bilal quickly pulled down his trousers and slipped the skirt over his legs. The material under the sequins was stretchy and flexible, it hugged his waist perfectly. He ran his fingers over the sequins, feeling their sharp edges under the tips of his fingers before smoothing them down into place.

Bilal tilted his head upwards, lifting his arms up above his head, spun around once, maybe twice, and emerged in his imagination. This was home. He spent more time here than anywhere else. Anything was possible here. And the new article of clothing around his waist glimmered with entirely new possibilities. He could be a princess, trapped in the bathtub-tower, making a brave escape. Or a member of Destiny’s Child, dancing and lip-syncing across the bathroom floor stage. Or a Bollywood starlet, crooning about a forbidden love in the lush field of the bathroom rug. Or perhaps he could be Lara Croft, skillfully unearthing secrets hidden away from the peering eyes of looters and snatchers.

Here, he could be.

'Firouz' by Amra Khan (acrylics on canvas, 2025)

But only for about twenty minutes. Any longer and his extended stay in the bathroom might become suspicious or concerning. Bilal savoured every second of that twenty-minute window. When his time was up, he returned to reality feeling elated and full. Slipping the glittering skirt off his waist and pulling his trousers back on, he decided it was too risky to return the skirt back to the closet. So, he cleverly tucked it into the cabinet under the sink, behind bottles of brand new cleaning solution and sponges. No one opened that cabinet, it seemed. To complete the illusion, Bilal flushed the toilet and washed his hands before exiting the bathroom. He held his pride tight to his chest, not letting his lips break into even the slightest smile that might give him away.

Every day after dinner, Bilal found himself escaping into the bathroom. And each day, he followed the same ritual. He’d lock the door, slip off his trousers, and pull on the skirt. At first, each twenty-minute window contained one unique story. Short and sweet, told in hushed tones. A secret. But Bilal quickly found himself immersed deeper in this new world. As the days passed, he slipped away into the bathroom more frequently and the stories grew more complex; the characters became more developed. Various new elements were added to his costume: a hair tie left by the sink adorned his wrist; an old black t-shirt mimicked flowing locks of hair. He ran his fingers over the fabric, flipping it over his shoulder dramatically. The moment required it. But no matter what the story needed, no matter how deeply immersed he felt, Bilal never, not once, looked into the bathroom mirror until he was washing his hands.

One morning, Bilal awoke to find the house nearly empty. From atop the stairs, he could hear the sound of a wet mop squelching against the tiles downstairs. No one would be coming upstairs soon, unless they wanted an earful from his mother about walking on the wet floor. Grinning ear to ear, he dashed towards the bathroom. Maybe he would have more time today. He slipped the skirt on hurriedly, tossing the black t-shirt over his head and twisting it into a classy updo. Today, he was a diva. He looked up into the bathroom light, and it morphed into a bright stage light. Holding up a hairbrush, he began silently belting into it. This was the performance of his life. There were dance numbers and high energy bops. And when he needed a rest, Bilal sat on top of the closed toilet, still holding the microphone, singing a slow ballad and smoothing the sequins back into place.

He heard the doorknob turn a split second too late.

His arms moved in a blur as he realised he had forgotten to lock the door. Yanking the t-shirt off his head onto the floor by his trousers, he hunched forward trying to cover the sequined skirt with arms that were too skinny to hide anything. He didn’t dare look up.

“I’m in here!” he yelled.

The door closed.

Bilal’s heart travelled up into his throat and seemed to be permanently lodged there. He could hear it beating loudly against his eardrums and thought it might force itself out through his mouth. With trembling arms and legs, Bilal stood up slowly and pushed the sequins off his waist, wincing as they clattered against each other. The sound made him sick. In a daze, he picked up the skirt and t-shirt, tucking them back into the cabinet. Slowly, he pulled on his trousers and brushed his hair into place. As per routine, he flushed the toilet and washed his hands, making as much noise as possible, his eyes fixated on the bubbles of soap popping against his skin.

He slipped into his bedroom and stayed there for the rest of the day, flipping through books, playing with toy cars, sitting in the shadows away from the summer sun beating against the window. At dinner, Bilal’s mother didn’t say a word about the morning incident. She asked him to help clear the table, then told him to shower before bed. Bilal wondered if she had seen anything at all. But that night when Bilal locked the bathroom door, and opened the cabinet, all he found were cleaning bottles and sponges.

His heart which had eventually found its original resting place after the events of that morning, returned to his throat, choking him and pounding within his chest and somehow also in his ears and also in his head. He blinked twice and sat on the edge of the tub. Everything inside him felt hot, a deep heat pulsing outwards from his abdomen, scalding his skin. Boys who did girls’ things weren’t boys at all, but only if they got caught. They always got caught, Bilal thought. His hands clutched the edge of the tub. Maybe if he pressed hard enough, the porcelain would melt under the heat emanating from his body. Maybe the walls would follow. The toilet. The sink. The light. Maybe the bathroom would boil over and swallow him whole. He willed it to happen until his palms hurt from pushing against the tub. Then he stood up, flushed the toilet, washed his hands and left the bathroom.

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Adil Munim is a writer, poet and former lawyer. His writing draws on his lived experiences as a queer Muslim and touches on topics of identity, faith and freedom. 

Amra Khan is an inter-disciplinary visual artist, researcher and educator based in Lahore. She graduated with a distinction in painting in 2008 from the National College of Arts, Lahore. Later she obtained a Masters in Visual Arts from the NCA, with a semester at École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts (ENSBA) Paris, France, from 2010- 2011.

She primarily works with oils, acrylics and miniature painting, incorporating mixed media, textiles, repurposed wood, and devotional objects. Her practice examines the bipolarity of the binary, focusing on gender, sexuality, intimacy and social conditioning, particularly within the framework of religion. She investigates the queer body and the alpha male archetype in the Pakistani Muslim context, challenging dominant norms and exploring how identity is experienced through both the physical body and the spiritual selfhood.

Her work has been exhibited widely, both locally and internationally, and is part of the Luciano Benetton 'Imago Mundi' Collection, along with other prominent collections. Amra has been awarded the Visiting Artist Fellowship at the Mittal Institute, Harvard University Spring 2024 and Sam & Adele Golden Foundation Residency Program residency 2024. She is currently serving as an assistant professor at the Kinnaird College for Women.