I was raised in a strict Muslim household where singing was banned – then I did the unthinkable

“Muslim women shouldn’t sing on stage,” my dad told me when I came home from school, brimming with pride at having been asked to sing in a show about Samson and Delilah.

The issue was not that I was learning, as an 11-year-old, about the blinding power of female sexuality through the biblical tale of Delilah, who uses her feminine wiles to convince the mighty Samson to cut his hair – the source of his strength.

No, the issue was that my singing voice – like my hair and body – should be kept covered. As a hijabi, Dad said, I had the additional responsibility of representing other Muslims and making sure I acted appropriately in public.

It wasn’t quite the devastating blow you might expect. By that age, I’d already been told countless times that I was too loud, and I believed that my wish to be on stage made me a show-off.

My Iranian father’s position was clear, and yet, for some reason that must have come from deep within my hopeful little heart, I couldn’t stop myself. Despite the edict, I continued to sing at school without telling him. If I only sang at school, and if I only sang “feminine” songs and didn’t dance or act suggestively, I thought I could avoid Hell – or at the very least, put up a good defence on the way down.

The stereotype of the “strict religious family” might conjure up two-dimensional images of an overbearing and domineering father, fearful wife and oppressed daughters, but the reality is far more complex. The power of imposed religion isn’t always in physical or psychological coercion, but in planting, early on, the seeds of authority and eternal damnation, leaving most of the legwork to shame, fear and a self-castigating internal monologue. The inconsistencies I witnessed between ideology and reality further compounded the conflict.

My father might have had many ideas about how women should behave, but my English convert mother was both primary breadwinner and caregiver. In many ways, we were like any “normal” British family. We watched Saturday night television together – from You’ve Been Framed to Stars in their Eyes – and occasionally even Gladiators, when I’d marvel at the gorgeous Jet’s nakedness, while absorbing my father’s critical running commentary, my own body a site for the East-West battle.

I sang at school concerts, but my wish to be on stage felt like a disease. It was one of things that gave me the purest joy, and yet without the permission or encouragement to explore it to its fullest, it felt like an empty passion. I knew I had to build a Serious Career as a Serious Person, and told myself I would stop singing when I left school.

But I didn’t.

I’ve been a professional singer for 15 years, but not one you’ll have heard of. You won’t have seen me on a TV talent show and I don’t have an album on Spotify, but I might have sung at your wedding, or Christmas party, or in the restaurant while you signalled to the waiter for more prosecco at bottomless brunch.

I don’t know what my father wanted me to do with my life, but I imagine jumping on stage in a catsuit singing Whitney Houston to finance bros was pretty far down the list. And yet, it’s been a vital part of the process that’s led me to put on a show that I’m dedicating to my dad.

Last year, six weeks before the Edinburgh Fringe, I dared myself to rise above my own doubts and put on my own live music show – and through both covers and original songs, I realised there was a story.

First Love is about my journey to finding love and my voice. This month I’m bringing a more playful version of it to Soho Theatre and trying to capture more of the essence of that little girl who just wanted to sing and be loved.

And, through this story, I know I’m communicating some of my father’s. He left his home country in the 70s, when it was a vibrant hub of art and music – only to return as an adult to an unrecognisable theocracy, under strict Islamic rule. His conflict surely eclipses mine.

He regularly sends me poetry, clips of Only Fools and Horses, and songs performed by Iranian women, unable to reconcile the joy he takes from the world with the beliefs that help him make sense of it.

I no longer wish he’d raised me differently, and can let the gaps between us exist. But there’s something about sitting with the little child I was, torn between two worlds, that has helped me understand him more than ever.

He’ll never see the show, but if he could I hope that, before he reverts to the set script of rules and admonishment, he’d allow himself a glimmer of pride in raising a little girl who fought hard for her own joy.

Hajar is a stand-up comedian and singer. She will be performing First Love at Soho Theatre on Tuesday 11 February.