From devout Muslim to stand-up comic: How comedy is helping me unpack my complicated identity

Did you hear the one about the devout hijabi Muslim girl who became a stand-up comedian? Probably. It’s 2022, after all.

Muslim women have been on the comedy circuit for some time now, but when I was a hijab-wearing girl with impossible dreams of being on stage, the very idea felt like a joke.

A strict Muslim raised with even stricter ideas of gender roles, I thought any sort of performing was my ticket to Hell. To be a “good” woman was to be covered and quiet, but while covering was easy, I was anything but quiet. In fact, ever since I could talk, I was told I was “too loud”, and I wore that shameful label like a noose; a suffocating reminder that my personality was at odds with my religious beliefs.

Fair-skinned and half-Iranian, “Muslim” was the label I clung to throughout my childhood and adolescence, but by the time I went to university, I knew I couldn’t be the Muslim my dad wanted me to be. So, after 13 years of wearing the scarf, I took it off and tried to see who I was without religion.

When your identity is built on external symbols and parental expectations, it’s not easy to magic one out of thin air, and so I spent my 20s hoping either men or work would fill the void. Turns out, neither did.

My ADHD-fuelled portfolio career didn’t provide the label I craved. From copywriter and marketing manager to presenter, journalist, aspiring novelist and podcaster, I’ve straddled the corporate and creative worlds for 13 years, and all the while – despite no formal training and my father’s warnings against being on stage and drawing attention to myself – I was a professional singer too.

Whatever hat I wore, I never felt like I truly belonged in any role, business or industry. I either worked hard at keeping up a persona or I berated myself, just as I’d done in school, for being too loud and letting my mask slip. Even as a covers singer, my job was to perform the way clients expected – either jumping around in leggings at corporate parties and singing “I Gotta Feeling” for the five-thousandth time, or pouting and smiling my way through jazz numbers at a hotel bar.

It wasn’t until I turned 30 and was going through a divorce that I began to express myself in a way that felt authentic.

Comedy started out as a dare. I dared myself to record and share a few videos that I thought were funny, and I promised to shrug it off if no one laughed. I started off parodying influencers, matriarchal agony aunts and middle-class blue-tickers who loved to talk about their decades-old A levels on results day.

Friends left encouraging comments, a few people didn’t get the sarcasm, a colleague unfollowed me, and my mother asked if I had a lot of time on my hands. I wasn’t consistent enough to be as successful as today’s TikTokers but I discovered something important: I really, really enjoyed it.

Alongside the videos, I spent the next three years taking down notes in preparation for my first step into stand-up, which I timed perfectly. Three weeks before the pandemic and with a clutch of average jokes, I got my first gig out the way. I was nothing special, but I knew I wanted to be in comedy.

After lockdown, and now with about 20,000 words of notes, I started up again and decided to push myself further. I was accepted onto Soho Theatre’s Comedy Plus Lab, made it through to the Funny Women semi-finals, and I’m launching a local comedy night this month.

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I’m still loath to call myself a stand-up comedian, not least because I’ve not done enough gigs, but I am determined to use the craft to see if the parts of me that don’t make sense might, somehow, be funny.

In stand-up, persona is key, but it isn’t the same as a label or identity. While I can’t pretend to be a white agnostic middle-class woman, and while I still don’t know how British, Iranian or Muslim I am, I’ve realised I don’t need to have all the answers to express myself authentically on stage. Persona is simply how you choose to tell the audience “you can trust me” without them asking if you’re OK afterwards.

Comedy can be the perfect way to explore the many incongruities within ourselves and the world, and to find a way to make them funny and relatable. I’m very much at the start of the journey, and learning as I go, but I owe it to myself to take risks and find my voice – because my dream isn’t a joke anymore.

Hajar will be hosting Halfies, a live panel at the London Podcast Festival on Thursday 8September at Kings Place London. Tickets are available here