Recently, I was approached by a student who wanted to do a documentary on ex-Muslims. I said yes because telling our stories matters. We rarely get to speak openly, without shame or fear.
But then came the catch: “Oh, by the way, there will also be an ustaz to give his point of view.” And that’s where I walked away.Because here’s the thing: Ex-Muslims are not here to be a side character in someone else’s theological debate. We are not here to have our lives “balanced” by religious authority. We don’t need an ustaz to validate, correct, or explain our existence.
Religious leaders already have countless platforms. Mosques, madrasahs, sermons, state councils, newspapers. Ex-Muslims? We barely have a whisper of space. And when we do get that tiny space, it gets hijacked in the name of “balance.”
If you want to make a documentary about ustaz and their views on apostasy go ahead. That’s a different project. But don’t pretend you’re amplifying ex-Muslim voices when you’re actually setting us up to be judged.Neutrality doesn’t mean giving the mic back to those who already dominate.
Neutrality means letting the silenced speak without interruption. So yes, I said no. Not because I’m afraid of an ustaz’s opinion, but because I refuse to let my story be turned into a courtroom drama.
Sometimes the bravest thing you can say is: This is my voice, and it does not need a counterpoint.
And somebody comes to tell me this : "I understand your decision but I think I might have made a different decision if opportunity presents itself -- I might still have said yes unless I sense bad faith. The community is too quiet/doesn't have a voice at all. Whatever sound I can get out there, I will. Progress, not perfection."
My reply to the above :
I don’t see this as an “opportunity.” I see it as bad faith wrapped in good intentions. The language is always the same: “we want to understand you, we want to hear your views.” But I’ve been through this before, more than once.
The pattern never changes: we answer all the questions, we share our stories, and then at the end an ustaz or ustazah appears to deliver a long sermon about how apostasy is sinful — sometimes even reminding us that in the past, it carried the death sentence.
That’s not dialogue. That’s a setup.
And this one is no different from the many who come into our forums saying they “want to be our friend and come in peace.” But inevitably, it ends with: “we stretch our hands to you, to help you back to the right path.”
Do we really need their hand? Do we really need to be “rescued” from ourselves? The arrogance of that posture is exactly why such “opportunities” feel hollow.
And this is why I disagree with the claim that our community “does not have a voice.”
We do. We’ve always had one. The problem isn’t the absence of our voice it’s that others refuse to listen. Every time we try to speak, someone insists on “balancing” us with religious authority, or reframing our stories as if they are incomplete without a sermon to close the chapter.
We are not desperate people thirsting for attention. Yes, we are quiet, but we are also a growing community. We don’t make noise for the sake of it. When necessary, like in the case of that mualaf who misrepresented us, we can and will speak out strongly to correct the record.
To me, we don’t need those who already see us as “the lost ones” to tell our story. We will create our own stories, on our own terms, on our own platforms. That’s where authenticity and dignity lie.
Our voice is already here and it will only grow stronger.
Another tactic we see: when ex-Muslims are interviewed, especially Malays, we often say clearly: “I am Malay, and I want to use my own name.” But when the story comes out, our names are changed suddenly every apostate has a “non-Muslim” and an english name. This is deliberate.
It erases Malay identity the moment faith is abandoned, just like the way the Malay-Muslim label ties ethnicity to religion as if they are inseparable.
It’s a quiet form of control: if you leave Islam, you must also leave Malayness.
