Ani Zonneveld’s Memoir is a Rallying Cry for Justice, Joy, and Radical Faith
“I follow the Way of Love, and where Love’s caravan takes its path, there is my religion, my faith.” — Ibn Arabi
Few people embody these words like Ani Zonneveld, the quote from her website.
Ani is a force. A woman who defies categorization — Grammy-certified songwriter, outspoken activist, spiritual warrior, and founder of Muslims for Progressive Values (MPV). Her presence radiates conviction, clarity, and joy. She sings about justice. She speaks truth to patriarchy. She challenges orthodoxy not to provoke, but to liberate. To humanize.
She writes. She sings. She agitates with grace and without apology.
When I first met Ani Zonneveld over five years ago, I knew she was a force. What I didn’t know then was how deeply she would let me in—into her world, her work, her relentless hope. Through years of activism, friendship, laughter, and hard conversations, we shared more than a cause. We shared community. I kept showing up to meetings not just because I believed in the mission, but because being there meant connection. Even in the most difficult moments, there was always joy. There was always hope.
Over those years, I also witnessed Ani writing her story—through coffee-fueled editing sessions, tears, and emotional decisions about what to name and what to protect. The result is An Unlikely Social Justice Warrior: Making My Life Count as a Muslim Feminist, published by Lived Places Publishing—a book that is not only fearless but necessary.
It’s also funny, heartbreaking and full of fight. Ani’s life—from her beginnings in Kuala Lumpur and the dusty soccer fields of India, to the LA music industry and the advocacy corridors of the UN—it’s a story of reinvention, resistance, and radical inclusion.
The book, already being praised as a vital teaching tool in human rights, gender studies, and Islamic studies classrooms, draws on Ani’s unique perspective as a Grammy-certified songwriter, faith leader, and founder of Muslims for Progressive Values (MPV).
It’s also a deeply personal work: a memoir that refuses erasure and embraces complexity.
As the book prepares to hit shelves, Ani and I sat down once more to revisit some of the themes she lived and worked through in her memoir: voice, vulnerability, music, identity, and the fight for joy in the face of injustice.
In this issue of Rowayat— rightfully themed Echoes—Ani’s story reverberates through every note, every prayer, every protest. An Unlikely Social Justice Warrior is more than a memoir. It’s a call to action. It’s a heartbeat. It’s the voice behind the movement.
“You can’t operate out of fear. It doesn’t work.” — Ani Zonneveld
As we spoke, to revisit, unpack and discuss the deeper questions behind the memoir: What does it mean to tell the truth with love? To lead with joy? To keep singing when the world tells you to be silent?
Our conversation was raw, real, and full of the humour and clarity that only Ani can bring—a woman who believes deeply in humanity, and who has always dared to be—in her words— notorious.
She has never played by the rules. Whether she’s composing award-winning pop songs in Kuala Lumpur, producing Grammy-winning albums in Los Angeles, or officiating a queer Muslim wedding in Memphis, her life is a bold refusal of silence and submission.
Let’s start with the title. Why An Unlikely Social Justice Warrior?
The title actually came later. I never set out to be a “warrior.” People kept telling me, “You need to write a book,” but I was always focused on the work. And then it hit me—the work was the story. I’ve lived in between identities — Malaysian, Muslim, artist, woman—and I kept being told what I couldn’t be. So, I decided to show the world what I am.
And what you are is someone who doesn’t fit neatly into any box.
Exactly. The memoir lays out all the contradictions I’ve had to navigate. I was told I couldn’t be a feminist and a Muslim. That music was haram. That LGBTQIA+ folks couldn’t belong in faith communities. I didn’t agree—so I built my own platforms. When the door didn’t exist, I made one.
What would you say to young Muslims who are afraid to speak out or feel isolated?
You are not alone. That’s the first thing. The second is: don’t wait for permission. If something feels unjust, name it. If something feels sacred, protect it. Your voice matters—not when you have a title, not when you’re older, but now.
You’ve officiated weddings for interfaith and queer couples, something many still consider controversial. What motivates you?
Love. And God. That’s it. I ask people: What kind of God do you believe in—one who rejects people for who they love, or one who celebrates love wherever it blooms? I follow the Way of Love, and I won’t be complicit in spiritual violence. Performing those weddings is sacred work.
Was that the moment you knew your story—and that kind of truth—needed to live in a book?
Actually, I didn’t. Other people did. For years, friends, colleagues kept saying: “You need to write a book.” Eventually, it sunk in. And once I committed, I had to figure out: where do I even start?
What was the first story that came to you?
Ani laughs—a sharp, high-pitched, contagious ripple, equal parts mischief and memory.
The time I cussed out this Muslim guy who ran a digital retail site because he refused to sell my music because it didn’t fit their idea of what was “appropriate.” It made me so angry—and that emotional jolt became my entry point. That anger was the fire that lit everything else.
That memory stuck — probably because it hurt. That moment crystallized something I’ve always known instinctively: memory is emotional.
That’s what I’ve always tried to tap into through music, through storytelling. It’s something our communities often overlook — the emotional, spiritual heart of it all.
You talk about music a lot in the book — not just as a career, but as healing, as activism. Can you say more about that?
Music is emotional memory. It’s how we connect across differences—across cultures, faiths, pain, and joy. One of the things I really dig into in the memoir is how the American Muslim identity has, over time, stripped so much joy and celebration out of spirituality. I felt that loss. Through music, I wanted to bring that joy back. I wanted to make space for spiritual practices that are expressive, inclusive, and alive. Music lets the soul breathe.
You’ve moved between musical genres—classical soprano, Malaysian pop, spiritual protest anthems—but where do you feel your truest voice lives?
My singing voice—that spiritual soprano with hints of Eastern scale — is where I feel most authentic. Everyone has their own true voice, and it takes time to find. Just like writing.
And once you found that voice— musically—how did it begin to shape your writing? How did your experience as a songwriter influence the way you told your story on the page?
That’s a great question. Songwriting taught me how to distill emotion into just a few lines. It gave me rhythm and tone. My op-eds have one tone—sharp and punchy, but the memoir gave me space to bring in more of me—my humour, my sass. There’s a snarky Ani in the memoir—most people haven’t met—but she’s very real.
I loved seeing that side of you, the sass, the snark, the fight—they all come out. And that’s what makes it such a compelling read. But you also write candidly about personal pain—family, grief, betrayal. How hard was that to share?
So hard. As a public figure, I’ve always had to present strength. Writing the memoir meant letting that go. I cried a lot. I wrestled with what to include, and whether to name names. But I kept coming back to one thing: the story had to serve a purpose. If it didn’t teach, it didn’t belong. I wasn’t writing to settle scores—I was writing to reveal how power operates. And how we can dismantle it—not with shame, but with love and accountability.
That commitment to love and accountability is powerful—especially when writing through pain. When it came to shaping the memoir, how did you decide what to share, and what to leave out?
I named names. Not out of spite, but to show how systems work — how power protects itself— and who gets protected, as Edward Said said, “we have to speak truth to power.” But I stayed grounded in kindness. That was my compass. And I allowed myself to be vulnerable in a way I never have publicly— not like this. But I also realized that real strength is allowing yourself to be seen, flaws and all. Memoir forces you to be real. People needed to see that side of me, too. That you can tell the hard truths and still lead with grace and heart.
You’ve spent decades on stages and at the frontlines. And yet, even with all that visibility, vulnerability wasn’t easy?
Not at all. As someone who runs an organization, I’ve always had to be steely—not emotional. Writing this book forced me to let people in. I had to pull down the armour. That’s how people connect—not just through ideas, but through emotion. The stories—even the painful ones— aren’t in there to shame anyone. They’re in there to show how the machine works. Some names I chose to anonymize. Others I left in. But every story had to serve a narrative purpose. And in my world, purpose matters more than ego.
“As someone who runs an organization, I’ve always had to be steely—not emotional. Writing this book forced me to let people in.”
Was there a particular moment when you realized this story needed to become a book? And how did you find your way into the writing process?
I think it finally dawned on me that, all right, I get it, I need to write a book. And so, it was then a matter of determining the steps to take. It wasn’t something I had planned, but once it was in my head, it became something I had to do. Still, I had no idea how to begin. Just the typical dilemma many first-time authors face.
And then you came along came—it not only helped shape the structure of the book but reminded me that the story, as personal and raw as it is, deserves to be told.
What was the hardest part of the writing process for you?
Letting myself be vulnerable. Also, editing—hands down. I wanted to include everything, but I had to learn what served the story and what didn’t. I had to trust that readers would still feel the emotional throughline, even without every single detail.
You say this book is for students. Why?
Because young people are open. They’re brave. And they’re looking for role models who don’t pretend to be perfect. This book is for every student trying to navigate gender, faith, justice, and identity. I want them to know they’re not alone—and they don’t have to choose between their values and their identities.
One of the most powerful moments in your memoir is a scene from your childhood in India— playing soccer with a Dalit boy and being told it was “unfitting” for the ambassador’s daughter. What did that moment teach you?
I was nine. I was playing soccer with my friend, the son of a Dalit gardener. Some people said it wasn’t appropriate for the ambassador’s daughter to mix with “low caste” kids. My mom warned me about what people were saying—but she also said, “Do what you think is right.” That stayed with me.
I didn’t care and didn’t even realize that it was the most revolutionary thing I did as a kid. It was my first act of anti-racism—even before I had the language for it.
Years later, I stood with Hindus for Human Rights. I’m not Hindu. I’m not Dalit. But Dalit tech workers in California were facing caste discrimination. That’s what allyship looks like. Justice doesn’t stop at your identity. You show up—even when it’s not your fight.
“You show up for people—not because it’s your fight, but because it’s the right thing to do. That’s how you build real allyship.”
Long before MPV took shape, you were already leading—even as an imam. How did that begin?
Her smile breaks into a low, knowing laugh—almost shy.
Honestly, it started with me hosting prayer circles. And people would just look at me and go, “Well, you organized it… so you lead.”
And I’d say, “No, you lead.”
Because for me, leadership isn’t about taking the spotlight — it’s about creating space. Making room for others to rise. That’s always been the point.
“For me, leadership isn’t about taking the spotlight—it’s about creating space. Making room for others to rise. That’s always been the point.”
That mirrors how you built MPV, doesn’t it? Founding MPV was more than just starting a nonprofit. What were you really trying to build — or unbuild?
It does. MPV was born out of a refusal to accept the status quo.
When I realized the Qur’an was more egalitarian than the institutions around me, I left the mosque. The Qur’an isn’t patriarchal. People are. But every time I showed up at a traditional mosque, I realized I was just helping uphold patriarchy. So, I stopped.
MPV wasn’t born out of certainty—it came from a need to create a space where people could just show up and breathe. Women, queer folks, ex-Muslims, spiritual seekers—everyone. I wanted a space that reflected the values I actually believe in—justice, inclusion, freedom of expression.
At our very first meeting, I had no idea who would come. But I made one thing clear: we were going to name it all. LGBTQ+, interfaith, inclusive. You name it. People needed to see those words. Say them. Internalize them. That’s how culture shifts — word by word, ritual by ritual.
MPV’s model is copied globally, offering marriage services, educational programs, and spiritual spaces that welcome everyone.
“The Qur’an isn’t patriarchal. People are.”
As we talked, Ani’s eyes lit up when we discussed the moments of joy. What have those moments looked like for you?
Oh, they’re everything. The weddings I’ve officiated. The first all-women imam conference in Brussels. But one moment that really stuck? This seven-year-old girl from Virginia, who wrote to me, complaining how women and men are segregated in the mosques and was adamant, “Do something about this!”
She lets out a loud, bright, bubbling laugh—impossible not to follow.
It was amazing. That’s our future right there—bold, unfiltered, already demanding change.
And despite all the challenges, I really believe the universe has kept opening doors for this work. Not because it’s been easy— it certainly hasn’t— but because the intention has always been clear. If your niyyah is pure, the path unfolds. You’re not chasing clout. You’re just doing the work.
“That little girl from Virginia—she wrote me like, ‘Do something about this!’ It was amazing. That’s our future right there.”
After nearly two decades leading MPV, what’s the next chapter for you — and for progressive Muslim expression in the West?
I’ve led MPV for 18 years, and along the way, I realized something essential: we Muslims in the West need a celebrative culture. Something that’s artistic, participatory, and deeply spiritual. A space where people—of all faiths or none— can come together in joy and connection.
That’s what I’m building now: not an “Ani Zonneveld” production, but a collective ritual. I’m calling on artists, writers, dancers, musicians — anyone moved by this vision — to help create a living, breathing expression of American Muslim culture. One that’s rooted in beauty, resistance, and belonging.
That brings us to your new theatre project, which you mention briefly at the end of the book.
Yes! It’s a community-sourced musical production—part theatre, part spiritual gathering—with spoken word, visual art, and choral music, all woven around themes of compassion, justice, and spiritual inclusion. It’s about co-creating culture. Not my story, but our story.
We will do a public call for submissions—and artists will be paid and credited. That part matters. It’s radical, I think, because it shifts the audience from passive observers to active participants. Everyone becomes part of the ritual. Everyone belongs.
After everything you’ve shared—the fight, the faith, the joy, the grief—what do you hope readers carry with them when they finish the book?
That you don’t need permission to be whole. That you can carve your own path. And that your life—just as it is— can count for something meaningful.
Like my Dad said, “Ani, make your life count.” You can too.
And you have, Ani. You’ve made it count — with courage, with heart, and on your own terms. I’ve witnessed it. I’ve felt it. Through our friendship, your fire, and your unwavering belief in justice have been a compass.
Thank you for sharing your journey behind the memoir and for reminding us that hope, love and change are all possible.
About the Book:
An Unlikely Social Justice Warrior: Making My Life Count as a Muslim Feminist by Ani Zonneveld is part of Lived Places Publishing’s “Intersections: Identity and Place” collection. It offers a powerful, first-person narrative that blends memoir, music, activism, and theology. Ideal for college and graduate-level courses in human rights, gender studies, Islamic studies, and activism.
Available in print and ebook formats from Lived Places Publishing.
Ani Zonneveld
Born in Malaysia and raised across Germany, Egypt, and India, Ani grew up immersed in a swirl of cultures, politics, and faiths. That early exposure planted in her a global awareness and a deep-rooted belief in the power of art and pluralism. Her music career took off in Kuala Lumpur, where she wrote and produced chart-topping songs for pop icons like Siti Nurhaliza. But Ani didn’t stop there. After moving to Los Angeles, she broke through the male-dominated industry, writing songs that landed on Grammy-winning albums—becoming the first Malaysian to ever win a Grammy.
Then came 9/11. Like many Muslims, Ani found herself re-examining her identity. But instead of retreating, she stepped forward—with music that challenged extremism, with lyrics grounded in Qur’anic ethics, with a vision of Islam anchored in compassion and justice.
In 2007, she founded Muslims for Progressive Values, a leading voice in the global movement for inclusive Islam.
MP now operates in seven countries and holds consultative status at the United Nations. MPV is not just an advocacy organization; it’s a movement. One that affirms LGBTQ Muslims, supports interfaith marriages, and stands unapologetically for freedom of conscience.
Her work spans continents and communities, from music festivals to United Nations panels, from local mosques to international coalitions for LGBTQIA+ rights and religious freedom.
Ani performs weddings, officiates for queer couples, and refuses to accept the narrative that religion and rights must be at odds.
Photo Courtesy of Ani Zonneveld
