Leviticus is a supernatural horror film that follows two teenage boys, Naim and Ryan, whose growing feelings towards each other becomes a problem in their rural Australian town where homosexuality is shunned. After being found out, they become victims of a ritual by a healer from church, resulting in them being haunted by an entity that takes on the form of the person they desire most: each other. The horror in this film doesn’t stem solely from the entities that stalk Ryan and Naim, but also from watching these two young men navigate a world in which love and desire is inseparable from fear and guilt.

As a bisexual Muslim woman, Leviticus felt a lot less like a paranormal horror story and more like an exploration of what it means to exist between faith and sexuality. I couldn’t help but notice the resemblance between Ryan’s name and the name of Al-Rayyan, one of the gates of paradise through which those who have practised fasting throughout their life may enter a gate of paradise where those who’ve practised fasting may enter. “Naim” is similar to the Arabic word “Naeem”, which refers to bliss and worldly pleasures, on which the Qur’an states you will be questioned on the day of judgement. The irony that it created for me—that these characters who are so closely in relation with paradise, with godliness—are condemned and denied the promise of paradise that is constantly surrounding them due to something out of their control.

The atmosphere of Leviticus is constantly absorbed in fear and grief, however one of the most devastating moments for me was Naim’s realisation that his mother had known about the effects of the ritual the entire time. Rather than protecting him from the entity or even supporting his fears, she allows his suffering to continue under the belief that fear is necessary to save him. Despite the scene being very short, it carried an extremely emotional weight in the idea that a parent is actively choosing a preconceived salvation over their own child’s wellbeing. Growing up in a Muslim family and being out since the age of 14, I have come to encounter this message repeatedly, that it’s okay to be queer, but not to act on it. Suppressing yourself is an act of devotion. Before this moment in the film, the believers of the church were portrayed as something close to a caricature; they felt intentionally flat in a way that makes them part of the institution of the church rather than individuals. This scene became a turning point in gaining insight into Naim’s mother’s complex outlook on the church and religion as a whole, especially as she found god through the death of her husband. It is moments like this in the film that relay the dangers of being queer in a community that will never understand you.

The ending of the film, where Naim sees the entity as him and Ryan leave town by bus, doesn’t necessarily provide any answers or attempt to solve the conflict between religion and sexuality by finding a middle ground where suffering is worth it. It instead left me questioning whether to place my hope in an unknown paradise or indulge in the reality I am presented with even if it could mean damnation. Earlier in the film, Naim recalls a time when his mum told him that one day he’ll “believe in something he cannot see”. That memory gives the film a deeper resonance and making me realise that my deepest horror is not a life of persecution, but an internal, life long negotiation between who I am and what I believe, and whether the answer lies in the promise of an unknown paradise at the expense of the only life you know you have.