The Dual Identity of the LGBT Arab

The Arab LGBT community is hiding in plain sight. I found the idea of this intersectionality of ethnicity and sexuality/gender orientation to be quite interesting upon noticing that the Arab LGBT community has no media visibility on television nor in cinema in the West and Middle East alike on virtually any platforms, in any communities. To be gay or transgender and Arab is seen as a paradox. In fact, when I told people I’d be writing about this topic, their reactions were along the lines of, “Oh yeah…I never…” However, there’s a huge community of gay and transgender Arabs I’ve come across time after time over the past couple of years. I’ve had close Arab friends “come out” to me, and have seen more and more Arabs on social media who are either casually out, or only out on their social media profiles as well, despite the horrendous obstacles LGBT Arabs face that my interviewees mention such as pinkwashing, arrest, blackmail, and murder. I believe that the rise of Lebanese indie-pop band Mashrou’ Leila gave this community a push of visibility that in recent years have forced people to realize that an Arab LGBT community exists globally. The visibility that openly self-proclaimed queer lead-singer Hamed Sinno has given LGBT people in the Middle East is unprecedented. I’ve never seen Arabs waving the LGBT flag until I saw pictures of Mashrou’ Leila concerts in Cairo and Byblos. Bravery is not a matter of opinion in these cases. Yet, in an interview with NBC Out, Sinno said, "To be at the intersection of two identities that are equally scorned, but then to also feel like you're being shut out of both sides of them, it's horrible.” That intersection is key to starting conversations in both communities. I sat down with two friends of mine, whose names have been changed in this piece for the purpose of protecting them from the very same struggles that they discuss. I specifically spoke with these two because their experiences and perspectives are so wildly different from each other: “Salma” and “Farha” are both 18, Palestinian, and bisexual, however Salma has only recently discovered her sexuality in recent months, whereas Farha has known her sexuality since the age of 12. They find themselves in different stages of self-awareness, and were intent on focusing the conversation on different things.

Sinno holding LGBT flag at the 2010 Byblos International Festival
Credit: Rami Fayoumi

LGBT flag raised in Mashrou’ Leila’s Cairo crowd in 2015, with the band’s emblem and the name of their song Shim el Yasmine, known as a gay breakup song
Credit: The Music Tent

First, I sat down with Salma with the purpose of understanding the ins and outs of her experience as someone who only just recently discovered her identity.

Laila: Do you feel isolated by being both LGBT and Arab? Does one community make you feel more isolated than the other? 

Salma: Yes I do, because as an Arab being part of the LGBT community isn't something that's accepted, at least by most it's not. It is really hard on me and I've realized ever since I've found my true self that I've isolated myself from those who I know would never be accepting, and those people being my own siblings, parents and friends. That's lead me to feel very alone and depressed. I do feel more isolated from the Arab community because I am bisexual. I don't feel accepted by most Arabs around me, but also because I am bisexual I have also lost all my [non-Arab] friends. Their mindset is very different than mine, and I can't get myself to stay friends with them knowing their true thoughts on the LGBT community even though I’ve been friends with them for years. 

Laila: What's the hardest part of being an LGBT Arab for you?

Salma: The hardest part about being an LGBT Arab for me is not being accepted. The more I think about not being accepted, not only by my family but by a lot of different people, it scares me. Yes, we have come a long way for the LGBT community and people are becoming more open minded and understanding each day, but there are still many people against us. I struggle a lot with this because I have always been close to everyone in my life and now suddenly everyone just disappeared. I have been told that being bisexual is just in my head and it's the devil getting to me when I know that is not true at all. I feel like that person was trying to make me feel bad and that is so crazy to me. I hope one day everyone becomes less judgmental and more accepting of the LGBT community.

Laila: Did the lack of representation of LGBT Arabs in either community complicate your understanding of yourself? If so, how? 

Salma: Yes, for the longest time I've been trying to basically force being straight on myself. Growing up in a Muslim household I was never given a chance to figure out my own sexuality. I grew up thinking that I can only be straight and marry a Muslim guy. This made it so hard to understand who I really am. My family, who I spend most of my time with, are all straight so I always felt the need to be like them and that made me close myself off to love in general and it made me not want love if I couldn't be myself fully and express who I am openly.  

Laila: So following up on what you just said, have you found yourself torn between identities, like having to pick sides between Arabness and bisexuality? How or how not?

Salma: Yeah, I constantly find myself torn between the two because I always put other people's opinions into consideration, and by doing that I'm taking away my own happiness, and I try to please everyone else and that makes me lose myself. It was a little over a year that I was questioning my sexuality and up until a few months ago I've learned that I am bisexual and I have never felt so confident and happy with myself, but because of all the negativity around me about the LGBT community I feel like I don't know who to please anymore because of the fact that no one accepts me for me.

Laila: I’m sorry to hear that. So you said "I’ve never felt so confident and happy with myself, but because of all the negativity around me about the LGBT community, I feel like I don't know who to please anymore because if the fact that no one accepts me for me".
How do you keep your confidence up despite this negativity?
Salma: Despite all the negativity around me, as the days go by I'm realizing at the end of the day I'm living my life for me and I shouldn't let other people's opinions and views change the way I want to live. Of course it is still hard for me to deal with especially because this is still very new to me but from what I have heard that is normal and overtime I will learn to not let it get to me. I’m happy with who I am and I finally feel comfortable in my own skin. Another reason my confidence so high is my cousin. She has stood by my side through it all. She's the main reason I feel so comfortable and happy with myself. Not only has she been there for me but she’s taught me a lot. Without her I don't know if I would've ever been able to come out to anyone. I know everything's going to be okay because of her.

Laila: If you could tell the world one thing about your identities as both an Arab and a member of the LGBT community, what would it be?

Salma: [smiling] If I could tell the world one thing about being both an Arab and a member of the LGBT community I would tell them that there are Arabs that are part of the LGBT community just like me. I feel that in today's society once a person thinks of an Arab they automatically assume that they are going to marry someone of the opposite sex and there is no question about them being straight or not. For the longest time I even believed that myself. It wasn't until after I learned I was bisexual that I realized there are many people who are just like me. I am very proud to be part of the LGBT community.

Laila: Considering the fact that you’re pretty new to the LGBT community, how do you think time will change your experiences now that you’ve found your identity as bisexual? In other words, what’s next?

Salma: Now that I have recently found my identity as bisexual I already feel a change in my everyday life. I feel happier than ever. I do hope to find the courage to tell more people that I am bisexual. As for what's next in my life I just hope I don't have to live my life in hiding and I can be myself in front of everyone. I hope to meet new people and experience different things. I really am looking forward to joining a LGBT club. I think being part of the LGBT community is helping me come out of my shell and be more social. I really do want to be in a relationship, but I don't want to rush anything. I'm excited to see what he future holds!

I noticed Salma’s necklace, which said Allah on it. I took a quick picture of it, and went on my way.

Salma's Allah necklace

The next day I sat down with Farha, a longtime friend of mine.

Laila: Do you feel isolated by being both LGBT and Arab? Does one community make you feel more isolated than the other?

Farha: Well, I wouldn’t say I feel isolated by either community, but I do feel invisible. There’s homophobia in the Arab community and all types racism in the LGBT community, but I feel like being in the closet to most of my family means that they don’t isolate me, and those who I’m out to are family members that I’m out to for a reason, because I knew they’d accept me, and on the other side I feel like having so many queer friends of color who can relate to both racism and homophobia means I don’t feel isolated by the LGBT community either, because they are my community. My best friends are almost all LGBT and almost all women of color, so they’re my network, they’ve been my rocks.

Laila: What’s the hardest part about being an LGBT Arab for you?

Farha: I think it’s the double life. I don’t like being in the closet, obviously, and I’ve never cared much about what people think of me, but I just kind of hide my sexuality to avoid the drama of it all. Even though part of me believes that it would blow over and all be okay in the end, you just don’t know for sure. Being an Arab girl to begin with means you can’t even date boys, let alone girls, [laughing] so you could see the difficulty there.

Laila: Did the lack of representation of LGBT Arabs in either community complicate your understanding of yourself? If so, how? 

Farha: It didn’t complicate my understanding of myself, it complicated my understanding of my place in the world. I knew I liked girls when I was twelve, to me it’s like the lack of representation didn’t stop me from discovering myself, but once I discovered myself I had years of a “now what?” period. When I was twelve, realizing I was a bisexual Palestinian made me feel like the opposite of being the last man on earth…like the first of a species. I obviously wasn’t, but that’s how the lack of representation harmed me, in a way.

Laila: How do you feel about people like Hamed Sinno of Mashrou’ Leila giving LGBT Arabs visibility?

Farha: You know I’m glad you mentioned Mashrou’ Leila, discovering them some years ago was like hitting a validation-jackpot, and I know a lot of queer Arabs who can relate to that. There’s also Saleem Haddad, a gay Arab author who wrote a book called Guapa, a really complex story about a gay Arab and the love of his life and all these political and personal dilemmas that being an LGBT Arab entails. This visibility for us is so incredibly important to normalize our existence and to help Arabs realize that maybe they’re gay or trans. Right now I’m reading a book about two Mexican teenagers that’s kind of along the same lines of ethnicity and sexuality. One character is having a really hard time coming to terms with his sexuality, the way the story is written made me search the author and I read that he didn’t discover his sexuality until his 50s, and struggled a lot with the discovery like the character in the book, which you could tell he’s projecting onto his character. That’s why our cultural communities need to be inclusive of the LGBT community, it’s so sad to think of all the people of color that find themselves so late into life, if they even do at all.

Farha's book: "Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe", by Benjamin Alire Saenz 

Laila: Have you felt the need to choose between being Arab and being bisexual?

Farha: Not really. I’m lucky enough to know so many queer Arabs to have learned there’s no need for me to choose between my culture and my sexuality, and just queer people of color in general that practice their culture happily. However, I’m a really proud Palestinian, so I do feel like I usually tend to focus on Palestinian oppression more than LGBT oppression, but when I was younger I think I identified with my bisexuality more than my Palestinian-ness. Something flipped that now though, but I’m trying to find the balance.

Farha's Palestine keychain, attached to her rainbow backpack

Laila: Could you elaborate on that?

Farha: When I was a kid I said I was a proud Palestinian, but it didn’t mean anything until I grew up and understood the ins and outs of our oppression as well as our culture and history, which are all linked. I had to lose that innocent bubble, and then I was an actually proud Palestinian. But I knew I was Palestinian my whole life, so when I realized I like girls it turned on a switch of an identity that I felt stronger about for a time. Now, I’m still learning LGBT history, which is hard to teach yourself because it’s global, so I’m trying to find the balance between the Palestinian and the bisexual. I’m still learning the intersection as well. I mean, the LGBT Arab community taught me that Israel blackmails the queer Palestinian community on a large scale, I’ve even had gay Palestinian guys tell me that they’re more afraid of the Israeli government finding out that they’re gay than their family. That’s horrifying! Meanwhile, Israel pinkwashes their country!

Laila: What’s pinkwashing?

Farha: Pinkwashing is basically like: Israel showcases itself as this really progressive LGBT country to wash away the fact that they’re settler colonial apartheidists in order to give themselves a good image. All the while they target and blackmail gay Palestinians. How progressive is that? We can’t let anything wash away the murders and arrests of us indigenous people on our own land by the state of Israel, and this so-called Israel is not a safe-haven for us Palestinian queers, not by a longshot. Anyway, though, I’m not done talking about the intersection [laughing]. Realizing LGBT Arabs exist brought joy that I’m not alone, but a lot of pain because of our oppression. Like the murders. Being thrown off rooves, being arrested. I have a close Egyptian friend who tells me not to text her about anything gay when she’s visiting Egypt, because she’s afraid of government surveillance and arrest. She’s American, too, and she still understandably has that fear. The struggle runs deep.

Farha, turned around with a keffiyeh—a popular Palestinian scarf—pulled over her head

Laila: So it’s been six years. How many people are you out to? How are you out to some people and not others? How does it all work?

Farha: It’s complicated. In my family I’m out to all my siblings and to three cousins, and I’m out to all my friends, and to a bunch of people from high school, for example, where sexuality’s come into conversation. Basically, I call it “having one foot in the closet”. I’m like selective about which family members I come out to, and in places like school I don’t announce that I’m bisexual, but will gladly offer the information to anyone! I don’t shy away from jokes or other signs that may have me perceived as bisexual.

Laila: If you could tell the world one thing about your identities as both an Arab and a member of the LGBT community, what would it be?

Farha: We exist, we’ve been around for as long as time itself, and we’re not haram! Those are three things, but it’s all important. LGBT Arabs need to know that there are so so many of us out there for their own peace of mind, and the rest of the world needs to know we exist so they could get with the program and start accepting us. We’re your siblings, cousins, your aunts and uncles, and we’re simply people who deserve full respect.

The differences between Salma and Farha are striking. Salma appears to be defensive, and with good reason. She fears that her family will never accept her, while Farha doesn’t seem to be too bothered by the thought. Salma feels torn between two identities, while Farha has fused her two identities into one. What’s the difference between these two? They’re both 18 year old bisexual Palestinian women, so why is one scared and lonely, and the other nonchalant and comfortable? The clearest answer is time. Although 18 is not at all considered old to discover one’s sexuality, Farha has a great advantage over Salma—6 years. Farha’s last 6 years have been filled with coming out stories that gave her friends the courage to come out to her, and networking with new LGBT acquaintances, whereas Salma hasn’t yet gotten to the point of making lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender friends yet. They gave me a lot to think about, and they both focused the conversation on separate things. Salma focused on acceptance and her internal battles. Farha focused on visibility and worldly oppression. Farha’s time advantage undeniably shifted her focus, and I wonder if she was once in Salma’s place. I looked into the duality of identities more after meeting with my two interviewees, and came across an Associated Press video that marked another hugely similar pattern between the idea of choosing between identities. Bashar Makhay, founder of the self-proclaimed queer Middle East North African club “Tarab”, says he created his club because he was “craving community, because there was this idea that [he] could only be one identity at a time” and explained that his family abandoned him for his sexuality, while in post-9/11 America he felt unsafe in the LGBT community practicing his culture in any way. Hilal Khalil, a board member of Tarab, says that “there were no real resources in the queer community for Arabs, I felt there was a lot of racism”.   

A lot of racism. Neither of my interviewees spoke much on racism in the LGBT community, however Farha mentioned the existence of “all types of racism” in the LGBT community, and reiterated that the close community she created for herself comprised of women of color. Hilal Khalil is by far not the first to mention experiencing racism in the LGBT community, which simply goes to show how bigotry intersects in marginalized communities. No Arab is safe from homophobia in the Arab community simply because Arabs understand their own oppression, and no LGBT person is safe from racism amongst other LGBT people for the same reason.

The Arab community and LGBT community are not mutually exclusive. Yet, because of both homo/transphobia and racism, they are perceived to be. Apparently they may as well be, outside of LGBT Arab’s own fused communities. Farha said she "didn’t really" feel the need to choose between being Arab and bisexual, yet her answer went on to explain how in the past she has chosen to be either Arab or bisexual time and time again. Salma does feel that need to choose, and is confused about what the answer to this problem is. Bashar Makhay felt the need to choose for so long that he took matters into his own hands and created a space for people like him. Homo/transphobia and racism, whether rampant or microaggressive, have created barriers on either side of the average LGBT Arab living in the West. LGBT Arabs seem to feel the need to find others just like them in order to build a community they're sure to be safe in, because of the isolation and lack of representation presenting themselves as identity obstacles. The duality of identities should not result in the pressure to prioritize those identities, and it should not mean only feeling safe around others just like you. Active inclusivity is an essential factor in achieving a better, safer society. A society that encourages self acceptance and denounces homo/transphobia and racism. We are failing LGBT Arabs by perpetuating their invisibility.

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About the author

Laila Abbas 

email: la386@scarletmail.rutgers.edu

Laila is a freshman at Rutgers University. She is Palestinian, and an intended history major.