By Reem Itani

This interview was conducted over text message from July 10 to July 13. The interviewee has requested to be kept anonymous, so the name that appears is not their real name.

In the Middle East, LGBTQ+ individuals are routinely demonized for being “sinful” to the prevailing religion of that region: Islam. Same-sex marriage is not recognized in any Middle Eastern country except for Israel, where the LGBTQ+ community still experiences discrimination from conservative Israeli religious leaders and politicians. Worst of all, in Yemen, Iran, Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, and Qatar, homosexuality is punishable by death. The persecution LGBTQ+ individuals face is reflected in the interview below that I conducted with a young Queer Egyptian. 

I met them through a Queer organization at my university, and they have paved the way for Queer Middle Eastern representation on campus. They are a role model for me and how I aspire to carry myself as a Queer Arab. Growing up in Egypt for most of their life, they have struggled with expressing their identity in a heteronormative society. When they moved to the US for university, they expressed themselves as one of the most authentic and flamboyant Queer individuals I know. However, back at home, they feel as if they have to put on the mask of being a stereotypical straight Arab man. This short interview sheds light on the plight of the Queer community in Egypt and in many other countries in the Middle East. 

Reem: Many believe that LGBTQ+ identities contradict Islamic principles. I know you were raised in a Muslim household in Egypt. When were you first exposed to the ideas of homosexuality and gender fluidity? Did you first view them in a positive or negative light?

Ahmed: I’ve never been explicitly introduced to the concept of homosexuality when growing up, but I always knew that it was something that was not accepted and that it’s the biggest sin of all. Growing up, I was always overtly feminine, and so the kids in school would always bully me and call me “خنيث” or “خول,” which are both the Arabic equivalent of the f-slur. I’ve been getting called these words since I was in elementary school. From this experience, I knew that homosexuality or being feminine was something to be ashamed of and avoided at all costs.

I think the first time I ever witnessed the concept of homosexuality was when I was watching a Western TV show that I wasn’t supposed to behind my mother’s back. The show was “Glee.” I remember seeing two of the main characters, Kurt and Blaine, get into a romantic relationship and share romantic scenes together, like kissing and holding hands. I thought it was so beautiful and completely normal—nothing unnatural or “wrong.”

Reem: Interesting, so at what point in your life did you see Glee, and would you have ignored the kids’ bullying if you had seen it earlier?

Ahmed: Oh, I personally never thought being gay was something bad or wrong. I was taught to believe that, but I never internalized it. It’s like my childhood superpower. 

Most Queer kids in Egypt or any Muslim country grow up with trauma and go through a denial phase or closeted phase where they try to suppress their sexuality, but I thankfully never had that. Since I was in high school, I knew I was Queer, and I didn’t think that there was anything wrong at all.

I just knew from an early age that it’s not accepted, and I have to live in secret and hide it. I cannot tell other people or even my own family. But I always personally accepted myself, which I think is a rare case.

I think that because I was bullied so much at a young age, I stopped caring what others had to say about me. I was bullied every single day since the 3rd grade. So whether other Muslims rejected me or didn’t approve of my lifestyle didn’t matter to me. I just grew numb to other people’s approval.

My sister, on the other hand, was really impacted. She is also Queer (Lesbian) and has a girlfriend right now. However, it’s taken her almost 20-21 years to get to this point. She would always ask me how to balance religion and sexuality, and she dated multiple guys to try to prove to herself that she’s straight.

Also, in Egypt and in the Middle East as a whole, they never teach us about homosexuality. It’s a taboo thing that is not publicly addressed in schools or institutions. We just all know it’s haram, and you go to hell if you are one.

Reem: I am so sorry you had to go through bullying at such a young age. It’s peculiar that you did not let others’ discriminatory opinions affect how you viewed yourself. You said they influenced your sister’s view of herself. How does the Egyptian Queer community as a whole deal with the society’s opinions on their identities? Are they quick to reject them, or do many internalize them? 

Ahmed: Most of the Queer Egyptians I know definitely internalize these opinions and have a hard time accepting themselves. Not only that, but they internalize a lot of toxic masculinity values. So even if they are gay, it is extremely rare for me to find femme or feminine presenting Queer Egyptian men or non-binary and Trans folks in the Queer Egyptian scene; it’s virtually impossible.

Reem: My research came to the same conclusion. Many people in the West believe that Islam is rife with toxic masculinity. Do you think Queer people who are Muslim feel more pressure to conform to this identity? Have they internalized this stereotype of Islam?

Ahmed: Definitely yes, and I live this reality every day. Just the other day, this guy invited me over to his place and told me to “dress straight” and “look like a guy” because he doesn’t like feminine looking guys. There is so much sexism and rejection of femininity within the Queer community in Egypt and the Middle East.

When I was on a dating app, this Egyptian guy once told me that he doesn’t like feminine guys. And I have heard this multiple times.

If I dress slightly feminine, as in wearing an earring or tucking my shirt in (very simple things), I get stared at everywhere I go.

We just went to the gay club, me and my friend, who is the only other femme Queer person I know here, and it was an awful experience. Everyone was looking at us, which is fine, but they looked disgusted. Everyone looked the exact same, with no exaggeration: buff guys, fully grown beards, short hair with a fade, all wearing a shirt and regular black pants. It was as if we walked into a straight bar, but it’s actually a secret underground gay club.

Everyone tries to pass as this macho man because of the societal pressure from both culture and religion. Because this community is continuously being bombarded with social cues from every angle telling them how to be a man, protect your honor, and to act and behave a certain way. It’s definitely hard to escape this mindset and explore other facets of your identity when you are constantly being told to be one thing—a man.

I also always find myself in conflict with the Queer community here because they try to be so masculine, and it’s suffocating. It feels like they are still not free from all of their internalized homophobia and sexism. They often belittle and make fun of femme folks as if they are objects of entertainment and not actual humans. Dating is especially hard for someone who is feminine and non-binary because no one takes me seriously or because it feels as though you can only find love if you act and look very masculine.

Reem: Your personal experiences are very eye opening. When you lived in the West, was your dating experience more successful, or did you experience Islamophobia and anti-religious sentiments from the American Queer community?

Ahmed: This is extremely interesting because I feel like my experience is not what people would expect. I would say that I actually experienced more Islamophobia in the Middle East compared to the US! In the US, I wouldn’t say that I experienced Islamophobia; rather, I would say that I experienced invisibility. I felt invisible, and that people did not understand my experience as a Queer Muslim. Most Queer people did not get it, and they thought I was weird or confused. They would judge me and give me weird looks if I told them that I don’t drink or that I do not want to have sex or take any drugs with them. I would feel very left out and excluded. However, no one has ever explicitly commented on me being Muslim or talked about Islam as something weird. However, in the Middle East, I would be judged by my ex-Muslim Queer friends for still being religious. They would explicitly call me stupid and judge me for my decision. They felt like it made no sense and would call me stupid multiple times. This never happened to me in the US, not even by ex-Muslim Queer people there.

To sum it up, this experience can be explained by social psychology. Minority groups experience stigma, but there are two types of stigma: discrimination-based stigma (e.g. racial slurs, violence, etc.) and invisibility-based stigma (e.g. being ignored, being overlooked, being isolated, etc.) I would say that I experienced the latter, being a Queer Muslim in the US. I think it’s because people don’t look at me and think, “Muslim!” Being overtly Queer and femme makes those identities the most salient about me, so I often don’t face prejudice for being Egyptian or Muslim because a lot of people don’t think of those identities at first when they look at me.

However, I did experience Islamophobia and the whitewashing of MENA folks in general in the U.S. I just didn’t experience interpersonal Islamophobia from my peers, you know (no one said anything to my face or treated me differently). But being in Wisconsin, we receive no support as Muslims.

Reem: Wow, I would have never expected that you experience more Islamophobia in the Middle East. Thank you for your deep insight into your experiences as a Queer Egyptian!