Arabə e queer: Storie lgbtq+ dal mondo arabo

by Elias Jahshan

Arabə e queer è la radicale affermazione di esistenza di una comunità che si riconosce nell’ampia costellazione Lgbtqi+ e condivide radici nei paesi arabi e nella loro diaspora. Le storie di vita qui raccolte vanno oltre il resoconto della discriminazione subita da istituzioni o famiglie sono «storie di amore e orgoglio, cuori infranti ed empatia, coraggio e ironia». Le pressioni sociali, le battaglie, i desideri riguardo a sessualità e genere prendono una forma particolare, in cui essere nerə o musulmanə ha un ruolo inatteso; le proiezioni dell’Occidente bianco in tema di libertà e diritti rivelano tutta la loro inconsistenza.L’intensità della narrazione, fatta di vulnerabilità, di strategie e legami affettivi complessi, permette di avvicinarsi ai sentimenti profondi alla base della richiesta di riconoscimento della comunità araba queer, che prende spazio in questo libro, per la prima volta, in forma collettiva.

Genres: Queer, Nonfiction, LGBT, Essays, Anthologies, Memoir, Short Stories

197 pages, Kindle Edition

First published October 18, 2022

About the author

Elias Jahshan (he/him) is a Palestinian Lebanese journalist and writer. He is the editor of the anthologies THIS ARAB IS QUEER (Saqi, 2022) and THIS QUEER ARAB FAMILY (Saqi, 2025).

THIS ARAB IS QUEER was nominated for a 2023 Lambda Literary Award (LGBTQ Anthology category) in the US, shortlisted in the 2023 Bread & Roses Award in the UK, and described as "ground breaking" by TIME Magazine.

Elias's writing has been published in anthologies including Arab, Australian, Other: Stories on Race and Identity (ed. Randa Abdel-Fattah & Sara Saleh; Picador, 2019) and Ask the Night for a Dream: Palestinian Writing From the Diaspora (ed. Susan Muaddi Darraj; Palestine Writes Press, 2024).

Elias is also a former editor of Star Observer, Australia’s longest-running queer media outlet. He has written for The Guardian, Gay Times, Attitude, Shodo Mag, Raseef22, The New Arab and My Kali, among others. Born and raised in Sydney, he lives in London.

Follow him on Instagram: @elias_jahshan

Reviews

[Sahar Rabbani · Rating 4 out of 5]

let me be clear- if u aren't arab/swana then READ !! we need queer swana representation!!
BUT i can't help but feel like it was a book about the arab experience made with a white reader in mind. like it wasnt revolutionary and some parts lacked nuance. but some passages were amazing! i guess thats the deal with an anthology

[K.J. Charles]

A collection of memoirs by a wide range of queer Arab writers, touching on a lot of issues from within and outside their communities. As with all anthologies a couple of pieces didn't land for me but there's a lot of heartfelt, honest, important writing here with some really powerful reflections on intersectionality, bigotry, shame, and pride.

[Ceyrone · Rating 5 out of 5]

I loved every story of this anthology. This features 18 queer Arab writers. Some internationally recognised and others using a pseudonym. I loved how heart warming and compelling these stories are but alongside this were stories that touched upon the challenges of being LGBTQ+ and Arab. I was engaged with every story, didn’t want to rush through the stories. I wanted to sit with each writers experiences, and really understand and feel. Highly recommend this.

‘I was a good Catholic girl, growing up in 1970s Ireland where homosexuality was an evil perversion, she wrote. ‘It was never openly talked about, but I knew it was the worst thing on the face of the earth. So when I fell in love with a girl in my class in school, I was terrified.’ Halligan’s words gave me whiplash.’

[Alan (the Lone Librarian rides again) Teder · Rating 5 out of 5]

Queer Arabia & Arabian Diaspora
Review of the Saqi Books paperback edition (2022).

This was an overall enlightening and empowering anthology collection written by a wide-range of queer writers, many in the diaspora but with some still living in their home countries where queer relationships are subject to severe discrimination and are either illegal or even punishable by death sentences. Many of the essays are in the form of memoirs, stories about survival and coming out in their youth and/or to their families. These can be traumatic and tragic but also inspiring and hopeful. There is humour throughout as well though esp. in No. 15 "Trophy Hunters, White Saviours and Grindr."

When I was searching for background on this anthology, I discovered there was an entire Wikipedia page devoted to it, which you can read here. The amount of detail provided there precluded the need for me to write further about each essay here, but I added links to the Goodreads author pages for those which were available or to Wikipedia pages/Websites for others (e.g. artists/filmmakers) where available. Due to the use of pseudonyms/anonymity, there are no links to some authors.

Introduction by editor Elias Jahshan.
1. The Decade of Saying All That I Could Not Say by Mona Eltahawy.
2. Returning to Beirut by Saleem Haddad.
3. This Text Is a Very Lonely Document (In memory of my father) by Dima Mikhayel Matta.
4. Catching the Light: Reclaiming Opera as a Trans Arab by Zeyn Joukhadar.
5. You Made Me Your Monster by Amrou Al-Kadhi.
6. My.Kali – Digitising a Queer Arab Future by Khalid Abdel-Hadi (Wikipedia link to the article for the My.Kali webzine for which they are the editor).
7. The Artist's Portrait of a Marginalised Man by Danny Ramadan.
8. Pilgrimage to Love by Ahmed Umar (Wikipedia link to the artist).
9. An August, a September and My Mother by Amina (a pseudonym for a Egyptian writer).
10. The Bad Son by Raja Farah.
11. Dating White People by Tania Safi (Link to the filmmaker's own website).
12. My Intersectionality Was My Biggest Bully by Amna Ali (no other link found).
13. Trio by Hamed Sinno.
14. Unheld Conversations by Anbara Salam.
15. Trophy Hunters, White Saviours and Grindr (A queer Arab's search for a husband) by Anonymous.
16. Dancing Like Sherihan by Hasan Namir.
17. Then Came Hope by Madian Al Jazerah.
18. Tweets to a Queer Arab Poet by Omar Sakr (Wikipedia link for the poet).

Soundtrack
The Lebanese band Mashrou' Leila is mentioned several times in this book and one of the essays (No. 13) is by its lead singer Hamed Sinno. You can see/hear their NPR Tiny Desk concert here.

Other Reviews/Articles
Inside a Groundbreaking Anthology that sheds light on 18 Queer Arab voices, by Armani Syed, Time, October 18, 2022.
A seminal moment in the Arab world's production of queer knowledge, by Hasan Kilani, The New Arab, July 27, 2022.

[Julian · Rating 5 out of 5]

The worst thing I can say about any story in this anthology of queer Arab stories, is that they occasionally expected me to know too much about opera, and would often finish before I wanted them to end.

Each of these stories is a beautiful, portrayal of a life unlike my own, but still deeply moving and connecting. Sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes heartwarming, often both, these stories reach across the page to show life in shoes not often worn by the protagonists I encounter. They cover a breath of Arab and queer experiences, from Beirut to Sydney, Sudan to Canada.

But these aren’t stories that are special because they are different from me. They are special because they are beautiful and have been told with passion, hate, joy, regret, and love.

This is a book you should read, and feel all the humans on the other side of the page.

[بيسان | bissane · Rating 4 out of 5]

"This Arab Is Queer" indeed is the identity, the true self we are constantly in search of, and its never-ending metamorphosis.

*An important note I missed to mention in my initial review when I read the essays for the first time is my disagreement with author Danny Ramadan's visit to occupied Palestine for the Jerusalem Writers Festival in 2019. I read more about it in an article he wrote online where he didn't respond to boycotting "Israel" after receiving comments and a message asking him to boycott after his announcement.
I hope he changed his views and acknowledged the truth of the zionist entity and the importance of boycotting-that includes the cultural boycott.
It is not a complex issue and we don't need to visit Palestine under occupation, genocide and settler colonialism to know that.

[Miri · Rating 5 out of 5]

I was so excited when I realized this book exists so I've been reading it on my commute to work recently. What a lovely collection <3

[Liam Ostermann · Rating 3 out of 5]

There are some very fine pieces in this anthology but that is not what makes me query aspects of this anthology but its use of the term 'Arab' anthology to mean Muslim and there is nothing said or explained about what, if anthing, separates the Muslim gay Arab authors of this anthology from, for example, Diriye Osman who is Somali, muslim and gay or Perihan Magden who is Turkish, muslim and gay but neither of whom is Arab? The only definition in this book it is that of being Muslim but there is no attrempt to explain the varied and complex history of even Suni Muslims (there is no mention that the Wahhabism of most Suni countries is relatively recent and, if you were to have visited North Africa before WWII there were huge differences between what practiced then and now).

Although religion is inextricably intertwined/linked/caught up in the lives of the authors and there is nothing about being Arab as separate from that. What about Arabs who are not Muslim? and is the concept of 'Arab' enough to make common cause and understanding between a gay Lebanese and a gay Iraqi more likely then between a gay Muslim Somali or a gay Muslim Turk?

I also wonder, as many of the contributors live outside or were even born outside the country they are identifying as part of - do those who live and have no way of escaping accept them? I ask this because I come from an admittedly very different culture that at one time exported large numbers of its young around the world and despite pieties those who left were never seen as or accepted as speaking for or representing the land they had left and it is not unique to my homeland of Ireland - I have recently come across this in connection with the Philippines. How Arab would many of these contributors be to those who live in 'Arab' countries? While reading many of the contributors I felt that I had learnt far less about what it meant to be 'gay' in an Arab country then I did from reading Robert Tewdwr Moss's 'Cleopatra's Wedding Present: Travels through Syria'. Certainly most of those Moss spoke to would not have known and would not have been known by any of the contributors in this anthology.

For me this is anthology written for Western readers and it has been assembled with their ignorance and prejudices in mind - but unfortunately without any attempt to elucidate or explain and certainly not illuminate. Rather I felt it was a way for many the contributors to project themselves by using the Western ignorance as a way to easily provide themselves an identity comprehensible to westerners.

This anthology was far less than it could or should have been. Individual contributions are moving, heart breaking and illuminating but the anthology as a whole is as much a cliché as the ones it ostensibly its fighting against.

[Adrian · Rating 5 out of 5]

This was such a good read! Great selection of pieces meditating on what it currently means to be queer and Arabic. There’s no other common thread, meaning there’s the good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful mixed throughout, and together it builds a rich tapestry of contemporary queer Arab life across the world.

[Layan · Rating 5 out of 5]

a beautiful compilation of personal and intimate stories and meditations on being queer and Arab by a diversity of voices from MENA and diaspora. The writing ranges in style and covers a rollercoaster of emotions. Definitely recommend it and am thirsty for more!

[Eman · Rating 5 out of 5]

A must-read covering diverse experiences among queer Arabs in the Arab world and diaspora. Every piece was a gem.

[Ceallaigh · Rating 5 out of 5]

“I live to complicate because I walk through many identities, each with their own oppressors. I most identify with the narratives of women of colour and queer folks—especially when they are all those identities, such as June Jordan is—because their understanding of those multiple levels of oppression and control extend much further than the narratives of white, heterosexual men or women, for whom misogyny is the only demon to slay. My demons are many and like Kali, the Indian goddess of war, I have had to develop multiple arms to slay them.” — from “The Decade of Saying All That I Could Not Say” by Mona Eltahawy

TITLE—This Arab is Queer
EDITOR—Elias Jahshan
PUBLISHED—2022
PUBLISHER—Saqi Books

GENRE—queer essays / memoir / nonfiction
SETTING—Arab culture, regions & diaspora
MAIN THEMES/SUBJECTS—the queer + Arab experience, Islam—the personal, familial, cultural & political, Art—performers, creators & storytellers, bonds of love, friendship & family, intersectional oppression & identity, Faith vs Fear, opera, drag, internalized homophobia trauma, learning & unlearning, inter-racial/-cultural relationships, racialized fetishization, white supremacy, the Qu’ran, linguistics & language—Arabic phonetics & etymology, self-acceptance & self-love, Hope, Freedom

“Who decides what is socially transgressive? This elusive idea that something is somehow against the rules? Transgression is sometimes a choice, sometimes a necessity. At times, we are perceived to be transgressive through no decision of our own; there are times that transgression can be an active decision, and as a result liberating, and others when it can be damaging and dangerous. We might want to wear our transgression, or to desperately hide it. Transgression can be freeing, yet can result in limits to our sacred freedoms.” — from “You Made Me Your Monster” by Amrou Al-Kadhi

My thoughts:
This is one of those rare, absolute gems of a book that is just an actually flawless execution of the premise behind it. Every single essay presents a unique perspective on nineteen particularly individual experiences of being Arab and queer. Nineteen voices that reveal such intimate, generous, honest, and vulnerable insights into what it’s actually like to exist as an identity so often universally denied, misunderstood, vilified, and disregarded even by other members of the Arab and queer communities.

As a white american, I have been especially conditioned by (a truly exhausting and despicable amount of) u.s. propaganda that only ever presents Arab folks in a particular light—all but even *denying* the *existence* of queer Arabs altogether. This book elegantly and emphatically dispels all of that misinformation in nineteen powerful essays. I truly cannot recommend this book enough.

The book starts incredibly strong right off the bat with Elias Jahshan’s excellent introduction, followed by Mona Eltahawy’s essay which *completely* bowled me over—one of the most important (and one of my favorite) essays that I’ve ever read. Dima Mikhayel Matta’s essay was *gorgeously* written. Amrou Al-Kadhi’s essay discussing how many contradictions a body can hold simultaneously was another standout favorite of mine.

Zeyn Joukhadar’s essay on being a trans opera singer was an absolute gift. Danny Ramadan’s “The Artist’s Portrait of a Marginalised Man” was a fantastic reflection on how the subgenre of “autofiction” is treated both in the publishing industry and among readership and the unfair, inequitable expectation put on marginalised voices to write their trauma—indeed even the automatic assumption that they all do so.

“An August, A September and My Mother” by Amina was another essay with absolutely gorgeous writing. Hasan Namir’s “Dancing Like Sherihan” was such a wholesome, heartwarming story that it actually made me sob—especially the part about teaching their children “Arajabi.” 😭🥹 Madian Al Jazerah’s excellent and inspiring essay functions as a sort of epilogue to his memoir ARE YOU THIS? OR ARE YOU THIS? And Omar Sakr’s amazingly insightful, clever, and heart-warming final “essay” is the perfect wrap-up to this wonderful collection.

I would recommend this book to readers who are especially interested in queer nonfiction, but really everyone should read this book. It’s very readable and powerfully informative. This book is best read multiple times! with your bookclub! as a buddy read! in community!

Final note: I’m already planning on rereading this collection in June next year for Pride.

“I am lucky. I have luck by my side. I also have culture. I have stories. I have heritage. I wear my teta's jewellery every day. I speak Lebanese in my dreams. I might not ever be able to visit Palestine, but I know the streets of Beeka like the back of my hand. I know who I am. I come from a line of survivors and fighters. I feel guilty for my guilt, and for my apologetic past, and I'm not sure that it will ever go away. But I have learned not to be uncomfortable about where I was born, and instead to channel my privilege and use it to defend our people. I can do this no matter where I am or who I am with. Inshallah.” — from “Dating White People” by Tania Safi

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Season: Pride

CW // homophobia, domestic violence, sexual content (Please feel free to DM me for more specifics!)

Further Reading—
- The Art of Sin (2020 documentary, dir. by Ibrahim Mursal)
- WE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN HERE by Samra Habib—TBR
- RIFQA by Mohammed El-Kurd—TBR
- ARE YOU THIS? OR ARE YOU THIS? by Madian Al Jazerah—TBR
- AN INTRODUCTION TO ARAB POETICS by Adonis, trans. by Catherine Cobham—TBR
- THE FOGHORN ECHOES by Danny Ramadan—TBR
- GUAPA by Saleem Haddad—TBR

Favorite Quotes—
Introduction by Elias Jahshan
“…many of these restrictions stem from inherited European colonial laws that were informed by a Christian understanding of morality. When the West talks about homophobia in the Arab world or among global diasporic communities, the focus is on how Islam or traditional Arab attitudes are at the root of hostility toward LGBTQ+ Arabs, which is an essentialist and simplistic approach. On the flipside, patriarchal norms are deeply embedded in Arab culture and is an important reason for the rampant discrimination, criminalisation and deep cultural stigma of queer people.”

The Decade of Saying All That I Could Not Say by Mona Eltahawy
“The past ten years have been the Decade of Saying All That I Could Not Say. Like nesting dolls—where one doll opens to reveal an identical doll fitting inside it, which then opens up to reveal another identical doll inside it, and so on—every time I spoke a secret I found a more intense version of myself which in turn demanded I say more of what I could not say, and so on, until I got to the core of my silence.”

“When you are shameless you cannot be shamed.”

“Was I brave? Of course I was not. I could not say, for the longest time, that I desired men *and* women. How could I when, for the longest time, men alone were off limits. How was I to figure out what I desired when desire for anyone was off limits? Still, I hid in plain sight.”

“Some are about the difficulty or impossibility of coming out, the threats to life, the decision to emigrate only to find that homophobia is replaced in western countries by anti-Arab racism and Islamophobia.”

“When I was twenty-eight, I became—finally—sexually intimate with a person other than myself. That sounds like an awful lot of words to say, 'lost my virginity' or, 'had sex for the first time' but I lost nothing—it was fucking wonderful—as I had already been masturbating and enjoying the orgasms I gave myself. To say 'had sex for the first time sounds like Christopher Columbus 'discovering' a country that existed long before he set sail. I have determined to retire those phrases I used to use once and for all.”

“…because being brazen and shameless are not powers I am supposed to wield so easily. But I have seized them for myself and I wield them joyfully.”

“Men should kiss each other more often and kill less—much less.”

“And a few days later, in bed with a Bosnian lesbian after we'd had sex that I initiated, I wiped away her tears as we talked about the pressure to be 'normal' in homophobic societies. Imagine: a Bosnian woman who had survived the Srebrenica genocide being made to feel she is not normal. Surely it is the savagery of the genociders which is not normal? Surely that violence, and not our bodies together, is not normal?”

“Am I brave? Yes, I am. But courage wilts and withers when it is not challenged, like muscles that need heavier weights. And so I dare myself to say or write the things that scare me the most, or avoided saying or writing. I accept the dare for Mona who died in November 2011. The Mona that I once was died so that the Mona I became could survive. And I want her to know I have smashed the final silence.”

This Text Is A Very Lonely Document by Dima Mikhayel Matta
“These are stories I rarely tell. These are stories I keep close to my person... They are unspoken because of the fear that what is spoken might be spoken into being. But this is not how storytelling works. I have to share this story so that you can stand in it with me.”

“We construct our queerness, don't we? Mine doesn't look like yours. My friend explains that a queer space is one where you don't have to explain yourself. But I find myself explaining myself to myself. Is my mind not a queer space? Is my body?”

“Louise Bourgeois wrote: ‘You pile up associations the way you pile up brick. Memory itself is a form of architecture.’ These pages are my building. I built it for us. Come in. Tell me a story. I love you. Stay.”

CATCHING THE LIGHT: RECLAIMING OPERA AS A TRANS ARAB by Zeyn Joukhadar
“I learned fierce femme on the recital stage because camp was my only defence against forced femininity. I couldn't escape it, so I made it queer. Under the lights with painted face and a sweater slipped down over the bone of each shoulder, I learned how to wrest a kind of power from the people in the front row, secretly taking each performance as far as I could bear. The audience didn't know how low my speaking voice was; they knew nothing of the teachers who told me I should not only sing but speak in a higher register. Back then, I could step on stage and be the thing they wanted. I could be invisible, and only I would be in on the joke.”

“The gaze can move in only one direction. There are rules about who gets to look, and what they are supposed to see.”

“We are shamed for making ourselves objects of desire because the world loves to rain violence on the heads of femmes. Is it such a crime to be wanted? I would rather tell you how I learned to catch the light.”

YOU MADE ME YOUR MONSTER by Amrou Al-Kadhi
“This is why queer Arabs can be viewed as such a threat to those in the community who conform. Out freedom is a projection of autonomy that many others have sacrificed; instead of embracing this, many lash out, for it destabilises their lifelong decision to conform for the 'greater good'.”

“…they made me a monster, and then punished me for the monster I became.”

“I feel confident in my material now, after years and years of getting it wrong, and feel as if I've been able to sublimate my position as a transgressor into one which produces productive results.”

“…if I'm loved for the monster I choose to be, maybe I won't feel so monstrous after all.”

PILGRIMAGE TO LOVE by Ahmed Umar
“We had shaken Allah's throne.”

DATING WHITE PEOPLE by Tania Safi
”White people have a stunning power in English-speaking majority countries, and not in the ways that people talk about very often. The power is that they belong to, or operate in, calculated friendship cults that some people of colour want to be loved and desired within. They are the white people who have mostly white friends but one Filipino who rides on their arm. They are the people who buy plastic jars of avocado hummus but would never drive through Bankstown. They are the white partner who refuses to teach themself more about their partner's stories and sociocultural context in a colonised world.”

MY INTERSECTIONALITY WAS MY BIGGEST BULLY by Amna Ali
“What hurts me most, when I look back, isn't the pain from the physical and mental abuse, but the long-term psychological torment, the years of my life lost to feeling sad and adrift. The idea of confrontation, the idea of making mistakes, the fear of people being angry or disappointed in me—just the thought of these would take me right back to my brother's punishing attack and how I ‘had it coming.’ I was gaslighted out of knowing that I had the moral high ground, that I wasn't sick or touched by the devil.”

“And if I had the chance I'd do it all over again to be exactly where I am, and to have been built and broken just enough times to create this version of me. I wouldn't have me any other way. I am no longer ruled by fear. There's no asterisk above my happiness. I am free.”

“And, while the illusion of my direct social physical and digital circles made me a little too optimistic about the world outside them, they were also my anchor in reminding me that the way the world around us sees us should never, in any way, dictate how we feel about ourselves. My silver lining has been my community - and the work I see us all doing towards shifting the narrative and creating a world that doesn't demonise queerness but celebrates it. A world where intersectionality is no one's bully, where instead our intersectionality can empower us, and enrich our lives and those of the people around us.”

TRIO by Hamed Sinno
“To sing is to insist that your body matters… and demand that the world recognise it as a carrier of meaning and value in its own right... You are still breathing. To sing is to make a spectacle of breath, of drawing-in life force, of taking from the shared, of survival. This is particularly transgressive for minority bodies that the world is hell-bent on disappearing, regulating or destroying. You sing to let them know they haven't killed you yet.”

UNHELD CONVERSATIONS by Anbara Salam
“I'm one of those diasporic Arabs who enjoys a special kind of privilege from the benefits of these overlapping silences, something that produces, as it does with all privileged people, a miasma of guilt and self-doubt, a nauseating, tedious, third-culture self-analysis that is in danger of resulting in heavy-handed poetry about pomegranate seeds. The particularly grotesque identity twist is found where straight passing meets white passing. As a pale and unaccented Palestinian living in the UK, I've had inside access to spaces where it has been a savage pleasure to rip off the cloak and challenge people on their unfiltered racism and homophobia. I've also sat, sweating in that cloak, and shamefully said nothing. Nothing.”

DANCING LIKE SHERIHAN by Hasan Namir
“Tarn and I always wanted to have a baby and start a family together. We come from two different religions and cultures: I am Iraqi Muslim while Tarn is Punjabi Sikh. These differences actually brought us closer together. We found a lot of similarities between our languages, cultures and religions. We promised each another that we would teach our child 'Arajabi' - a mixture of Arabic and Punjabi. At the time of our engagement, my sister-in-law had offered to be our surrogate. She made the offer again when we got married. So, when we were ready to start a family, I was the sperm donor and my sister-in-law was the egg donor. We named our son Malek. When I look at Malek, I realise that I have learned to embrace the hyphenation in my identities and reconcile being queer, Muslim and Arab, and the fact that I'm both a mother and a father. I've continued the family tree and, even though it's not the way my parents envisioned, it is the most authentic way possible for me. I am able to build a family with my soulmate, Tarn, and I'm so thankful to Allah for giving us Malek. He's the joy in our life.”

THEN CAME HOPE by Madian Al Jazerah
“I have had much trauma in my life and I know that I have failed to bury it miserably. I understand now that there is no burying it. What I have to do is shelve my trauma, put it up as high as it will go and accept that, when I am triggered, the shelf will be shaken and all or part will come tumbling down…”

“These twenty-something Muslims asked questions, they mingled, they celebrated their worth and they projected their identity. They stood tall and I saw no shame or fear. And as I stood back and marvelled it all, I saw that there was room on the shelf for hope.”

TWEETS TO A QUEER ARAB POET by Omar Sakr
“7. You are capable of so much more than you imagine - especially kindness. This is a criticism. What have you imagined recently that wasn't a worst-case scenario? This is a seed. Turn it into a door to another world.”

“14. Nostalgia is the body missing itself. Isn't that wild? How you miss your wild.”

“25. Every reader is different: when words meet a body, they change. You think you know this, know the types of reader, types of people, that you have made them legible, and you have already bent to meet them, already travelled to the middle ground to be accessible to who you have imagined. This is a fantasy. Look around your middle ground. You are the only one there.”

“34. You must destroy nature. The idea of nature, that is to say. Everything was created. You, the world, the stars and their travelling memory. The next time you are told you are unnatural, you must laugh in the face of the created creature aiming its created speech at you. What a silly idea.”

“37. It's wise to have doubts, tiny saplings you water from time to time. When they get too large, you must cut them down and start again lest you lose your way in the woods.”

“42. Be you. Your best you is your every you. Your woman you. Your man you. Your neither you. You’re unknowable you. You’re beautiful you. Sweet child you. Nobody but you.”

“43. It's all so easy to say, to write down, and so much harder to hold onto, to turn prayer into practice, poetry into a path. You will 'fail often, by your own impossible standards, where 'success is never defined except as an abstract sense of bliss. It's OK. What have we been saying? Breathe. Drink water. Stretch. Love.”

[Sandra Saade · Rating 5 out of 5]

You know this is an absolute gem when you're constantly texting your best friend, sending them pictures, vocal messages and starting a discussion about something you recently encountered on a trip to visit family in Syria and Lebanon. Loved it!

[Leeni · Rating 5 out of 5]

Tiedän että on aika klisee ja mitäänsanomatonta kutsua kirjaa tärkeäksi, mutta kun tämä on aidosti todella, todella tärkeä! Yhtä aikaa riemastuttava ja riipivä kokoelma esseitä arabi-identiteetin ja sateenkaarevuuden yhdistymisestä. Suosittelisin tätä ihan kaikille kynnelle kykeneville, pyytäkää vaikka kirjastoon jos tätä ei vielä ole, sillä ainakaan minä en ole aiemmin lukenut mitään tällaista.

[Elizabeth A · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5 stars

Let me first say that I am delighted that this book exists. I really appreciated the diverse voices represented, and my book has lots of highlighted passages. As with any anthology, there are pieces I'd rate 5 stars, and others that I found ok. Overall a powerful collection of queer own voices that was perfect reading during Pride month.

[Zina · Rating 5 out of 5]

Excellent collection of memories by queer Arab writers. The book starts off with a bang - Mona el Tahawy’s “The Decade of Saying All That I Could Not Say” is powerful, raw and necessary… This Arab is queer, here, get used to it!

[deniz eilmore · Rating 4 out of 5]

the police stole my copy during the palestinian protest encampments so that's how you know this book is good!

[Faye &#x1fac0; · Rating 5 out of 5]

This felt so deeply resilient and the community & shared/similar and yet vastly different stories and experiences amongst these pages made me pretty emotional.

[Andrea Beatriz Arango]

I love being part of the @queerthology book club because their book choices often lead me to pick up books I wouldn't have known about otherwise.

Not only that, but I really enjoy the periodic "check-ins" on substack, which @whenreadingattacks pairs with music selections, interviews, related readings, and guiding questions.

In summary, it's the kind of rare book club that offers a beautifully rounded and in-depth reading experience, even if you don't attend the monthly video discussions, and I highly suggest you give the Instagram or Substack a follow.

But back to the book.

THIS ARAB IS QUEER is the club's January selection, and I really valued the pensive mornings I spent reading it with a mug of coffee. The authors are all queer and come from a multitude of racial, cultural, and religious backgrounds tied to Palestine, Lebanon, Syria, Egypt, Iraq, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Sudan, and the UAE, either while in the aforementioned countries or in the diaspora.

Some of my favorite bits (that I continue to think about) are:

"More than a distance from the world, I felt at sea in my body, estranged from my sense of self: my identity, my sense of self, and even my own desires." --Saleem Haddad, Return to Beirut

"It's funny that, when I was assimilating the society around me in my stories, my writing was celebrated. It's funny that when I present authentic stories about my community now, my writing is questioned as non-fiction." -- Danny Ramadan, The Artist's Portrait of a Marginalized Man

"It is a celebration of the body: look at what this abject flesh-case can do with air, look how much space you can take up with it. Behold the inner workings of this meat they try to control." --Hamed Sinno, Trio

"But I also recognize the determined interest it took to smash through the lock on my book of secrets. The same determination it now takes to look away." -- Anbara Salam, Unheld Conversations

"There is no blow about to fall. God is not your mother. Stop flinching from want. Unfurl, habibi, and shepherd your scarce spirit into flight." -- Omar Sakr, Tweets To a Queer Arab Poet

Have you read this one or plan to?

[Kamila Kunda · Rating 4 out of 5]

“This Arab Is Queer” is a brilliant anthology of 18 essays by LGBTQ+ Arab authors on challenges and difficulties of being both but also going way beyond that. The reader gets humour and pain, a slice of life and a celebration, shame and pride.

“These are stories I rarely tell. (…)They are unspoken because of the fear that what is spoken might be spoken into being.”, writes Dima Mikhayel Matta, Beirut-based writer and actress. A lot of stories in this anthology are extremely personal and give an impression of being confessions, told to the best friend at candlelight. Intimate, honest, raw, on identity searches and crises. Many authors talk about their dysfunctional (lacking acceptance but abounded with expectations) relationships with their parents. Reading, I was judgmental towards parents who don’t want to let their children be. Conditional love is not love in my world. I judged parents more than oppressive governments and cultures as cultures are created by parents - the way we raise children adds to it.

As much as I loved reading these essays, I felt there were whole areas of LGBTQ+ Arab experience missing. As often with this kind of anthologies the weak point is representation. Almost all authors are of Lebanese or Palestinian origin, a few come from one or two Gulf countries, but North African authors were, except for two Egyptian contributors, missing. Some authors haven’t even lived in Arab countries. But maybe that’s irrelevant? Maybe the diversity and similarity of human experiences across cultures matter more and my wish to cover more geographical areas would be simply performative ticking off spots on a map. Focusing then on the former, I end up being richer after reading “This Arab Is Queer”.

[hannah · Rating 5 out of 5]

a gorgeous collection of accounts about the queer arab experience, written by people from a range of backgrounds and sexualities.

[Martina Weiß · Rating 5 out of 5]

CW: War, Racism, Homophobia, Abuse

5 / 5 Stars

This book made me feel a lot of things. Some stories even made me tear up a little.
I'll definitivly be checking out some of the contributors other works. Great anthology.

[Josien · Rating 5 out of 5]

More books like this please, break the taboo

[laith ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ · Rating 4 out of 5]

I never really had representation of LGBT+ Arabs, but this book showed me that there are others like me. It was lovely to read the writing of other queer Arabs who exist in this world. Their writing, their lives, their experiences, were all amazing to read. I will say, however, that it was painful to read at times. These authors were very vulnerable, and some experiences I related to which made me emotional. I also felt hurt by a lot of dislike towards Muslims by various authors in this book. Of course I understand, I know how a homophobic/transphobic Muslim family and environment can be, it just hurts to see a dismissal of the religion as a whole. A dismissal of Muslims as a whole, when queer ones exist too. Two of my favorite chapters were "Catching the Light Reclaiming Opera as a Trans Man" by Zeyn Joukhadar and "Then Came Hope" by Madian Al Jazerah.

[Karim Réga · Rating 4 out of 5]

I loved every second of reading this one. Not every essay was necessarily of a high writing standard, but every single one of them beautifully explained parts of this complex existence that are often overlooked.

I especially loved the ones by Mona Eltahawy, Amina, Tania Safi and Madian Al Jazerah.

شكرا

[Mirna · Rating 5 out of 5]

THE WAY THIS MADE ME CRY 😭😭😭😭

Although it was full of hard-to-swallow pills, I am overflowing with love for all my fellow queer arabs. Can’t believe I’m alive in a time where a book like this can exist peacefully on a shelf in a bookstore

[Sage · Rating 5 out of 5]

This effectively ended me in the best way possible and I will be reviewing this over on my bookstagram @sagesbooks!!!

[Umar Rashid · Rating 5 out of 5]

Great collection, thoroughly enjoyed

[Rahul · Rating 4 out of 5]

I think it did a great job of covering a wide array of stories, with a multitude of backgrounds, problems and experiences. Each author was able to carve out their own unique identity across their designated pages and ascribe different weights to different aspects of their identity and I thought this was the greatest strength of this anthology. Though the compilation centres around queer arabs across the world, each story felt unique and with its own fulcrum - sexual intimacy, romantic connections, arab societal/cultural values/norms, the "whiteness" of queer spaces, opera, writing fiction, Fairuz, religion and the list goes on. Because of all this, I felt connected to some stories more than others but that's a testament to the anthology for picking a diverse range of stories and authors. Despite not sharing their experiences/identity, I'm sure everyone that reads this book would find at least one author they resonate with, be it due to similarities in personalities or an emotional connection. Some stories read like essays and others read like short stories, another plus for me for range.

I enjoyed all of the stories but the contributions from Danny Ramadan and Madian Al Jazerah will stick with me the most. This quote from Ramadan will stick with me: "I am capable of navigating spaces where I know I am marginalised because I have created a space where I am not." He posits this after stating that though he is marginalised in mainstream society due to parts of his identity, when he is alone with his husband, he is "still Syrian, a former refugee, a queer person - but [he] is no longer marginalised". The warm and safe space he has created with his husband will give him enough light to carry through the darker parts of society. This is of course in the context of a romantic relationship, but I think the same can be applied to all the people we love - be it a partner, friend or family. We should all strive to create spaces for the people we love that are so filled with love and care that they're able to navigate spaces where they are marginalised/disenfranchised. I know that it's not all that simple but it's a great sentiment with truth; it should at least be the bare minimum from a good ally.

Al Jazerah's piece hit me the hardest emotionally, especially this passage: "the only question my mother has about my entire love life - including my partners, companions and my sexuality - is related to this single act" (i.e. sex between two men). He then goes on to talk about the fact that this attitude is not only held in the Arab world, but quite widely, with conversations around homosexual relations reduced to "sex [and] never about love". I can't begin to imagine what it would feel like to have your mum visit after so long and that's the only question she asks, it would completely break me.

Another line I kept coming back to was this one from Dima Mikhayel Matta: "a queer space is one where you don't have to explain yourself". I found this to contrast the experience of some of the writers, especially due to the "whiteness" of many of these spaces. A commonly shared problem is the fetishization of the authors on dating apps by white people (mostly white men) due to being arab. From the words of one white man on Grindr: "Dude, openly gay Arabs like you are so rare. You're like forbidden fruit and that puts you on everyone's f* list. Take it as a compliment and don't think about it too much". I think white people have been able to build power in these spaces before POCs (due to greater acceptance openly coming out etc) and that's detrimental to these spaces. I remember meeting a queer Sydneysider friend of mine in Melbourne when Sydney Mardi Gras was on and he told me that he didn't like being in Sydney during the festival anymore, as white queer people had turned it into a business. It's interesting to think what these spaces would have looked like if a non-white community was the first to accept queer people and were able to build power/forge these spaces - say, if India wasn't colonised by the British and diseased with Victorian values (there's evidence that homosexuality and transsexuality were accepted in dharmic religions, hence, large swathes of the Indian subcontinent). I wonder if these spaces would be warmer, more accepting and empathetic then. I'd like to think that they would be.

[Ming · Rating 5 out of 5]

This book is my first completed in the new year and it is stunning. And yes, it earned 5 stars. This collection of personal essays consists of poignant, beautiful, and powerful stories that will inspire and give hope. Heartache, fear and anger abound. Confidence, joy, and self-discovery and self-affirmation shine.

The level of introspection revealed is enormous. And I would guess this struggle is all the more pronounced or fraught due to familial, societal, and religious constructs. The contributors are vulnerable and forthcoming in these 18 pieces. I applaud their candor and strength—both intended and incidental.

My words here cannot reflect how much awe I experienced in these essays. The writers’ experiences cut deeply; and their insights, wisdom, and strength are raw, hard-earned, and beautiful. A friend asked me if this book was a “must get.” I respond emphatically here that it’s a “must have.”

I recommend this title because it affirms human connection….that our specific struggles or experiences can communicate something universal and at the same time, unique.

My favorite contributions were “The Decade of Saying All that I Could Not Say,” “Catching the Light: Reclaiming Opera as a Trans Arab,” “You Made Me Your Monster,” “Dating White People,” and “Unheld Conversations.”

Several quotes:

I live to complicate because I walk through many identities, each with their own oppressors.

“You can worship me,” he says, as if giving permission. I ask him, “Do you want that?” and he says, “You want that.” and he’s right. He is incredibly handsome, with warm brown eyes and shoulder-length hair, and has the most beautiful body, large and muscled and with just enough fat to indicate he lives a good life. Looking at him now, as we were together in a dark room and a dark city... I wonder whether his body appears so perfect to me because it is attached to him, to his handsome face and shy smile, the way he is wild in the bedroom but so timid outside of it, the way he walks the tightrope of boundaries and consent, the way he can pull me in and keep me at just enough of a distance to always want more.

…On stage I was in class impostor; at times, the racialised trespasser.

…The more my masculinity is perceived the more I am condemned, as a queer gender nonconforming Arab, for failing at it.

In opera, the performer must be transparent enough to allow the audience to see what they expect to see. The singer is the vessel, and the role itself is determined by signifiers: boys in pants and short hair, rich ladies in pearls, the poor in patches, and – though the Paris Opera staff forced a Muslim woman who is wearing a face covering to leave a performance of La traviata in 2014 – Muslim women are uniformly signified by their veils. The gaze can move in only one direction. There are rules about who gets to look, and what they're supposed to see.

…It was the fault of the individual if the traditions of the collective came tumbling down -- to transgress was to break down everyone’s feeling of safety in the collective. This is why queer Arabs can be viewed as such a threat to those in the community who conform. Our freedom is a projection of autonomy that many others have sacrificed; instead of embracing this, many lash out, for it destabilizes their lifelong decision to conform for the “greater good.”

Living in a foreign, often hostile country – one, indeed, bombing the very country we came from—can make you very territorial about your cultural identity.

There is a tendency among the audiences of marginalised authors, such as myself, to assume that every piece of writing is a reflection of real-life events that the author went through. There is this tunnel vision that many audience members get; it generalises the experience of one marginalised writer for it to become the general experience of that marginalised community. That tendency is a gaze that engulfs all who identify within one community under one simplistic version of a narrative.

(When her white girlfriend talked about taking Arabic language lessons and getting an Arabic tattoo) “She can't take this, too,” I said to myself. “Why do white people feel the need to take everything off everyone else?” I said out loud.

White people have a stunning power in English-speaking majority countries, and not in the ways that people talk about very often. The power is that they belong to, or operate in, calculated friendship cults that people of colour want to be loved and desired within. They are the white people who have mostly white friends but one Filipino who rides on their arm. They are the people who buy plastic jars of avocado hummus but would never drive through Bankstown. They are the white partner who refuses to teach themselves more about their partner’s stories and sociocultural context in a colonised world.

Withheld conversations about queer identity are an integral, load-bearing part of Arab culture. And for many queer Arabs, these withheld conversations serve us. They serve us structurally: by providing shields that, in many places, literally save lives from legal and social censure. They invite convenient amnesia, avert judicious eyes, swallow tuts at the back of the throat. They form a screen around particular bars in Beirut, a discreet bookshop in Cairo. Thanks to withheld conversations, our relationships with our grandparents can continue, with a manageable amount of intergenerational disorientation and judgment. The absence of conversations about queerness are the best-case scenario for those who are unable to offer their acceptance; the most they can do is clear a blank space on a map and stand on the edges, looking the other way.