Queer quarantines

“[In Egypt], every person who is not male, Muslim, Sunni, straight, and a supporter of the system, is rejected, repressed, stigmatized, arrested, exiled, or killed,” Sarah Hegazy wrote on March 6, 2020. Three months later, Sarah’s death by suicide while in exile sent a shockwave through queer communities in the Arab world and diaspora. At the same time, a new wave of social confrontation around sexual justice, most of which has been centered around straight women’s experiences, was just beginning in Egypt. 

Being gay or trans in itself is not illegal in Egypt, but the state has used different laws to police and punish people’s sexualities. For example, after the national media attacked concert-goers for raising the rainbow flag at the 2017 Mashrou’ Leila concert in Cairo, prosecutors used debauchery charges to criminalize what was seen as an open celebration of queerness and arrest Sarah and others. 

In spring 2020, during the first months of the pandemic, many queer young people were forced to stay home with families who did not accept their gender or sexual identities. Around the same time, the state started using a vaguely worded law protecting “family values” as it jailed women for their TikTok videos. Soon after that, testimonies of sexual assault against Ahmed Bassam Zaki, followed by the campaign around the Fairmont rape case, led to an explosion of discussion around sexual violence and pushed the state to move on both cases, with dramatically different results. 

Physically isolated and online, many queer and trans people say they faced particular challenges as they dealt with grief, lockdown and the surge of sexual justice activism. Here, a few people talk about a year they described as both difficult and transformative, and what it’s been like to come back to physical society afterwards. The interviews, which took place through a combination of in-person meetings, video calls and voice note exchanges, have been edited for clarity.

(Mohamed)*

I was in my last semester in college before quarantine, and a lot of things were happening with my parents. My dad found out I’m queer and my family were upset because of the “secret” of the problems that I was having. Whenever they would speak to me they would lump everything under “yes, because you’re a f*g.” I couldn’t be at home because I was really scared; there was constant physical violence and emotional abuse. 

I stayed with one person that my parents approved of, and then I stayed in the dorms. At the dorms, it was definitely better because I was away from any threat. But I was really struggling in all my classes and I was failing in everything. They only let me stay there for a few days and they let me come back under the promise that things will be safer; but obviously that wasn’t the case, and things got even worse. Despite it being my last semester, I reached this breaking point where it was like I’m literally gonna fail and I can’t afford to let my parents spend money on another semester — it wasn’t an option. So I really had to put all my feelings aside and graduate, and I did.

My problem at home wasn’t of me not being able to express my gender or my sexuality. It was more than that; it felt more like I was having difficulty just existing as me. I just felt like I was under attack. I was coping with drugs, by isolating myself, and by numbing my feelings in every way possible. When I was younger, whenever I was going through something, I used to take long walks. I stopped feeling safe doing that. So, during quarantine, I went out for drives, smoked a joint, played music and maybe played on my phone a bit.

It was only recently that I started to think being at home is really affecting the way I understand my gender, sexuality and my sex, etc. Only recently did I feel that I was hurting because I wasn’t able to express that side of myself. I didn’t ever have a desire to express that side of myself with my family, and I still don’t. But now I feel the weight of the fact that they don’t know me and that they will probably never know me, you know what I mean? Like, the weight of the potential of who I could be if I wasn’t in this situation is really weighing on me right now.

At the same time, that kind of experience of letting myself rot was generative in some ways. In the past, I really used to struggle with my facial hair and always preferred having a clean shaven face; but then when I wasn’t seeing anyone because of lockdown I went for the longest I’ve ever gone without shaving. When I look back at pictures, I still don’t recognize myself. But I mean, it was liberating in some ways, because it really put me face to face with this idea of: “Who am I really shaving for?”

Alongside all these moments of exhaustion, there was the heaviness of Sarah Hegazy’s death that left us feeling a huge sense of grief and fear. I just couldn’t process how sad I was, and it was so frustrating for me. To some degree, my mom understands what I’m going through and is on my side and all of that. But she didn’t understand and it just didn’t make sense to her. I wasn’t really engaging with anyone, let alone my family. I sat in my room, and went from my room to the car, and from the car to my room. That was what’s going on, and to a huge extent, that’s still ongoing.

The lack of safety during physical isolation wasn’t really different for me, I had already faced that. But like it eventually it became more so, because people that I usually go to, my safe spaces, weren’t available. 

(Sara)*

The very same week as Sarah Hegazy’s death, there was another death in the LGBTQ+ community. I lost many friends when I found out how homophobic and transphobic they are. Some of them threatened to “out” me to other people who are also unsafe. This online realm turned into a complete nightmare.

Physical life was also scary. I was in an abusive relationship with a cisgender heterosexual boyfriend when lockdown began, while still experimenting with my trans-ness and queerness. I lived between two divorced parents. My ex-boyfriend was my best friend at one point in my life and I thought that I was in love with him. But then, the more I started acting more like myself, the more I started seeing the abusive patterns in the relationship. He was transphobic, and when I started feeling myself being finally aligned with my own gender, he sexually abused me. That was happening while I was also constantly getting harassed by people and carrying this weight by myself.

My family knew that I was in a relationship with a boy, but I couldn’t grieve the pain I felt after what happened with him. I even came out to my mom as trans, but she doesn’t want me to “change my body” for safety reasons, and for other reasons like that “I might change my mind.” So that was hard for me because I felt like I couldn’t escape how I felt toward my body, especially with the fact that my dad was commenting on how I looked, my body, my chest, and I felt like I was being sexualized, and it felt even more suffocating. I was stuck with my father, and even though I came out to him as bisexual, he was in denial. I was under constant pressure about marriage and having kids.

When all the stories about sexual abuse started coming out, I had recurring flashbacks about my past and ongoing traumas. The hardest realization I had to face was the fact that if I ever wanted to speak about sexual violence, then I’d probably be dead. It also felt overwhelming trying to physically connect with someone after I started seeing people — I was scared not only of being triggered but triggering someone else in the process when I needed hugs — a reminder that my body doesn’t live in isolation. 

There was no option left other than surviving and coping. I developed the habit of smoking up every day. Also, dance classes were off during quarantine, and that was where I could escape from home with my friends. So, I had to learn to dance with myself, but I could only feel free when I’m either drunk or high. That could’ve turned into an addiction if it weren’t for my friends being there. I had constant nightmares and flashbacks, but I wrote every night so at least I made something out of the fact that I couldn’t sleep; I was very depressed to the point where I had to treat myself like a baby: convincing myself to shower, making myself eat and stopping myself from self-harm.

Also, I’ve grown tired trying to find queer-friendly therapists. I have dealt with therapists that believed in conversion therapy, and ones that were emotionally manipulative and blamed me for what I went through. Not having access to therapists with all this grief actually led me to other ways of living and surviving. I experimented with my gender, because I only had my makeup and clothes, and I couldn’t go to a hairdresser. Since there was no reason for me to wear sports bras or binders at home, I got in touch with my “feminine” side once again, but not according to society’s ideals of gender.

But when I started going out, many people were confused: “Are you a boy or a girl?” Or yelling “khawal”; I felt unsafe because I’ve already been through so much and I know what people are capable of doing. I was scared I was going to lose another person. So I went inward and I wrote letters to my closest friends telling them how much they mean to me.

Last but not least, when I started going out and seeing people I know, I always found ways to hide my chest even if it was very uncomfortable or painful. As an AFAB trans person struggling with chest dysphoria, experimenting and presenting myself in a way that felt aligned with how I feel made me so happy; I haven’t ever felt this euphoric in my life. My ribs and lungs started to hurt a lot; it felt like I couldn’t breathe. Also, that meant I was slightly paranoid because if I get sick, I might be at risk of dying. It also hurt because it was something that I couldn’t speak about especially as a smoker and an athlete; it felt like nobody really understood the pain I had to endure and I grew sick of knowing that our experiences are being constantly erased.

(Ali)*

Moving around a lot as a queer and trans person you get taught what to hide and compromise in order to keep yourself safe. So, growing up in Egypt, I was a saint; I measured up to what it means to be a “good kid.” I got good grades, would sometimes go to parties but would never go home after midnight or like 1 am. I was that same person in high school but I was very aware that people made me feel like an outcast for being effeminate. I got bullied.

Afterward, I moved to Europe and I was really happy not living with my parents anymore; I wasn’t living on my own but it still counted. I went to art school; it was a fashion school. So, in fashion, you’re allowed to wear whatever the fuck you want to. I was also in a school that accepted me and I was famous for attracting weirdos. More importantly, you were always encouraged to get deeper with yourself; my thesis was basically my memoir of my senior year. It was the first time I was in a place where you were awarded for being a weirdo, and for not being wanted by society. On the other side, I think I kind of took it too far, because of the many things in life that made me repress an identity and having to always accommodate the people around me. There was always this thing that told me that I always need to fight in order to at least stay where I am.

But also, I got really close with my friends and that was the most important thing, obviously. We say that we love each other and we kind of really operate in a family dynamic. With people like us, it’s very important because we aren’t used to getting validation, and having friends this close always makes you see the good side of things that let you know you are loved. I don’t want to be in a relationship; I just want to have my friends.

But you know the difference between living abroad as a queer and trans person and in Egypt is the law. The main difference is no one [abroad] can come and tell you you’re going to jail just because you’re gay. But there are still a lot of problems; you still get assaulted in the streets. But I feel like I can speak my mind and at school, I can talk about whatever the fuck I want to talk about. But there’s another thing, I think I had that particular experience: I experienced what it would be to be a token. I started to think about how I was the only Arab or Muslim or somebody who has a Muslim name, or somebody who isn’t white. I understood that I got to be the ultimate token: he has a Muslim name, he’s Arab, he has afro hair, he wears heels and nails. So that means, if you’re [the one Arab or Muslim] in a company, you’re representing so many people. In the mind of recruiters — they don’t need any more than that.

(Hana)*

When Sarah’s death happened, I blocked the grief too because I felt like this person took a whole hit for all of us since Mashrou’ Leila, she and others, but I believe she was more outspoken than anyone.

During lockdown, it helped me to think that my family was like most: scared of catching COVID, dealing with social distancing. As much as it was valid, I feel like they use this point to be able to have more control.

They started constantly asking questions like: “Who are you talking to all this time? “Why are you talking to this particular person all this time?” “Why did you use this word?” “You don’t leave your door open, ever.” When I closed the door, it turned into a fight. “Why is the balcony open? Are you smoking cigarettes or something?” I felt very miserable and that they’re very happy about my presence in the household, but let’s look at the huge existing gap in that they focus on me being present but they don’t focus on how my presence is.

Adding onto this layer of being confined and not having the space to grieve, there was the layer of leaving a relationship during quarantine. One of the main things that I broke up with my girlfriend over was that we couldn’t talk and communicate comfortably. Our phone calls had to be in secret. If my mom passes: “Hang up now! Bye.” So, it created a lot of distance that eventually led us to break up. 

I wasn’t able to process this grief of me breaking up with someone I could potentially have ended up with. I just had to shut down completely with everything related to this. Some time went by and I started doubting my sexuality. I went on dating applications because I had doubts about my attraction toward men. I did try to explore but when I went out on a date, I felt like no, I can’t feel it. I think I was lashing out at myself, by shutting down my sexuality completely — I had no alternate way of living other than to shut down.  

On the other hand, the discussion around consent was shifting and making itself known both privately and publicly. When different people started speaking up about sexual violence, it was great to see a space opening up; a space that we’ve created for ourselves as non-cis male figures in Egypt. I feel like we broke a huge barrier. It could be a turning point because it’s a huge ongoing wave and it will affect many things in the future.

At some point I was triggered for a few days because there were some specific details that reminded me of something that I went through from a queer person. I haven’t really had closure on that; and I don’t know what a closure really looks like. If we spoke up about abuse, people will only focus on the fact that we’re queer and will use the sexual assault stories in the community to criminalize us even more.

While we were having realizations about boundaries and consent in public, the idea that we couldn’t express ourselves at home, in our private lives, and through physical intimacy, made me depressed. Sitting at home with my parents trying to even further control me made me burst completely: I lashed out on them and it led me to where I am right now, one way or another. I also confronted everything they’ve done to me before, I shouted because they took my rights, they were my rights from the beginning. So, I guess as much as it was a horrible phase, as much as I’m grateful for it, in a way.

Once I got out, I only hugged certain people because I felt like there might still be some psychological damage that we want to heal from. I guess that is what felt like closure; going to therapy and having a support system from people who know about me.

Getting out of home and outside of Egypt doesn’t necessarily mean that our lives are safe. We dealt with Sara Hegazy’s asylum seeking as a good opportunity, an end to her story, even though it wasn’t. As much as it can be a safe option, there are a lot of barriers and layers to asylum seeking that people don’t understand. It’s not mainly about feeling free and being out as much as living with your friends and chosen families. We want a safe space that’s here and not abroad.