Meem_Oirs 5 EN by Mesahat Foundation for Sexual and Gender Diversity

Mesahat Foundation for Sexual and Gender Diversity in the Nile valley Area (Egypt &Sudan)

Meem-oirs

Issue 5 - July 2020

Medical violations against LGBTQI++ Community.

Introduction We- as people on the diverse spectrum of non-conforming sexual orientations and gender identities- witness on a daily basis many transgressions on our citizenship and the basic rights granted in effect. Although the Egyptian constitution Article 18 guarantees the right of appropriate and adequate health care to every citizen, we find that the Egyptian medical institutions forgo this right to certain individuals based on their sexual orientations and gender identities. Moreover, we witness systemic medical violations that jeopardize our physical, sexual and psychological well-being, as well as a lack of appropriate and safe designated healthcare facilities to address our critical needs. It stems from the intentional marginalization of our physical and mental suffering by the medical service providers, on account of it being immaterial to the society, or even a natural repercussion to our deviances. The 5th edition of Meem-oirs is dedicated to documenting the experiences of the LGBTQI+ with the deplorable behaviour of the medical entities in Egypt. We aimed at showcasing stories of people from different backgrounds and identities, who needed various forms of healthcare, and were denied it or were abused, violated or stigmatized instead. Meem-oirs booklet is the end result of the oral history documentation project carried out by Mesahat Foundation for Sexual and Gender Diversity in Egypt and Sudan, which aims at shedding light on the lives, struggles and battles of the LGBTQI+ community and giving voice especially to the most marginalized sectors in the community.

Index 6-9

The looks The Doctor Molester Innocence lost I lost faith in doctors

10-13

A violation

22-25

The worst

26-29

Coercion

30-31

A tangent Lesson learned Just a phase

32-33

14-17 18-21

34-35 36-38

The Looks Shams

I was part of an activist group that decided to have a psychiatrist conduct storytelling workshops for us. We got in touch with a reputable doctor in our town. We started off discussing general things about depression. Each one of us talked about their feelings and when they started. I did too, but I didn’t mention anything about my orientation. I didn’t have the awareness back then to be able to identify abuse when it happens, I just felt something didn’t feel right with the way that doctor looked at me. Although a psychiatrist is supposed to induce feelings of comfort and trust, I usually felt intimidated by him. I was supposed to continue seeing him in group therapy but I decided to start seeing him on my own, thinking that if he’s cooperating with a group of activists, he would be open-minded enough to hear me out. I talked to him about how people use my looks to label me, and how often these labels aren’t great. He didn’t understand right away, so I had to spell it out for him and tell him the slurs they use with me. He replied: “Don’t worry I’ve been called that too, it doesn’t necessarily mean you really have a problem.” “Well, what if they’re saying is true?” I asked. “No, it’s just in your head, this isn’t real.” He said. I let it slide and replied jokingly that it’s more than just my head. I wasn’t offended or impacted in any way by this conversation. I knew he wasn’t surprised. His looks to me told me that he had had me pegged. Knowing that he’s figured me out is the reason I continued seeing him, although I was a bit worried because we sometimes meet in other circles where I don’t want to be figured out. He himself didn’t show me any signs of reassurance. In hindsight, I know now that he wasn’t understanding or reassuring at all. I just needed to vent, to find a way to let it all out. His reaction wasn’t violent. But I can tell now it was insidious. I’ve always noticed he was religious; he hung verses of the Quran on the walls of his clinic, his mobile ringtones are religious prayers or chants, and he’d pause the sessions to go pray. All these signs indicated his perspective to me. He can’t be objective; his religious mindset was bound to affect the way he sees things. The way he sees me, even. That’s why I tried to minimize his input, I would just talk and he would listen. He would ask me some eliciting questions but nothing that has his own opinion in it. I worked with him on going home on foot after our sessions, because I had a massive difficulty walking in the streets and facing people. 6

I couldn’t be honest or straightforward, everything considered. I couldn’t disclose everything although I knew that goes against the point of therapy. But I also knew that I can’t come out where I live, nobody would accept it. I was just trying to get the most help while giving the least amount of information possible. I was also scared he would out me to other people in our circles if I came out. That didn’t last though. By the 2 nd session I was so agitated by the harassment I got on the streets and I needed to just say how I felt, and so I spoke about my orientation directly. This was our last session. Afterwards, I tried to reach out to him and set a 3 rd appointment but he kept eluding me. He blocked me on social media when I tried contacting him there. My initial reaction to this wasn’t exaggerated. I just dealt with it like a typical situation of being rejected socially. I am no stranger to it. I even told some people about it casually. Before I got blocked, I had been sending him messages imploring him to set an appointment. I had nobody else to talk to and seeing a different doctor meant travelling an additional hour or two. I only texted when I was at a low point, maybe even in tears while typing the message. He replied that he was busy or traveling at that time. These were his excuses until he figured out a way to shut me up forever. I know it must be about my sexual orientation, because I know he still works and sees patients. I even know some of his patients whom he kept for a long while and they talk about their progress with him. So he was able to commit to helping others, just not me.

Now, if I need urgent help, I have to travel all the way to Cairo to seek it. So I try to convince myself to power through it on my own. It is a rare occasion to find someone else to talk to. When I feel that I might need medication, I think about maybe trying to see a psychiatrist again but this time, get better at lying. I could talk about people’s abuse without divulging much about its source. I know that being upfront about it will just result in more abuse. Even if this means withholding some of the issues that need fixing as a result of withholding information. I just want to help myself any way I can, without compromising my safety. Asking for help and not getting it might be tough. Yet when you survive, you learn that you didn’t need it in the first place. You learn to be your own support system, and you can’t help but believe in your own strength. I know now that my fears might be baseless, but I accept them. Being afraid means you have something to lose. The looks; the dirty looks; the condescending looks, they hurt. I wish people would know better than belittling someone with just a look. I’ve been through it; I know how it feels. And I don’t wish it on anybody else.

The following story contains incidents of medical violations and harassment, and may become traumatic to some people.. Reader’s discretion advised.

The Doctor Molester Lilith

I was late to self-discovery, and I went through many phases before reaching the final verdict. For a while, I thought I was bisexual, since I was attracted to women but already dating men. But as soon as I had my first homosexual relationship, I realised that I was attracted to women exclusively, and that all my relationships with guys were nothing but me following the social construct. I experienced genuine feelings with a woman for the first time. Aside from my sexual orientation, the gender identity was even trickier. At first, I identified as a soft butch.1 But identifying as a butch implies femininity, which isn’t something I was 100%. Acknowledging my masculinity, I identified as bigender 2. The more I read, the more I swayed towards being non-binary.3 I could relate to a lot of what gender non-binaries say and how they express themselves. I discovered I was battling with depression in 2003. I was still at the cusp of the self-discovery journey, I had a stressful job and an overall difficult life. I decided I should see a psychiatrist. But knowing no better, I chose a doctor based only on his physical proximity to my place of work.

1 A soft butch, or stem (stud-fem), is a lesbian who exhibits some stereotypical butch traits without fitting the

masculine stereotype associated with butch lesbians 2 Bigender people experience exactly two gender identities, either simultaneously or varying between the two (Anwar, M, 2017) 3 Non-binary (also spelled nonbinary), or genderqueer, is a spectrum of gender identities that are not exclusively masculine

We started off on light subjects; such as the pressures of my job and my family. As soon as I delved into my sexual orientation, everything changed. I implied I was bisexual and told him that I was ending one heterosexual relationship and trying a homosexual one. I had my reservations about it, like any other relationship, and I wanted to discuss that. But he was stuck at why I haven’t told him earlier, and how that would have changed everything we’re doing in therapy. I explained that I didn’t need to talk about my sexual orientation before because I had no problems with it. He started asking too many questions of sexual nature; what attracts me to women, how I see them, my sexual history with them, etc… While I wanted to discuss the psychological strain my homosexuality puts on me because of the adverse environment I am in. I wanted to talk about my ultra-religious, conservative family while he wanted to ask questions like: “So tell me again why you’re not a fan of us, babe” He said. “What?!” “Why don’t you like men, I mean?” “I’m just not into it.” “But have you tried men?” “I have. Still. not for me.” He started demanding more details about my sexual activities with men or women. I was naive enough to think that this may be part of the therapy and I should disclose to him as much as I can. He asked me at the end of the session what it would take for me to leave the girl. I told him that like everybody else, I need someone in my life to talk to and care about, and she gives me that. My only issue lied in how she communicates with me at times. He replied: “I have a proposition for you, but please don’t misunderstand me. I have a Facebook account other than my official one. Why don’t you add me and let’s try talking to me every time you feel the need for someone to talk to.” We had already been in touch on his official account before that suggestion. Our interactions were within the expected limits, so I decided in good faith to add his second account and try this hands-on approach to therapy. Needless to say, I grew suspicious of his intentions when I saw him active on sexual pages, leaving comments to women left and right about wanting to sleep with them.

or feminine‍) (Anwar, M, 2017)

I can’t remember exactly whether I blocked both of his accounts or just the fake one. He asked me why I did that, but I just disappeared without giving any answers. Later, I discovered that he had prescribed me addictive medication that I didn’t need. A doctor friend of mine advised me to quit them and I went through a rough time of withdrawals and seizures. I had to wean myself off it gradually. Looking back, I can see the extent of his mental abuse; he made me question my own perception of myself, he made me break up with my girlfriend, because he convinced me I still had a heterosexual side that I need to amplify while he treats the pathological homosexuality. I was either feeling confused, guilty or resentful. I had to defend myself against all the typical accusations of rape or assault that an average heterosexual throws at us the gay folks. I doubted myself a lot more than I did before I ever saw him. During our time in therapy, I used to receive anonymous blackmail messages, written in particularly good English, talking about how they know I am a dyke and how they were going to out me to everyone I know. I received those messages on the one Facebook account that has every acquaintance, friend, relative and family member I ever had. The idea5of revealing such a thing to all those people terrified me and caused me to deactivate my account and start a new “clean” one. It wasn’t just me who was being threatened then. At the time I was living with my girlfriend after we both moved out from our parents’ places. We both had to live with the threat at home, where we work, and wherever we went together. This was my last visit to a psychiatrist who isn’t gay or an ally. There is nothing like talking to a queer physician or even an ally, because then you can be yourself without having to hide or risk being discriminated against. It’s a privilege to be able to go to couple therapy with your girlfriend, to find an oasis of acceptance in the midst of all the hostility and denial. Another layer of support was my queer friends, those are the ones who really contributed to my journey of self-discovery. Back in the day when I thought I was a really confused straight person, I had friends who helped me not be confused anymore and step closer to my true self. In all honesty, I see that psychiatry in Egypt is beyond redemption. But if we are to talk about change, theoretically, we would need a radical perceptual and structural change in the way psychology is taught. We would need to implement a strictly scientific approach to identify what is real and what is a hoax. We would need a regulatory body of impartial experts who would denounce a sham such as gay conversion therapy aside from the teachings of any religion. In real life, though, this is almost impossible, with all the odds stacked against the LGBT+ community; state, religion, medical body, and the entire society.

The following story contains incidents of medical violations and suicide, and may become traumatic to some people.. Reader’s discretion advised.

Innocence Lost Nairobi

I come from a very religious family. My parents are very much involved with the church. I am the only son among a few girls, so a lot was expected of me. I loved singing since I was a kid, I volunteered in artistic events, I sang and took part in bands. A man in my family isn’t expected to sing; he ought to be decent and quiet. Although I was a shy and quiet kid, I still did not live up to their expectations. I liked someone and started seeing him, this is how my family found out about my sexuality. They creeped into my WhatsApp and confronted me with our texts, I tried gaslighting- I made so many excuses up. And when I had a fight with this guy and we decided to meet in a different house than ours to make up, my family found out about this as well. In the second confrontation, I had to admit it. I admitted they were right about me. Much to their dismay, they took me to a priest whom I was relatively friendly with. I had told him a bit about my life and he connected the dots when my family outed me to him. He was adamant we should go see a doctor called Amgad Fahmy. The moment I heard the name I was sceptical; I knew he was a fraud. I had read some of his writing about healthy relationships and it was nothing but unscientific garbage. But my family wasn’t ready to listen to me. As soon as I opened my mouth, my mother yelled “shut up, you don’t get to speak now.” At that point, my boyfriend had abandoned me, I couldn’t find anyone to talk to or a friend to help me escape this. I also knew I was to be forced to see the phony doctor. I couldn’t see a way out. This is why I chugged an assortment of pills and ended up in the ER. I wanted a way out of what was waiting for me. But my family took this as a sign of the seriousness of my case and decided to ship me directly from the hospital to Fahmy’s facility. When I first arrived, I met another doctor; called Wael Sobhy. The person I was when I arrived there was unable to maintain eye contact or take up too much space, I was always accompanied with shame and guilt. When I stepped into his office, he turned the lights off, amplifying my anxiety. 14

He was interested in the beginnings of my inclinations, he was even more interested in whether I have had soft or hard sex. I mumbled “Well I didn’t try it.” “Try what?” he said. “Hard, I only tried soft sex.” I said, avoiding his eyes. “Well that’s great, we haven’t reached the point of no return!” he said “Hey, remember, you can choose not to say something if you wanted.” He could tell I didn’t trust him, and that my parents were impatient to see results and that I am a suicide ticking bomb, so he had to make a strong impression quickly. He would fake a phone call and tell me he was talking to someone who was exactly like me but recovered and was now inviting him to his wedding. Two sessions later, when I was still unwilling to fall into his trap, I heard from my family that I was being referred to Dr Fahmy himself. Everything about the man was scary, especially his big glasses. I spent 6 months under his supervision, 3 of which we spent on combating suicidal tendencies. I can’t deny, this part was effective. He helped me see other sides to life that are worth living for. In this phase, I felt accepted, or at least he sold me the idea that I was. This was a first for me, and it did help a lot. He even used to hug me at the end of every session. Then we started group therapy, where he would bring in some fake success stories of recovered individuals. I was straightforward and told him I believed there was no cure, and that what he was doing was heresy. I had no safety net back then, I knew nobody- hetero or homo- who was there for me. So I listened to him. He told me I should find someone to confide in and come out to. I went and did it. Much to my surprise, the friend I picked was very understanding, he even stood up to my parents for my sake at some point. He’s got my back ever since then. Dr. Fahmy convinced me that I should let everything out, I should reflect on my past, especially the beginning of self-discovery, and write my thoughts down in a diary. My diary had a small lock on it, a lock which my parents naturally broke to creep into my head. Who knows whether this was their brainchild, or they did it with Dr. Fahmy’s blessings? The important point is, my father was hospitalized as a result of peeking into my mind. On the other hand, I shared everything I wrote with the doctor, who made me feel heard and accepted. He acknowledged the pain I went through and that made me trust him and follow his guidance. In the support groups, Dr. Fahmy would bring in somebody who says something along the lines of “Hello, I am X, I am 28 years old, it’s been 8 years since my recovery, with 7 slips” and the doctor would clap. What slips? What does that mean? I would wonder. When I finally asked, I was told a slip means having “unnatural” sex. “What’s natural or unnatural sex? Do you mean sex with a man?” I asked. “Yes.” he said. “So if you quit for a year and started practicing “normal” sex, what makes you slip? Is this like a periodical pain reliever?” I asked. Dr. Fahmy interrupted our exchange and started explaining: “It’s not a painkiller, it’s more of a practice of reviving the masculine nature that’s dormant within you and suppressing the pathological homosexual needs” 15

“So we’re practicing heterosexual gender roles to be able to get married?” “No, I am trying to remind you of your forgotten true nature.” “But X’s dormant heterosexuality was awakened, he thankfully got married. Why the slips then?” I asked “These are just mistakes he shouldn’t be making. But god is forgiving and accepting of our shortcomings.” He said “If he’s accepting, why not accept me as a homosexual?” I said. And on and on went the futile discussion. We never reached anywhere, and I never met someone who’s recovered and had zero slips.

‫ أتكسف أو أقيض الليل كله‬،»‫ بقيت أقوي من األول وال بقيت قايس؟ يعني زمان ملا كانوا يقولوا يل «اخرس يا كذا أو يالال ياليل الوالد بيعملوا لك كذا‬،‫أنا مش عارف دلوقتي‬ ،‫ لو كنت خزنت كان ممكن يجرايل حاجة‬،‫ بس العياط كان بيشفيني‬،‫ كل األيام اليل قضيتها مع أمجد كلها عياط بسبب الكالم املؤذي اليل كنت بسمعه يف كل مكان‬،‫عياط‬ ،‫ يخطفوا املوبايل من إيدي‬،‫ زمان كانوا يفتحوا التابلت بتاعي‬،‫ بقيت أقوى من األول اليل هو لو حد جه قال يل حاجة هقول له ماتدخلش يف حيايت‬،‫دلوقتي بقيت أرد‬ .‫ فيه خصوصية ماينفعش حد يتخطاها‬،‫دلوقتي أل‬ ‫ أنا كنت بريء ومش بركز يف حاجة وماليش دعوة‬،‫ درجة‬180 ‫ عينيا اتفتحت عىل حاجات وشخصيتي اتقلبت‬،‫ بعد اليل عملوه ف ّيا واليل عمله أمجد‬،‫أنا بقيت أقوي من األول‬ ‫ بقيت أخش يف مشاكل‬،‫ من ساعة ما اتغريت يف كل املدة دي بسبب الوجع والعياط‬،‫ وال عمري دخلت يف مشكلة مع حد‬،‫ بهزر وأصاحب اليل أصاحبه من غري ما أخون‬،‫بحد‬ ‫ إين سمحت لنفيس يف السن دا يحصل‬،‫ أنا دلوقتي بشفق عىل نفيس‬.‫ وهي رفعة حاجب واحدة كدا تخليك تطلع برة هدومك‬،‫ بقيت عصبي وصويت عايل ومستفز جدا‬،‫عادي‬ .‫يل كل دا‬

In one of our discussions I tried to entertain the possibility of his own son turning out gay. He said he was unwilling to talk about his private life but, if I must know, if his son turned out gay, he would accept him because it’s out of his hands! He said he would try to help him and listen to what he has to say. When I asked how come his son would talk to him while- according to his beliefs- the father is usually the reason for his son’s malfunction. He said he’d let him talk to anybody else, as long as he wants to change, he’d support him. But he’d never denounce him as his own. He was a fraud but he was pleasant to talk to. I wanted to change, back then, just to avoid all the antagonizing from my family and the whole society. I lost a lot in my journey to recovery. I lost weight and the ability to stay awake in the haze of medication. I lost my sense of humour and all my friends. Then I decided enough was enough, I convinced my family that I was finally cured and they no longer needed to throw their money down the drain. Whenever the suicidal thoughts visit, I’d wonder how I can do it. I was too scared to do it in any dramatic fashion, I was too scared of blades and I couldn’t drown myself because my instincts would kick in and I’d swim back to safety. I had only the medications approach in mind and even that failed once before. I was let down by everyone; my family, my lover and my doctor. I can’t tell whether that has toughened me up or rather made me heartless. One comment from some jerk about what boys do to me used to be enough to keep me up at night, crying, ashamed. All my sessions with Dr. Fahmy were tearful. Tears are cathartic, though. I wouldn’t have survived this far if I kept on bottling things up. Now, I clap back. When someone offends me, I have something to say back to them. Now, I have boundaries with my family; gone are the days when they can snatch my phone off my hand or break into my things. I am definitely stronger now. All that I have been through has opened my eyes to the existence of other truths and possibilities. My personality has had a 180-degree shift. I had always kept to myself and caused no troubles. But I was robbed of my innocence, I learned to fight and accept confrontation. My voice has grown louder. Looking back, I feel sorry for myself for letting them do to me what they did. 16

I lost Faith in Doctors Eren

I live outside of Egypt, being trans was obviously more noticeable at puberty, before that I kind of was in denial about ending up like my sister or my mom, and I didn’t really want to think about it for too long. I don’t know, I just thought that some miracle would happen and I wouldn’t be like them, this can’t happen to me. I was just weirdly optimistic. After puberty it obviously became more noticeable and I didn’t have the vocabulary to describe it. I didn’t even know gay people existed, as far as I knew we went extinct because of that story of the Lut people in religion, I just thought gay people were all wiped out and that’s it. I think at middle school I started to become aware of gender nonconformity, I was aware of tomboys and things like that and I thought to myself, you know, If I was free I’d live as a tomboy, I’d wear a cap instead of a scarf. I’d be generally masculine I guess, and obviously I knew that top surgery was a thing because people with breast cancer get it. So I thought to myself, okay, I am going to get this someday, I feel that If I had googled more about this maybe I would’ve found out what trans means, but I didn’t google any of the feelings that I had. I think it was grade 10 when I learned about the meaning of the word Trans. I remember it very clearly, a post on Tumblr on Trans Day of Visibility for someone who put their pre-transition pics and at the end they were on testosterone and they showed all these changes, and I remember scrolling through it and I was like what?! I didn’t know what that was and I didn’t even know what that visibility day was. After seeing the post, I started to research more. I remember bargaining with myself that maybe I can socially transition because medical transition seems too complicated, I thought to myself hormones were too scary because I didn’t know how they work even though I was interested. But I was at the first stages, it was that phase where I can live like a guy but don’t feel the need to get all these scary things done to me, we’re just going to try and make do, but gradually I admitted to myself what I need and it took years, it obviously didn’t come in one day. So, it was around highschool and the beginning of college when I started to accept that this is a thing about me. As for my orientation, I didn’t really want to acknowledge it. Since I felt that being bi kind of invalidates me, I just felt if I like guys then how can I be trans? because that’s a really girly thing. As for girls, I thought to myself well maybe I just like them because they’re my friends and because I have dysphoria. Clearly, I couldn’t picture myself with anyone so I spent a while identifying as asexual, I used the term Ace, mainly because that’s how I felt at that time.

together, then automatically there’s something going on. So I wanted to detach myself from this picture and say that I am an Ace. Then I jokingly said at High School that I swing both ways. It was just a joke but I actually meant this I guess, I was trying to see what it sounds like, and I don’t really like that expression right now, but that’s what I said back then. During middle school I was depressed and uncomfortable especially because I used to hunch my back to hide my chest, and I kept telling my parents that these clothes are no good and that they have to buy me bigger stuff. I was very picky, and they called me out for being depressed and for being picky. Also we are a very sexist house so talking about not wearing the scarf was out of the question, I didn’t feel safe to express my feelings, and obviously I didn’t have the words for it so it’s not like I could tell them anyway. it was an unspoken rule because I’ve heard them make fun of people who are non-conforming. I thought then they were definitely not going to accept me. So when they actually found out it was around college and by accident. On Instagram my display name was Mr Sad as a joke, and so my mom interrogated me about it. She wouldn’t let me leave the room until I answered her, she talked to me as if she knew, because obviously they knew. For years I’ve been like this, since puberty I’ve been trying to tell them that, and they just ignored it and told me inadvertently to suck it up. I foolishly thought maybe I can tell them, because now I am in a really sad place so maybe they’ll have some empathy, maybe they’ll understand. I just started saying everything, and yea, at first she reacted with sympathy, but later she started treating me like a sick person, honestly it wasn’t sympathy, it’s more playing along. I felt betrayed, and later she told my dad. He had the same reaction; they just treat you nicely at first so you’ll calm down then they’ll tell you we understand that you’re sick and we want to help you change.This happened when Ramadan was approaching, and they told me Ramadan is here and it’s a good chance to repent. They said God is going to change you this Ramadan and everything is going to be okay. It was like a stab in the back. I felt fucking betrayed really, especially from my dad, he has no excuse, unlike my mom who isn’t going to understand English as well as my dad for example, he can easily access resources and he did read about it and I showed him stuff about gender dysphoria, trans existence and all that but still he insisted that he just doesn’t believe it, he thinks it’s a conspiracy from the West. To this day, I hate Ramadan. Obviously when I was not receptive to their religious bullshit, this tone of “you can change and we only want to help you” shifted and they showed the other face, they started being super transphobic, making fun of people who transition, and saying things like “Oh you’re all going to kill yourself later” or “Okay who are you going to be with?” “You know you’re never going to live your life?” and “How are we going to tell our relatives?!” along with cursing, fighting, etc..

And you know how society thinks if there is a boy and girl hanging out

When I told them or when they found out, they took me to a doctor to see if there’s any physical evidence for my allegations. At first I went along because I thought maybe these tests will be useful later. They wanted to do a blood test to check my hormones, so they did and obviously there was nothing wrong; I had the typical range of a CIS girl, which is something they used against me to prove it was all in my head. They also did an MRI which showed nothing. The blood test only showed a slight imbalance in another hormone (not Estrogen), which they immediately saw as the answer to my problem. They thought my gender identity is dictated by this hormone and if they fixed it. I’d go back to “normal”. Anyway they went to a second doctor and he prescribed this weird medicine to lower the hormone levels and they were really optimistic about this changing me. Finally, they went to a third doctor who confirmed that my hormone level was in fact normal and I didn’t need that medicine. So all this stupid mental anguish was for nothing. My dad told me that if there was something wrong with me, then electroshock therapy can fix me! I couldn’t believe he said that, he said that was basically the reason he did the MRI, because if there’s something wrong with my brain we can fix it with electric shocks. They were adamant that there was a cure to untrans me and that if there’s nothing physically wrong, then it means that it’s only my whims and my feelings which don’t really matter. Around my first or second year of college, I pulled a desperate move. I went to a doctor who does chest reductions and I thought to myself maybe he can do something for me. He told me since I was under 18, I was going to have to tell my parents. I knew I had to do that at some point since I can’t afford it myself. But of course my parents weren’t responsive to that. The doctor also told me that it’s unethical in the country I live in, and he asked me if I was a guy and I didn’t answer, I thought this conversation was irrelevant to what I wanted, and it was clear that he was not going to help me. The nurse was Egyptian and she escorted me out and asked me “Why do you want to do this? Do people make fun of you for it or something?” And “did something happen to you?” It was maybe the first time I said it out loud. Obviously she didn’t deserve it but I yelled at her saying “I am not a girl!!” in Arabic and I just walked out. I don’t know what I was thinking, I was desperate and I just thought to myself, maybe it’s offered in the country I am in, then after I get an official approval, I can try talking to my parents. I hoped they would be more understanding because they know my issue with my chest, because come on I’ve bothered them for a long time. But what is the doctor going to do?! He probably never encountered something like this before. He wasn’t mean, I just don’t think he had an idea of what trans meant or what the hell I wanted or why. Back when I was getting the blood test, the gynecologist was Egyptian and my dad told her that I think that I am a boy and we want to do a blood test to check. She told him that she’s going to write a fake reason for insurance for the blood test but that in Egypt he should talk to this well-known doctor who deals with Trans people.

final official report allowing surgery. I guess I was really happy to finally see an Arab doctor acknowledge the existence of Trans people. I felt really good in the first two appointments, he showed us this video of a trans guy in Egypt talking about himself and I thought okay maybe my parents are finally going to understand that there are lots of people like me who are recognized by religious Arab doctors. The third session I got referred to a therapist. I started talk sessions with her, she prescribed me antidepressants which we bought a lot of from Egypt to take back home, she gave me assignments using Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) techniques and she would ask me about how I see women and how I see men, and why I think I am the way I am. I tried to focus on my dysphoria rather than my interests or stereotypical roles. I had to travel back home after a while and she said she’d continue online and we did have a few sessions. But unfortunately she deals with chronic pain and she kept postponing sessions and then eventually she stopped which I thought was a bit frustrating. Then my parents told me “We did our best, we tried to take you to a doctor and nothing happened.” and I told them “There was no follow up, Why are you putting this on me?!” they just completely gave up in terms of any process or any doctor and decided that they should take another direction. They started to threaten to send me to some sort of mental asylum if I don’t stop and my mom would show me this advertisement of tomboys who became feminine telling me that I can be like them and change as well. I guess I kind of lost faith in doctors and I started to reevaluate things all together. I started thinking if I really want to do the process we were told about in Egypt, I started questioning whether I should go through one year of talk therapy and then what?! I just felt it was pointless anyway. The doctors weren’t too bad, the few sessions I had were fine, I just felt it wasn’t the kind of openness that I wanted. It wasn’t as progressive as I wanted it to be. So I am not really going to follow up with an Egyptian doctor because even if I do everything, I still can’t change my legal documents. I really like the informed consent model and I am planning on saving money and doing my top surgery somewhere, with or without my parents’ blessings.

So in the summer of this year we went to Egypt, we went to a clinic there, it was one that dealt with various psychological issues including sexual disorders. I guess my dad thought he’d give it a shot and during that time I was kind of optimistic. I thought to myself maybe things would change, I was actually kind of happy, and so we went there. The first meeting was with me and my dad and the doctor talked to him about being Trans and the transitioning process in Egypt; you do talk therapy for a year or something, then based on that you get Hormone replacement therapy (HRT) and a 20

The following story contains incidents of medical violations and may become traumatic to some people.. Reader’s discretion advised.

“I know what I need to know, you don’t get to explain my job to me.” She said. She was then surprised to see me call on the people I had with me and I simply told them our entire conversation. She was taken aback because I wasn’t

A Violation Nardine

I am a transwoman living with HIV. I don’t take medications because of how hard it is to get them. Generally, my journey with treatment is definitely the most gruesome thing I’ve ever endured. The story begins at the Abbaseya fever hospital where I was asked about the “cause of infection”! Before I could reply, the doctor volunteered and ticked a box that says “intercourse with a foreign woman”. I objected to him forging my answer and I gave him the true cause. “Same-sex intercourse” I said “never mind his nationality.”

trying to hide it from the people I am with, and so she kicked me out of the office. Two months without medication that cost me. Time during which my conditions deteriorated quickly. It turns out your immunity is weakened when your psychological wellbeing is affected. Turns out that this one particular question is a survey tool planted there by the Ministry of Health; they want to track the cases of HIV basically to prove that it’s mostly the gays who get it. Another doctor I had to sit down with for a consultation asked if the cause of the infection was a mistake. “It wasn’t a mistake” I said

The doctor yelled at me and asked me to shut up and just get my papers filled. The authenticity of my profile didn’t matter, all what mattered was getting me the hell out of there. I was stunned, but I kept it to myself anyway. I was referred to another hospital in Imbaba. Another day, another medical institution and another form to fill. I went there with a couple of friends. The female clerk at the desk ushered my friends away for a moment so she can ask me, again, about the cause of infection. I looked at the form in her hand and it did ask for the cause of infection. I couldn’t understand why the state was interested in an answer to this question, but I wasn’t willing to back down. At that time, my appearance matched that of a male and I knew that form is used only by medical staff and couldn’t be used legally against me. So I said again “same-sex intercourse.” “Oh, shame.” She said, with so much disdain in her eyes.

“What I did caused my infection but it wasn’t a mistake.” “Oh good, another demented one” She said. I felt the weight of her remark later on when I got home.

The Imbaba hospital was even worse than the one before it. I asked one of the doctors I was seeing there if the HIV medication and hormones would be in conflict in any way or have any side effects. Her immediate response was wanting to know which hormones exactly. I knew that was just her prying, she didn’t need to know what kind. But I told her anyway, she still asked me why! When I refused to answer and demanded a straightforward simple answer to my question, she showed me the door as usual

I stared back at her, incredulously, silently.

It seemed to be a common thing, the kicking-out reaction, among doctors. Like you’re not worth the medical advice if we don’t approve of you as a human.

I usually don’t let how I feel show on me. I look strong and unaffected by some of the things I hear, but in reality, they do hurt. I wanted to bash the woman’s head and scream at her; the natural reaction one gets when they’re being violated. But I sat there and kept my composure. “You don’t have the right to interrogate me on my sexual history to prescribe my medicine, I am HIV+ and that’s all you need to know” I said calmly.

After several fights and numerous complaints to health officials, the doctor finally found a shred of respect to treat me with. Everybody was apologetic and tried to show care and concern whenever they called me for my regular check-up time. It seems that things can’t go smoothly without putting up a fight first.

My journey with Egyptian health institution has been full of degradation and violation of privacy. A year and half it took me to get my medication released and my final report written. A year and half I am unable to tell the truth about the cause of my damned infection. Everything was held up until I started complaining. Suddenly, the fever hospital calls me up themselves to come collect my medicine. And medicine aside, I never felt a moment of compassion or support there. Then, it was time to get the prescription filled. The doctor there looked very irritated and kept sneering at me. I arrived there after a 90-minute commute and was waiting while watching that doctor be rude to everyone in his team. He then looked at me and yelled “What do you want?” “Listen, I am not one of your nurses and you can’t talk to me the way you talk to them, you should know where to stop” I said. This was enough to warrant a change of tone, and he managed to rephrase the question politely. This meant that I should be on-guard all the time, ready to fight, every time I have to see a doctor. Your only goal in those check-ups is to get it done as quickly and painlessly as possible. Imagine if the next patient this doctor sees is someone who hasn’t yet accepted the fact they are HIV+, most likely they’d walk out of that clinic and take their life. What kind of counselling or support are these doctors giving exactly if every time you walk into their offices you have to brace yourself for the next insult? Thankfully, I was at peace with being HIV+. I never hid it or shied away from saying why I am visiting the hospital when they ask me at the door. But the more I went to the hospital in Imbaba, the more I dreaded the next visit. Seeing patients admitted there looked like a worse nightmare than mine, maybe this was what motivated me to keep coming and take my meds, so as not to end up there as well. Admittedly, things were better at the Abbaseya hospital but I wasn’t allowed to go there anymore.

The medicine itself is not in stock. We get an alternative that causes nausea, loss of appetite, depression and actual hallucinations. It’d make me as high as if I’d smoked 5 joints. I could take the medicine in the morning and end up unaware of what I’d done through the day. I get actual blackout periods. My doctor told me that all this should go away by time. 5 months in, it hasn’t gone away and I haven’t gotten used to it. I heard from friends that the other, better medicine is available but only to those who pay. The medical staff denies it but what can you do? When you go to the hospital, you’re crammed in a room with other patients who have HIV or other contagious diseases. I also get the additional stares because of my non-conforming looks. There is no consideration to how weak an HIV+’s immunity is. I had to wear a face mask every time I went there to avoid making things worse on my body by catching another virus and overloading my immunity with it. One other hurdle in your way to medication is the testing fees. My blood test costs 1500 EGP. You can never get this done for free. I still couldn’t afford that sum of money so I kept looking till I found a place where I can get the tests done for 450 pounds only. I could barely get that much, and I need to do these tests once every 6 months. Even more, having your blood tested and a sample drawn isn’t as easy as it looks. More often than not I’d get a nurse digging under my skin scavenging for a vein. Of course, this process gets extremely more painful every time, I get bruises and swelling all over after every test. And if getting the blood sucked goes well, they’d pull the needle so quickly and so carelessly like they’re picking it up off a table, no alcohol swap or a cotton piece after it either. I have mixed feelings towards this entire experience. Sometimes I can’t help but feel pity for myself for having to suffer through all this physical and mental torment, but I still feel proud and strong for surviving it. I feel invincible when I think about all what I’ve gone through, and I wish I can help anyone who’s going through the same thing. I believe nobody should be left alone to face everyone’s

Among all the doctors who treat you like a deviant sinner, I found this one good doctor who was ready to show me a bit of humanity. I timed my visits to her working hours and I stopped seeing anyone else. I once had the courage to ask her the same hormones questions that I’d asked earlier. She told me I had to take a few tests first and we will see from then. “Most importantly, you’ve got to change your ID after the surgery is done” She said. More importantly, she addressed me with feminine pronouns during that part. I couldn’t believe how feeling legitimated and acknowledged makes that much of a difference.

accusations. This is why I am working on raising awareness on sexual health, especially in low-reach areas in villages and towns. I would love to start a campaign to provide condoms and popularize their use. I also want to work on breaking the stigma of venereal diseases by providing accurate information about them to the people. Being an HIV+ doesn’t mean you’re a stain on society. It doesn’t mean you’re no longer a decent, productive citizen among the rest. I would like for stigmas to disappear, eventually, whether on HIV survivors or the LGBT+ people. Maybe I won’t witness it, but my kids, or their kids, may do.

The following story contains incidents of medical violations, violence and rape, and may become traumatic to some people.. Reader’s discretion advised. It’s like you get told you have lung cancer, so you light a cigarette. You know you’re undoubtedly going to die, so why hold back? Why not have a taste of this poison if you’re already doomed? First question I asked anyone I met was “Do you have a place?” I wasn’t excited about having sex, I

The Worst

just wanted to get it over with and experience the reason behind my affliction. Everything I did was

Hesham

covered in guilt and self-loathing.

I am 29 years old. I have been working on and involved with the LGBT+ and the feminist movements in Egypt and the MENA region. I am also interested in creative writing. My story with psychiatrists took place 10 years ago. I had just graduated and got my first job. I was also in the self-discovery phase and freshly introduced to gay porn. I saw a film about a gay couple, and I was convinced then that this is who I am, no doubts about it. I also learned I had to seek help. When I watched The Yacoubian Building in the cinema, I heard people chant and applaud when Hatem Rachid, the gay character, was murdered. It resonated with me and made me want to be fixed even more. Nobody wants to end up like Hatem Rachid. I had nobody to talk to then but a female friend I had who happened to know a psychiatrist who can help. She fixed me up with an appointment, and I walked in there feeling like this was support. Of all the bad things that ever happened to me- and they’re a lot- my experience with Dr. Amgad is easily the worst. I was around 20 years old. Since session number one, he was pretty confident that my parents are the root cause of my misery. I turned out gay because I had a violent, unlovable father and an overbearing mother. All those homosexual feelings are just a retaliation against their abuse. Every session, I went there wanting to hear that there’s hope, a possibility of treatment. I was told I couldn’t initiate any sexual activities with girls because this may lead to a relapse, and of course I couldn’t do that with boys either because it’s a disgusting disease. I was also told that it may take up to 7 years without a guarantee of definite results.

In hindsight, I think there was something telling in his insistence on group therapy. You couldn’t get him in a one-to-one appointment ever. It makes sense to me now because first, it helps sell his pseudoscience theory: that gays can be treated the same way as recovering addicts. And secondly, it’s easier to hide the utter lack of knowledge or real experience this man has in groups of people, where he can use his own patients’ input to make up half-baked theories and realisations. I used to walk out of those sessions contemplating suicide. But I found an easier outlet for all my self-harm tendencies; I heard then that Tahrir square was a popular pickup spot for gays. This came to me as a friendly advice from someone, telling me to watch out from faggots who pick up other faggots there. He warned me because according to him I looked too decent and innocent that someone might try something on me. So I decidedly went there; not out of passion or curiosity, just plain selfdestruction. 26

One of those times in Tahrir square, I picked a guy and asked the question. He said he did but he was going to need an hour to meet some people and then come back to me. “If you leave, I leave.” I said, so he told me to come along. We went and hung out with 3 of his friends. This was all new and strange to me, but a while later we left and headed to his place. A few dark alleys later, we arrived at his place. I took my clothes off but then one of his 3 friends barged in on us. I got scared senseless and I expected I was going to be raped. He then revealed he was a police officer, started calling us faggots and slapped me so hard that I lost hearing in my left ear for a whole month. He forced me to give him a blowjob and made me and the other guy have sex so he’d take pictures. He made me sign a paper that said I owe him 5000 pounds and took all my money and my phone.

Turns out later on that both him and the guy who invited me are in on it. They threatened that if I didn’t bring the money the next day, they were going to send the photos and videos to everyone in my college. That’s because I lied to them and said I went to college. But hey, they got me a taxi and paid me 20 pounds for my way home, how thoughtful. To me, this was a sign I was relapsing and that was god’s vengeance, and so I decided to go back to treatment. Overall, I’ve seen this doctor 5 times tops. On his own, he isn’t much, that’s why he keeps pushing people to come to the support group. There, he managed to create a herd mentality where he’s seen as a god on Earth. He is a very good manipulator, apparently, and he specializes in rediscovering the obvious. He makes you reveal everything about yourself and then use exactly what you told him to come up with a ground-breaking discovery that of course nobody else other than him could see. You tell him anything about your father, he’d say “Aha! See, this is why!” or when you mention your mother he’d repeat something you’ve just said and say “Exactly, that’s what I’ve been trying to say all along!”

He has caused more damage to a very sensitive area in my life; my parents. All the time he drove the point home that all my suffering was due to my parents. I loathed my family more and more each day, every time he repeated his theories and justifications and made more unrealistic ties between what I am going through and my parents’ behaviour with me. I couldn’t forgive them and I reached a point where I didn’t care if god would forgive them either.

When I used to see him, he’d try to elicit from me any sort of attraction to females, but I didn’t have any. His disappointment would make me feel how deeply damaged I am. He said that the extent of the effectiveness of treatment lies pretty much on how intense the patient’s inclinations are, which meant I was doomed. I am a patient at a late stage of a terminal disease. There was no hope for me. I didn’t doubt his words or my ailment for a second. So I was hopeless and isolated, because who can you tell any of this to? I was also a failure, because I knew the chances of treatment rely on how strong you are in suppressing your desires, and I was by no means strong. Because even if you only fantasize about men when you masturbate, that’s failure; that’s you unable to control yourself and squash your disease. Every thought I had led me to more self-harm, which led me to more guilt, more hopelessness and more surrender. A vicious cycle I thought I couldn’t break free from. What if there is no cure? I wondered. Little did I know that it didn’t exist and I didn’t need to look for it in the first place. Dr. Amgad didn’t need to be too hostile or too aggressive in pushing his theories, he had a group of disciples to do that on his behalf. It came naturally to me, then, to believe him and hate myself. He has a wide outreach in the Christian community because he has this unique ability to spin his religious beliefs into some form of flimsy science and have every so-called intellectual cheer him on. Even after I finally stumbled upon a supportive psychiatrist, who basically managed to turn my life around and accept myself, I still had moments of doubt. I still had Dr. Amgad’s voice in my head, challenging my new doctor and telling me that I quit seeing him because I quit wanting to get better My experience with Dr. Amgad; the worst experience of my entire life, is the reason I am now an activist. I have a goal; not to let anyone else go through what I went though alone. I know this was a low point in my life and I know I survived it, but I don’t even think that I have it in me to go through it again if time went back. And one of the main reasons for this is not having any support circle. Imagine that my only support was this wretched friend who recommended Amgad for me in the first place. By the end of it, we had a fight and the last thing she said to me was to go advertise being a faggot in the streets and see what good that brings me. There are many people who abused my situation and I haven’t got even with, on top of this list is Dr. Amgad. But I hope the day will come, when he gets what he had coming all along, peacefully and through legal means. One day, we will have this doctor’s practicing license withdrawn for malpractice and it will be known to everyone that he was nothing but a fraud that exploited people’s self-loathing to his advantage, and he will be held accountable for all the lives he destroyed for his financial gain.. 28

The following story contains incidents of medical violations, violence and rape, and may become traumatic to some people.. Reader’s discretion advised.

Coercion Nouran

Then it happened. We were hanging out, casually, sitting on her bed. She said “you look very handsome”, using masculine pronouns. I was taken aback but I decided to act normally, “you’re also pretty” I said. “Let’s then” she said while rubbing my body. “Seems you’ve had a bit too much” I said “Too much of what?”

A while ago, I’d just moved out of my parents’ home and I wasn’t in a good place mentally.

“Hash”

My friends recommended a psychiatrist they were seeing and I started group therapy with her. Then, I

“Not at all”

stopped seeing her in group because each one of us had a lot of issues and she needed to see us separately.

She continued grazing my body with her hand and she got too close to me. She started to reach out

As time went on, we started to get closer and become more friendly. At first, I had no reservations, she

downwards, at that point, I was overcome with disbelief and disgust and I immediately vomited all over the

seemed decent and supportive, she even went as far as giving me free sessions because she knew I had just

bed. After I cooled down, I asked her never to do this again.

moved out and I was in financial distress.

She knew since then that she can never get me sexually aroused. She disappeared suddenly afterwards, she said she had a conference and would be away for a month. It felt

Since our first session, it was clear how accepting she is. She even became a member in my alternative family. After the second session, she’d dress me up in her feminine clothes and put makeup on me. She insisted I would try this every time I visited her. By the third session, we got high together. All of this seemed strange and too soon, but it just happened. I tried to keep a doctor-patient relationship, but she wanted us to establish a friendship, claiming it’s helpful for my therapy. Later, I found out that, scientifically speaking, the opposite is true; doctors shouldn’t be friends with their patients. But she managed to deceive me well and convinced me that we needed the friendship so I’d be comfortable telling her anything. What’s more, I discovered that she got the rest of my friends high during their sessions as well. She used hash to lower people’s inhibitions and get them to share things they aren’t normally willing to share. I used to feel my privacy being violated and still can’t help but disclose to her all the details she pushes to know. I would wonder when I sober up how come I divulged to her all the things I said. I shared things I wouldn’t tell a friend let alone a doctor, it was the hash that got me blabbering and exposing my inner secrets to her.

like two friends breaking up back then, I felt I was being punished, and I told my friends that I was sure we would never hear back from her. I was right. She completely disappeared, she cut me and my friends off for good. This left me in so much distress and caused me to cultivate permanent distrust towards psychiatrists. I knew I could never see somebody else, start over and have them dump me again. I knew if I needed help, I should help myself. I started to read up on psychiatry and psychological well-being. I realized that the best course of action now is self-help because there is nobody else I can rely on for help. I also had to battle with my hash consumption and withdrawal on my own. 31 I heard horrifying stories about this doctor afterwards, I learned about all the other people she got high during their therapy, I even learned that she had a relationship with a guy who was seeing her for therapy and then broke up with him on both fronts. I started to warn everyone from seeing her, I told them that she drugged me and harassed me, and that she didn’t see us as patients, but rather endeavors to take on and check off her list. I am trying to put this all behind me now, because if you don’t move on, you’re dead.

I wasn’t even 18 yet back then, she never seemed to mind that. I couldn’t pull away from her, her presence was much too strong and I didn’t have that many accepting friends. What sucked was my new dependency on hash. She got me hooked on something I never originally liked. It sucked that I was forced into trying something I never cared for and ended up becoming dependent on it to feel fine.

I had another hostile encounter with another doctor. This guy’s tactic was finding your weak spot and exploiting it to break you into submission. One time, he pushed me too far that I momentarily lost it and threw a glass against a wall. He provoked me hard enough to break my control over my

A Tangent

own anger, an issue I’d managed for years before this setback. Who knows why he did it; why he viewed me as an enemy rather than a patient, maybe he was having a bad day?

Hasan

I have seen way too many doctors dealing with LGBT+ patients, and one thing I know they lack, even the ones who aren’t directly hostile or homophobic, is professionalism. You’d see doctors treating their friends, you’d see doctors treating several patients who are friends with each other and so the doctor would use the information they learned about one patient with another, with no respect whatsoever to doctor-patient confidentiality. I hope one day this stops.

When I was in school, I had a male friend and we used to playfully touch each other, nothing was questionable about it to me. When I was in college, the internet introduced me to what LGBT means. My brother told me off to my parents in my last year in college. My father was supportive, but my mother was too strict and couldn’t take any of it. She said I was dead to her if I insisted on being gay, she said there was no place for me in her family. Things remained tense for 2 years, and till now I’d get some remarks on my friends or some patronizing prayers for guidance and repentance. Yet when the Rainbow flag raising incident broke out, they told me to lay low and be on guard. A while ago, I started seeing a psychiatrist. In our first session, when I started discussing my relationships, she aggressively stopped me and told me that I was there only to discuss my life in general. She wanted me to talk about work and family, but I really had some hardship in my relationships and that was what I wanted to discuss. Whenever I tried to open the subject of romance, she’d deflect and ask me questions about my job. I found this alarming especially because I was told she was an ally. I couldn’t picture what it would have been like to go to someone who’s not known for being an ally; how I’d be rejected even more aggressively. So since then, I have been unable to open up about romance with anyone.

Even if this wasn’t the main issue, even if it was a tangent, she should’ve heard me out, not interrupt me and force me to change the subject as long as it’s on my mind. Her rejection towards my romantic life at face value means that she didn’t care whether it was pertinent to what I am going through or not, whether it was fixable or not. It just showed disdain to what I am. I wasn’t even going to mention something sexual, it was all about some emotional abuse that takes place even among heterosexual couples. But the message was loud and clear; don’t bring me into your romantic life. It seems that the bar for not being homophobic was set at being able to turn a blind eye on it. 32

Lesson Learned Sadek

I was always different from my peers ever since I was young, I was quiet and I struggled with making friends easily. So, my outlet became drawing, I used to draw two boys in love, holding hands. Hitting puberty highlighted the differences even more; I couldn’t feel the same attraction to females that all my friends were talking about. Till now, I don’t have friends of the same age. I started to feel more alienated from my male peers when I started to get attracted to them. I had no explanation for what that was, I just knew I was alone in it. However, I believed that god wouldn’t judge a human on something they can’t control or didn’t ask for. When I was 13, I met someone much older than me. Looking back, this could be considered child abuse, but it didn’t feel like that back then. The problem was my family, they found out and they made me see a therapist for a bit over a year, they rationalized that this was a psychological issue stemming from my absent father.

Those were the worst years in my life, up until high school. I stopped therapy after my family became sure of how futile it is. It took some time for my family to start to accept me and decide to coexist a bit. There is progress now; they understand that I can be close to other men, that I can have a long phone call with a guy and need my privacy then. At one point, my mother was sad that I broke up with a guy because she thought he was decent. That’s indeed progress. Now, the worst is over. I have established boundaries with my family and they are trying to be more accepting. I talk to my mother and try to educate her and ask her to read more about sexual orientations. Even when she doesn’t understand it fully, she still thinks of me as her son and loves me because I am hers. Every now and then, someone steps over my boundaries and I have to put them in their place, but otherwise, I don’t witness any more violence or abuse from my family. A lot has changed in 5 years, I learned far too many lessons and my personality evolved significantly. I am now more mature, more resilient and more perceptual. I am proud of what I’ve become and how all the adversity has shaped me up to be. I can’t deny that I lost a few things I liked about myself, but I did gain too. I am still getting over the bad parts, but I am thankful I survived them.

The doctor my family made me see prescribed me heavy doses of medication. The medicine made me gain weight, besides, I was an emotional eater. Shortly after, I gained 40 kilos and I reached 123 KGs. My self-confidence took a huge hit and my depression grew. Not to mention the added damage from the pressure my family put me through because of my orientation. Both the psychiatrist and the therapist used promoting self-hate as a tactic for treating me, they’d tell me that I wasn’t normal or sane, they’d tell me “imagine if someone you know discovers this, imagine what they’ll think of you” in an effort to “help” me stop. Of all the unfortunate events that happened to me, my journey with psychiatry is easily the worst. I used to like how I look and I cared about what I wear, but the weight I put on made it difficult for me to buy the kind of clothes I like and in turn I hated how I looked most of the time. Although I’ve started to lose weight now, the damage to my self-image and wellbeing has been done. Also, the medicine made me constantly drowsy and resulted in a huge dip in my grades at school; from 90% to 60%. They made me sleepy and put me under continuous stress and anxiety. 34

The following story contains incidents of medical violations and domestic violence, and may become traumatic to some people.. Reader’s discretion advised.

Just A Phase

I started forcing myself into men’s activities and interests, which always felt wrong and unlike me. I was constantly pushed and pressured by this doctor over and over again. But I never shook his question off, I never forgot it and it always made me feel uncomfortable. Beside the discomfort, I always felt neglected. He seemed dismissive of what I said and he wouldn’t look at me while I was talking. He’d doodle or write stuff in his notebook. When I became more

Rawan

aware of gender identities and started to debate him over it, he went from dismissive to defensive, telling me how this side of psychology is illegitimate. And I got even more confused than I ever was.

So I explained how I always liked anything girls-related; their clothes, their looks, their accessories,etc... and I always wanted to be like them. He then asked me who raped me when I was little. I was shocked by his question, his hostility, to say the least. I felt I was under attack and I could see I was nothing to him but the hourly fee he gets from me. When I emphatically said that I wasn’t raped as a kid he kept asking how those feelings have come to being, then. “I don’t have an explanation for this, it’s just how I felt since I was five.” “Do you think you’re right?” “I am here so you’d tell me.” “Of course, you’re wrong. Your problem lies in too much interaction with women so you started to feel like one.” he said “ And this is what we should fix.” Although I had brothers, I was really closest to my sister. I used to wear her clothes or my mother’s wig. So he asked me not to surround myself with women and start acting as a man would do. He told me that his medical contribution to this will be prescribing tranquilizers in order to shut down my thoughts and help me sleep. His rape question was so hurtful that I cried once I left his office.

I was bullied by my family since I was 17 years old over my love for belly dance. I was told I didn’t belong to this family, and if I did, I was nothing but their shame. My father would tell me I wasn’t meant to live with them, or with anybody else, that freaks like me ought to die. I didn’t understand why I deserved this; what was wrong with me. I succumbed to my family’s pressure and decided to see a psychiatrist. Although I didn’t share my decision with them, it was heavily influenced by their opinion of me; broken, faulty. So I went to one of those doctors who claimed they could cure transsexuals. At first, I thought my gender identity was pathological; something to be treated. I wasted a year of my life seeing a doctor who prescribed me medicine that puts me to sleep 24/7. I would wake up to go to the bathroom then go back to bed. I couldn’t attend my lessons, interact with people or continue practicing sports. What makes things worse is that I started this “recovery journey” with a gay person who was also convinced he needed treatment. After a while, he dropped out and disappeared. I decided to continue my journey alone. But in hindsight, he chose the right way out while I was still stuck in a scam. I could’ve saved myself a lot of pain. I can remember my first doctor visit to its last detail, I was asked: “what are you suffering from?” “I feel incompatible with the body I am in, I don’t know how to deal with it.”

After a full year of suffering, I started to wrap my head around the truth; that I don’t need fixing. I was proven right by my experience with the doctor as much as my readings. I had lost a lot throughout that year; my health, my friends, my family and even my consciousness. The medicine made the slightest physical activity a huge strain. It would often lead me to pass out any time I stand up quickly, or start nodding off while sitting with my family. It was a stretch for me to try to act like a boy. I would still sneakily put on feminine clothes and makeup. Who am I sneaking off on? My “recovery” self. So I was dissatisfied; looking as a boy or as a girl. I would hide my disgust when acting like a boy, and my shame when acting like a girl. But most of those feelings went away when the medicine really kicked in, that’s because there were no feelings left. The medicine paved my way to an alternate universe; sleep. When I sleep, I am alone, isolated from the society that rejects me and surrounded by dreams of being a girl. When I was certain that I am depressed, I told my doctor and his solution was adding antidepressants to the tranquilizers. By the end of the year, I had a medicine pouch kept next to my bed. I wake up, pop up pills, then go back to sleep. I was imprisoned in my bed, I was confined to my inability to stay conscious. I felt helpless, tossed out alone, unable to support myself or find someone to support me. When I decided it was time to pull myself out of this, it took me 4 months to put this into action. 4 months to quit medicine and regain cognitive abilities. I still wonder how come none of this caught anybody’s attention. How come sleeping 24 hours a day and losing appetite along with 13 kilos in weight don’t raise any red flags? I became so thin and weak that I had to be hospitalized by the end of the year. I was on an IV drip and was told that all the medicine I’ve been taking has caused some damage to my brain cells. I had nobody with me during this except my brother. My father wasn’t there which spared me many questions I wasn’t ready to answer. Had he known, I’m certain he would’ve sent me to some rehab facility. My brother and I decided to keep this to ourselves and move on, except every now and then when my brother brings it up and I revisit the trauma.

“How so?” 36

I mostly look at it as just a phase that I am now over. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why I try to help anyone I meet who is still somewhere in the rough corners of the journey to self-acceptance. Because I know how hard it is, I never wish to see someone else go through it. I have kept all the medicine till now, as a reminder of a low I overcame. As traumatic as going through all of this was, I find myself reminded of how strong I can be. I feel more confident and reassured now in my ways and I am more eager to fight. When you come out of something like that, alive, you learn to survive. I am entitled to identify as a woman, no matter those who donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe I should.

Bibliography Anwar, M. (November, 2017), Madkhal Ila Al-hawiyya Al-gendariyya [An Entrance to Gender Identity], 2

Retrieved 15 May 2020, Transat Site https://genderiyya.xyz/wiki/%D9%88%D8%AB%D9%8A% D9%82%D8%A9:%D9%85%D8%AF%D8%AE%D9%84_%D8%A5%D9%84%D9%89_%D8%A 7%D9%84%D9%87%D9%88%D9%8A%D8%A9_%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%AC%D9%86%D8%AF%D8%B1%D9%8A%D8%A9

Anwar, M. (November, 2017), Madkhal Ila Al-hawiyya Al-gendariyya [An Entrance to Gender Identity], Retrieved 15 May 2020, Transat Site https://genderiyya.xyz/wiki/%D9%88%D8%AB%D9%8A% D9%82%D8%A9:%D9%85%D8%AF%D8%AE%D9%84_%D8%A5%D9%84%D9%89_%D8%A 7%D9%84%D9%87%D9%88%D9%8A%D8%A9_%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%AC%D9%86%D8%AF%D8%B1%D9%8A%D8%A9