Waqfi Banat (Women Stand Together)

Aswat - Palestinian Gay Women 2010

Waqfet Banat Personal Narrative

Managing Editor, Reach out for women, collecting stories and bringing it to print: Rima Abboud All rights reserved ÂŠ First Edition 2010 Revised Edition 2011 No Part of this book maybe reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Graphic Design: Photography: Sana Jammalieh Publisher: Aswat â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Palestinian Gay Women Phone: +972 4 8662357 Fax: +972 4 8641072 Support Line: +972 72 222 0202 aswat@aswatgroup.org http//www.aswatgroup.org

The book was published by the financial support of

Dedicated to all the LBTQI women, where ever you may be. We are sharing our stories; ones of personal and social struggles, revealing our inner thoughts and feelings, and initiating a journey of personal growth. Let this book be a celebration of our successes, and an inspiration to others whose struggle is still within.Â

Contents:

Preface

The First Slap

Introduction

While You Are Asleep

My past is for you my future is for Me

Not a Barbie

My Mom and People’s Talk

102

Tomboy

Curious

106

“The Sin”

The First Time I fell in Love with a Woman

110

Between the Hammer and the Anvil

Our Story

116

Confiscating an Identity

Reconciliation with Myself

122

When Night Falls

My Journey Towards Pride

130

Who I am

Pieces of a Puzzle

136

Gentle as a Girl

Liberation

148

First be a Woman

A Voice from Aswat

152

The Yoyo and her

Preface:

In Arabic “Waqfet Banat” is colloquial for “Women Take a Stand”, “Women Stand Together”, “Women Rise Up.” In this collection, Aswat - Palestinian Gay Women publish a second book of personal narrative. This publication by Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer and Intersex Palestinian women, stems from the need to share our stories and talk about our struggle, particularly with others who are beginning their struggle with religion, sexuality, sexual orientation and liberation, self-attitudes and body image.

1.“My Right to Choose, to Live, to Be is Aswat’s first book of personal stories and poetry published in Arabic in 2007.

To collect these writings, we posted a call on our website for stories, asking members and friends to submit, and stories were submitted in Arabic, English or Hebrew. Whereas our first book1 was published in Arabic, we chose to publish "Waqfet Banat" both in English and Arabic, so as to broaden our reach to the Arab LGBTQI community in Palestine and around the world. We think that our stories are universal in nature, and can be relevant and inspirational to other marginalized groups globally. We hope our stories will inspire, strengthen, support and empower you.

Introduction:

It is amazing how one single aspect of ourselves can arouse and create much controversy, secrecy, disapproval and difficulties. It seems that we are turned against ourselves, our families and our society, simply because we are perceived as different from them, and we can never be accepted as we are. But do our differences make us our own worst enemies? Are they a reason for us to try to kill ourselves, again and again? Can we possibly reconcile every aspect of our past identity with our newly found one? Should we expect to find unconditional love? Are we really loved for whoever we are, everything we are and everything we are not, or does love come with certain pre-conditions? Today, for the second time, Arab women make a decision to no longer remain silent; they choose to speak about their most intimate and challenging times, their coming out journeys, not only to family, friends and society, but specifically to themselves. These stories were written as the need to tell and share them, and document our life experiences became a deep part of our self-empowerment process as individuals and as a community. We believe we must tell our stories, not only from a religious, political, parental or societal

perspective, but also from the vantage point of our inner personal experience and the struggle with our sexual orientation and gender identity. Although our stories are filled with sadness, pain, suffering and challenges, they are also stories that show our pride – the pride one feels in a world where freedom is not a given, and in a world where our friends, family and society challenge very important parts of our being. Whether the writers are totally, partly or not yet “out of the closet”, each story offers the LGBTQI community and the broader community, particularly the Arab public, a different perspective on sexual orientation and gender identity. These stories emphasize the basic need each of us has to belong, to be supported and to be loved for who we really are and whom we are with, for each aspect of our identity, including our sexuality – without any camouflage, without living a “double life”, and without lying about our sexual orientation and/or gender identity.

1. The combination of male dominance and heterosexual dominance

"Waqfet Banat" is here not just to document our struggle and the struggles of marginalized groups in a heteropatriarchal1 society. It also serves to open a window of hope to those who are questioning their sexuality, their sexual orientation and/or gender identity; and who are

wondering if they are alone, or if they are abnormal in a world that condemns everything that stands outside the boundaries set by modern society, and by the three monotheistic religions and the parental expectations of accepted social norms. Creative ways to struggle and gain self-empowerment are born out of oppression, marginalization, and disentitlement. In these stories, our writers protest against the ongoing oppression they face, and writing becomes a tool in their activism against discrimination. Once again, the LGBTQI community reaches out to the broader community to help dispel much ignorance, and to broaden the knowledge and resources on the LGBTQI experiences and struggles.

“Waqfet Banat” shows the tensions between love, pride,

social norms, religion, sexual and political identities, and society. “Waqfet Banat” is also a product of life experiences and an exploration into some journeys that helped to shape us. This publication is unique as it holds the personal narratives of the writers. With each copy read, there is one less person who feels alone; and with every copy read there are friends, lovers, parents, partners and

siblings who will gain a deeper understanding of what an Arab LGBTQI might be feeling or struggling with. With each copy read, more public awareness is raised about the struggle of the Arab LBTQI community. In "Waqfet Banat", we say to everyone who believes, for one reason or another, that they are not the “norm”, that despite all we have faced in our daily lives, we still stand firm, in the forefront or in the backdrop, in our desire to create an inclusive society for everyone. We support one another and all those around us and we say, “Yes, I am different, and Yes, I am proud. I go forward on this journey that I choose to take and to explore”.

While You Are Asleep… 12

She exhausted my energy and I exhausted hers. We were overcome by sleepiness. She kissed me softly and, with the last rebellious molecule of ATP, I was able to whisper to her (as I usually do): "I love you... Hug me and tell me a story." Out of her great love for me, even if she was fighting against her own sleepiness or even against death itself, she would’ve prevailed and told me a story, a joke, or anything that might help me sleep peacefully and keep me satisfied. However, I justified her drowsiness and tiredness that night, since I was the reason for her weakened muscles and her exhausted spirit having refused to go to a party with her where I would have to be someone else, where I would have to dance with "him", and she would have to dance with "him", and I would have to repress my desire to dance with her and kiss her right there on the dance floor. I surrendered to her will, after she reassured me that we would have a good time, and we really did. The thing she was trying to tell me was a cluster of incoherent and non-existent words. I kissed her and said: "I’ll tell you a story". I looked at her, in spite of the darkness, and I was able to see that smile which always lit up my desires and quickened my heartbeats. She became relaxed, as if I had rescued her from a disaster. I continued in taking up her role (I imagined myself on

stage, telling a really bad story, and the audience, being rude, throwing tomatoes, melons, watermelons and large fruits at me). Then I thought: "let’s be romantic" (even though she was fast asleep) and tell her a somehow familiar story: In elementary school, you were the popular rebellious girl who loved English songs and was crazy about that female singer… (ok, ok. I won’t remind you)… And I was the somewhat lonely, well-behaved girl. I hated you when we were young. I didn’t even know you that well, and all we shared was quick glimpses in the school yard. In middle school, I was forced to bump into you after the list of classmates was published and it was decided that we were to be classmates. Then I encouraged myself to mingle, and I was able to say "hi" to you. The first year passed and our relationship swung between superficial and non-existent as we exchanged hellos and shallow small talk. In the second year, there was a slight improvement; we shared interesting conversations sometimes, nice songs, even a secret or two. In the third year, a true friendship began, accompanied by attachment and love. In the tenth grade, my feelings exceeded themselves. After two months of confusion and doubt following that kiss in the rain (do you remember? When you said: "I’ll

see you at school tomorrow" and then placed a warm kiss on my cheek in the middle of the cold and the rain)… It was then... It was then that I was sure. At the age of sixteen (about three years ago) the traits of my personality became clearer to me, and I whispered to myself: "Oh my God! A lesbian?". I didn’t tell my secret to anyone, and so I became depressed. I was sad, not because of my new discovery, but because I loved you in a way that I couldn’t explain. What should I say? Should I say that I love my life only when I spend it with you? Or that I think about you twenty-four seven? That was what I wanted in the beginning, when I was somewhat naïve. Do you remember that day when I told you my "secret"? When I confessed my love to you? (Of course you remember) You told me then that you weren’t surprised because "I laid the way for you", and that you didn’t know that I had the guts to do so. My love, I might surprise you when I tell you that I wasn’t that brave. I was just deeply in love with you. I don’t remember how, maybe it was merely coincidence, maybe it was planned on my part, but you fell in love with me too. You insisted that you were not gay (and you still do). You went through many stages; at the beginning you were convinced that our love was special, very special, that it wasn’t gay love, yet it wasn’t sisterly love either, it was just special (you must be laughing now, like me).

Afterwards you wished that you could find a guy who had my characteristics and my features. Then you wished that I was a guy, and we used to laugh whenever you said "with a penis". (I know, I know that you apologize to me now and that you love me for ME, you love me as a woman). In spite of her deep sleep, and my desire to narrate the details of our story, I chose to tell the most tragic part (till this day) in a different manner, and I began asking questions: What do you think would’ve happened if you and your family hadn’t decided to leave the country all of a sudden? Would that have changed anything? Would you have said to me “I am not like that” and ended the "relationship"? Or "I don’t want to be with you"? I don’t know. All I know is that I sympathized with people who are accused of "Crimes of Passion". Anyway, the immigration project failed after a year, and you came back. It was tense between us, but I loved you. You started believing in Karma, and you believed that I was trying to get my revenge.. We discussed our relationship six months ago. "An open relationship?" You refused. "Then what is it that you want?" and you said: "open to opportunities." (As if there’s a difference) Fine,

so be it. It was only a week ago (and for safety reasons) that "we sealed the deal": That’s it! In a relationship, you are my love and I am yours, and it’s not "open" to anyone. I know that you have this theory that says: "once we write our story, we are done with it"… But do you remember when I suggested that you read the trilogy of Ahlam Mosteghanemi when we were sixteen, and you said: "I wish Ahlam Mosteghanemi would write our story?" Would you still like me to be a writer? And come out of the closet after I become famous? (Our story will not end here; we are barely nineteen years old) I needed a sip of water. I was tired and drowsiness has numbed my tongue... I embraced her with my arms and legs, kissed her cheeks and pulled the blanket off of her (after she had hugged it all). I whispered in her ear: "you missed the story." And finally, a sign of life - she moved just a little, held my hand and said with a husky voice: "you will tell it to me tomorrow". I smiled and wished that I could tell it to her as she sleeps in my arms (just like she is now) after fifty, seventy, and even a hundred years from now.

Not a Barbie

Tomboy 18

Not a Barbie

"What do you want for your birthday?" my mom asked. "Tell her a Barbie doll house!" my sister whispered in my ear. I was 6 or 7 years old, and I didn’t want a Barbie doll house! I wanted a football. What would I do with a Barbie doll house?? I hated Barbies. I thought it was a stupid boring doll. I always abused my sisters’ Barbies; I would cut off their hair and their clothes, and I would draw on their faces. I even destroyed the Barbie house that they got for my sisters. I hated it; it was too pink! As a child, I felt that I was different from the other girls. I always felt more comfortable playing with the boys in my neighborhood, dressing like them and acting like them. I loved playing football, basketball, war, playing with cars and fighting… I didn’t care about getting hurt; I actually liked it. It made me feel strong. I thought I could conquer the world. In the 3rd grade, there was a girl in my class that I used to bring gifts to all the time, I felt something for her, but I didn’t know what it was. I used to get jealous when she played with other girls during recess. I wanted her all to myself. In the 8th grade I had a crush on my English teacher, and I didn’t understand what that was either, I thought it was natural, even though I did feel that something

was strange in a way. Maybe I’m the only one who feels these things? Is it natural? Maybe other girls in my class have a crush on her as well? I don’t know.. But I always felt the need to satisfy her, to be the best in my class and to get the highest grade. Always. What made me feel that everything is ok, and that nothing is different about me, was my best friend. We’ve been friends since the age of 5, and we always played boys’ games together. We used to play football all the time. When I asked my mom to sign me up for the basketball team she didn’t allow it, she said that it’s a game for boys, and that girls are not suppose to play it. At least they weren’t supposed to be this excited about playing it. In the 9th grade, I was very confused. I started dating boys. I was attracted to them, but nothing went beyond that. In the 11th grade, I had a boyfriend that every girl wished she had. I was with him for a year, but I felt that something was missing, I couldn’t really figure out what. Everyone used to talk about the butterflies in the tummy. I used to think it was a myth, something that someone invented. I didn’t know what that was. Why don’t I have it? Why didn’t he make me feel it? Is something wrong with me? Is something wrong with him?

Just before finishing the 12th grade, I remember sitting with two friends, one of them was my best friend (the one I mentioned before). We started talking about people… people that we thought were beautiful. And then she said that she thought that Angelina Jolie was simply dreamy! I agreed with her. I was so happy at that moment that she was attracted to a girl too. Once, she traveled abroad and she told me that she kissed a girl there and that she really enjoyed it. I was jealous; I wanted to try it too. We didn’t even talk about it. We just knew that we’re both like this, and it was very comforting that the person closest to you felt the same way you did. I remember my first love. It was a girl of course. She was even the girlfriend of one of my best friends. He told me that he was seeing a girl and that she told him she’s bisexual. I was so excited! There are other Arab girls who are like that?? We decided to all go out once, and I remember that from the first time I saw her, my heart skipped a beat. She was so beautiful. She had hypnotizing blue eyes. I couldn’t look her in the eyes. She and I kept in touch. We used to talk on the phone and we met many times. I loved her, but I couldn’t tell her that. Until one day she told me that she loved me and wanted me. That was the happiest day of my life. We kissed, and there they were, the butterflies everyone

talked about! It felt amazing. Her touch, her scent, the way she talked, her hair, her body…everything simply drove me crazy. I wanted to see her every day. We stayed together for a year, until her mom caught us. A day after, her mom called me and threatened to tell my parents. She also threatened to sue me since I was 18 and a half and her daughter was 17. I was scared as hell. I didn’t even want to know what would happen if my parents found out about this. I was very scared of her mother. She ordered me to leave her daughter, but I told her that I loved her and that I couldn’t do that. She said that she’d rather her daughter dead than a lesbian. I was very angry. I told her that she is supposed to love her no matter what. She yelled at me, told me that it’s not natural and that the two of us need to get out of it. We broke up, stopped being in touch. She hated her mother, so did I. How could she do such a thing, and say those things she said? The breakup was very hard for me, I couldn’t stay at home any more, and I had to get out of there. I wanted to live in Tel Aviv. I used to watch on TV all the time that life was easier there for gay people. I had to get there. I figured that my only excuse to move would be to attend a university there. I thought about what I wanted to study, I got accepted and I moved out of the house. At first I was nervous about not being accepted as an Arab

girl, and I used to keep a distance from people I didn’t know and who would probably hate me once they found out I was an Arab anyway, who would want to be with an Arab girl? It’s silly, I know. But I soon came to learn that people accept you the way you present yourself; if you’re proud of who you are and you show confidence, people will respect that. If you are ashamed of who you are, people will always look at you with disrespect. I think that a person needs to be in complete acceptance of herself/himself first to be able to get the acceptance of the others. My best friend also moved to Tel Aviv, and we planned to go out to Minerva - a famous lesbian bar in Tel Aviv. I will never forget that day; we sat there and felt at home. Girls were kissing and no one was looking at them or even cared. I felt really good. Since then, I started going out only to places which were for the community, because that’s where I felt most at home. I could dress however I wanted, act however I wanted and do whatever I felt like doing. I admit, I am 23 years old and I still don’t know what to do. The thing I want the most is to come out to my family, but I can’t. It’s not easy in our society. Sometimes I wish that I’ll get over this, even though I know it’s not how I truly feel and that I don’t really want

to get over it, because I am happy with it. The most important thing for my dad is his honor. He’s an elderly man. I don’t know what this would do to him. I don’t think he’d understand! "Do you have a boyfriend?" "When is your wedding?" "You’re the only one in the family who’s still not married. Find yourself someone already!" Enough…Enough… Enough! Leave me alone! It used to bother me that my mom keeps telling me what and how to dress and how to act. It used to bother me that I would walk in the streets of Nazareth, my home town, and people would look at me like I’m some kind of an alien that landed from Mars. Today I am more comfortable with it, I’m even proud of being different, of being an Other. It’s terrible being "normal", it’s boring. I’ve always liked being different. I am sure that one day I will be brave enough, or drunk enough, to tell my parents about me. I’m waiting for a girl who’s worth this step of coming out of the closet. I don’t intend to live a lie. I’m not complaining. I have the most wonderful family in the world. They don’t mention weddings and kids, and who knows what else, anymore. They’ve pretty much

accepted the fact that I am different from other girls.

They have enough reasons to be proud of me.

Becoming a part of "Aswat" helped me a lot and comforted me by showing me that there are many others like me; each talks about her own life, her fears and her experiences. I was happy to become a part of this group. Maybe I will get the chance to help other lesbians, especially Arab lesbians. To tell them that it is not something to be ashamed of. I always saw it as yet another thing which makes me unique, which sets me outside of the norm. In the meantime, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m living the moment, the present, and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m happy. Everyone should feel this way; not to be ashamed of who you are and of your feelings. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not something that you can control. Being a lesbian is not a curse, it is a way of life.

Tomboy

I always knew there was something different about me, that I wasn’t like all the other girls, but I didn’t understand what that thing was, and I didn’t have a name for it. As a child, as far as I can remember, I always preferred playing with boys’ toys. My mom used to beg me to play with a Barbie or a doll. She even got me a lot of Barbies and the biggest Barbie house that all the girls wanted. But I still played with remote control cars, bikes and skateboards, and I still preferred playing soccer or basketball with the boys in my neighborhood. During my teenage years, I was a complete tomboy; I dressed in baggy clothes and acted like a guy. I used to feel that I should’ve been born a guy, but I couldn’t really understand why, I actually liked being a girl, but I felt something inside that was weird. I remember, when growing up, my girl friends and I used to play house, but the thing is that I was always "the dad" (because a house couldn’t have two mommies), and we used to kiss. I had completely forgotten about that until I started realizing things about myself. As a teenager, I used to look at other girls in a way that I didn’t notice other girls looking at each other, and I used to feel awkward around girls. The way I explained it to myself was that I just wanted to be like those girls

who were pretty and popular. What I now know is that it wasn’t a desire to be like them that made me look at them, but rather a desire to be with them. All my girl friends used to brag about having boyfriends in high school, but I was proud of the fact that I didn’t have one, I used to excuse it by saying that I think it’s stupid and that I’m still too young. I never really understood why I felt the way I did, and what it meant. I was just a tomboy, who liked doing boys’ things and wished she was one. Only after many years, when I had my first real crush on a girl, did all of these things come together and started to make sense. I always knew I was gay, but I didn’t know how to explain it or what to call it, so my coming out to myself came at a relatively late age. During my last year of high school I met a girl through a mutual friend. She was a year older than me, a college girl. Just like all of the other girls, we were just friends. We hit it off from the first time we talked to each other, and after that we started talking every night, and texting all day long. I knew all there was to know about her, and she knew all there was to know about me - except for the most important thing it seems. I got to the point where I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. What I felt for her was not something I was supposed to feel for a girl, but I didn’t know what it was, so I just called

her "my best friend". We used to say "I love you" to each other all the time, something I had never said to anyone before, but that seemed to come naturally with her. After a while, she began acting in a way I couldn’t understand and she started to pull away until she disappeared from my life completely. She filled such a big place in my life, and when she disappeared, she left a huge gap behind. But that wasn’t all. I felt something more, something I couldn’t explain. Something that I know was a heartbreak. After she disappeared, I began to think about things, wondering to myself if it was possible that I actually loved this girl. The thought scared me, and so, I did the only thing I knew how to do: I got myself a boyfriend. I figured that if I have a boyfriend then it means I’m normal; it means that what I thought about myself would have to be wrong. And so, I stayed with my boyfriend for almost a year. It didn’t feel nice when he held my hand or kissed me, but I didn’t admit it to myself, and I convinced myself that I actually liked it. After being with him for a few months, that girl came back to my life, I can’t remember how. When she told me that she had been in a relationship with a girl, I got so mad (but I didn’t show her), not because I was

disgusted, but because I was jealous, or at least now I know that. That was a big wake-up call for me. Sometime after, me and my boyfriend broke up and I couldn’t lie to myself anymore, so I allowed myself to try talking to a girl as more than just a friend, and it just felt right. It was scary how right it felt, but at least I finally understood those feelings I’ve had all those years. And it was at that point that I came out to my best friend. That was a very good move, because she was very supportive, and she helped make the process much easier. I went through a long process of trying to accept myself completely, of defining myself and what I am. At first I said I’m just experimenting, then I started saying I’m bisexual, then I admitted that I’m attracted to girls more, and at the end I defined myself as a lesbian. As I grew, I came to understand that definitions mean nothing. All I know is that ever since, I have accepted who I am, and I’ve shared my life with girls that I liked and loved. I’ve met many wonderful people who were like me. Yes, coming out to myself was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. It was even harder than coming out to others. I picked a few very close friends to come out to,

and they’ve all been very accepting and supportive. It’s

nice to be able to share stories of my love life with my friends just as they share theirs with me. But in daily life, I still hear people who are very close to me (including my family) expressing disgust at gay people, not knowing I am one. I let my opinion be known and I speak my mind, but they don’t know about me. I wonder how they’ll react when they find out! What’s more important to me is how I felt after I found out I wasn’t the only one, and I could finally understand so many things that bothered me when I was younger, like wanting to be a guy but not really. All I wanted was for it to be ok for me to feel the way I felt about girls, and in my world, it would’ve been ok only if I was a guy. But now I know that that’s not true. I know that I look at girls the way I do because I like girls and I am attracted to them, I know that it’s ok to like girls and be attracted to them, and I know that I’m not the only one.

“The Sin”

Between the Hammer and the Anvil

When night falls… Confiscating an Identity 34

“The Sin”

I’ve been asked to write a story, and I’m not really good with words. This is me, and the things that have affected my life so far. I’m 22 years old; I live and study in Tel Aviv. I lost my dad when I was 12, and that was about the time that I started to question my sexuality. It was a tough time, but the pain of losing a dad went away eventually. The fact that I was attracted to girls didn’t, no matter how hard I tried. When I was 15, I had a lot of Christian friends. Personally I didn’t think about religion a lot. I grew up in a religious family and went to a religious school so I thought it was the right and only path to follow. Anyway my friends and I wanted to work in a Christian summer camp, during that summer vacation. We had to go through a week long course and then take a test to sum things up. In that test, there was a question that read “What are your thoughts about homosexuals?” I must say that they never really taught us at school about gays and where the Bible stands when it comes to this subject. But they taught us in that course to accept and love the children of God no matter who or what they are. So I figured the right answer had to be that I respect accept and love homosexuals, as they too are the ‘children of God.’

Needless to say, I didn’t get the job. It was only then that I started to drift away from the holy path. I just couldn’t understand why, morally, my answer was wrong. Back then, I had a huge crush on a girl in my class, I knew it was “wrong”. But an American lesbian couple I was chatting with online convinced me to tell her about my feelings, and so I did. I guess I was stupid, naïve or maybe brave to tell her that I was in love with her. Unfortunately for me, it didn’t really go so well. I felt alone, scared and confused. I decided that, from now on, my interest will only be in boys. When I think about it now, from that point and till today, I’ve had a lot of failed attempts to be “normal”. After a while, I went to Sweden for a summer vacation when I was 16. I was staying with a family there. They had a lesbian daughter, and much to my surprise, they loved and accepted her as if it was the most normal thing in the world. It was amazing for me to know that in some places, people like me can be who they are and still be loved and accepted. She was the first girl I ever kissed.

When I came back home, I was again stupid, naïve or brave: I told my friends about it. Some were impressed, some were disgusted. But one of them actually told me he’d kissed a boy once too. He and I became very close friends after that, it was only with him that I could talk about anything and everything, but I still felt alone. I knew there were other people like us, and I was right! There were other people after all, beginning with my very best friend. She and I are so much alike. We were both always the captains of our football teams, and, naturally, we were the best. She was a tomboy too, and my ‘gaydar’ told me that she was one of “us”. The day we came out to each other is one day that I will never forget. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel alone anymore. We both moved to Tel Aviv a few years after that, and there, we began to discover places and events for gays and lesbians, and met some amazing people. Some of them were Arabs too. We went to the gay parade, and saw thousands of people walking together, for me and for people like me. That was an overwhelming experience.

When I think about my life now, I realize that it hasn’t been an easy one. I don’t think life is generally easy for any of us. But I know that I’ve changed so much, I know that I’ve grown, and got stronger. And I know that I’m okay, I’ve stopped trying to fit in, and be like everybody else.

And I know that despite the hard times I go through, the lies I have to tell my family and the people I love, I wouldn’t change what I am, or who I am: I’m gay and I’m proud of it.

I hope that, one day soon, I will have the courage to be able to talk to my mom and family about it, and that they will understand…

Between the Hammer and the Anvil 1.Tomboy in Arabic

I was young, I thought I owned the world and that I could do with it whatever I desired. I forgot and they forgot that I was an Arab woman, in features and identity. I played with life, and life played with me, until I was stopped by the first barrier, and then I was reminded that I was a female, and thus, had no right to play “llike the boys” or even play with them. They brought a doll and made me hold it, saying “this is what girls play with whilst”, playing ball and playing with cars were strictly for boys. I was also told to stop walking like this, and to stop talking like boys; I needed to stop behaving like “Hasan Sabi”.1 I tried real hard to be what they wanted me to be a girl like the rest of the girls. So I started to wear dresses, grew my hair long, and started to hang out with girls. However, inside of me, feelings of loneliness and anger at my society and family rose and my resentment increased. She was two years older than me, my sister’s best friend, although she was younger than her. At the time, I was thirteen, and every time I saw her my heart pounded and my tongue stuttered with words. I would barely look at her, my pale face would turn red and I would run to my room. I didn’t understand the meaning of all of this, and I tried to justify it to myself in many ways, until I realized “the sin”; I was in love with her. Despite my failing attempts to become a girl, my “Hasan

Sabiâ&#x20AC;? features refused to leave me. I was ridiculed by my peers, and was always made to feel different, which increased my frustration and isolation from others. Finally I decided I wanted to be like the rest of my girlfriends, so I got myself a boyfriend and stayed with him for two years. At the age of eighteen, I left my village and went to Haifa, the city of freedom, to get an education. For the first time in my life, I lived by myself, and there, I had my first gay relationship, which lasted for three years.

Every weekend, when I went back to my village, I was consumed by a feeling of alienation of place and self. My restlessness, anxiety and feelings of estrangement made me long for her even more.

I finished my education and my relationship with her ended with it. She had to get married and I had to go back to my doubled life among my estranged family and my fake friends. My suffering grew greater every day. My sexuality is not the only reason for my alienation: as a woman, too, I lose my rights in society. I decided to challenge this but it has not been and easy task. My identity has crystallised over the decades, and I have faced years of challenges. Today I find myself between the hammer of my society and environment, and the

anvil of my sexual identity. Today, seeking stability in all aspects of my life, I admit that I am weak, and that I intend to submit to my society and its rules. My family and society may be guilty of killing my identity and denying me my freedom without hesitation, but I admit that I, too, am a coward. I can no longer continue to confront their challenge, yet I cannot give them up, for that would cost me my life.

Confiscating an Identity

Many thoughts went through my mind, thoughts and memories that I’ve learnt from, and I wondered to myself if I should let them out, if I should tell my story for others to hear. So I decided "yes, I want a part of my life to be documented in this book". Since I was 13 years-old I’ve always had the urge to write to my parents and sisters, to tell them about what I have gone through so that they could hear me.

I wanted them to understand, to get to know their own daughter; the daughter who is supposed to be the closest to them! I was born into a big family, one of eight children. I remember having such an innocent and sweet childhood; I loved playing with the kids in my neighborhood. I loved life, and I can’t remember having to worry about anything. I was a clean sheet, a white page, and I didn’t realize that it was my family, society and their norms that were supposed to dictate our lives, that they were the ones who get to decide for us what’s right and what’s wrong, and the ones who determine the rules for us. Time went by, and I started growing up. At the age of 13 there was something peculiar about me; I found myself loving being alone, loving the solitude and focusing my

attention on who and what I am. I felt estranged from my family, the same family that is supposed to be the closest to my heart. I couldn’t find the warmth of a home or an attentive ear in them and that frightened me. I began looking for reasons why. Why didn’t I feel that I belonged with them? Why couldn’t I simply run to my mother and tell her about what I was going through? I was afraid; I was afraid because we were raised to believe that a woman is meant for a man, and a man is meant for a woman; there in no place for a woman to fall in love with another woman! I was frightened by the possible reactions that they might have. I became a more introverted person; I was afraid because I knew that this norm didn’t exist in our lives. I didn’t know what to do, and where the outlet for all those feelings I was having would be. I didn’t even find it amongst my friends. I looked my sister in the eyes, the sister who had always seemed to be the closest to me, and still I couldn’t do it. I choked, my eyes filled with tears and I continued on my journey of seclusion and loneliness. I remember how I used to do everything to avoid being at home; I would stay at school after hours, stay late at

work and volunteer at every place I could find. All so that I wouldn’t have to go home and withdraw into myself. Actually, maybe I was trying to deal with it by myself. This lasted until I was 20 years old and I met the first woman that I would truly care for; my first love. All I wanted was to introduce her to my mother, to my sisters, and to have her taste my mother’s cooking, but my enthusiasm was immediately extinguished; I didn’t dare to do it, I knew that if they found out they would blame me, or humiliate me; at the very best they would think that I needed treatment! It is so sad to know that my enemies were in fact the closest people to me. During that period of my life I couldn’t bear to stay there any longer. I wanted to move out and start my real life without lies or denial. I wanted to live with the person I loved, I wanted to finally be ME after not being able to do that at home. It was a difficult process. I tried everything, and I was very stubborn; I even tried extreme ways to deal with it I tried committing suicide, I didn’t care anymore. I believed in who I am, and I believed that I could deal with it by myself. After all, I had always been alone. When I went out to face the world I was amazed by what

I saw and I realized that I had lived in a bubble all my life, a bubble that my family tried to impose on me. I realized that all that surrounded me was not ME, and that today I have more love than ever. I began understanding my sexuality and started talking about it without fear. I started believing more in myself and in my abilities; I had more appreciation for myself. None of which existed before. I came to realize how fear controls us and misleads us, and it was at that point that I found out how great a loss it was that I never could find a warm and safe home among my family. After four years of living on my own, I became aware of the fact that it was society itself which took control over my family; the fear of what people might say about them. After all, they did know about me, but they never talked about it. Whenever I went to visit them, I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t connect with them no matter how hard I tried. And I tried so hard! I could see it in their eyes, this barrier between us. Now, whenever I go over to their house, I leave my sexuality aside, away from them and the society they live in. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a shame that I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find a safe and reliable shelter within my family and my home.

When Night Falls… 48

I moved to Tel-Aviv when I was 18. It was a perfectly natural choice for me as a Palestinian teenager questioning my sexual identity. Living in a conservative Palestinian society, I could never see myself exploring anything that was considered out of the ‘norm’. Back then, I remember spending sleepless nights wondering why I fall in love with girls instead of boys. I was eager to graduate from high-school and immediately signed up for Tel-Aviv University. Luckily, my parents prioritize higher education, and they immediately supported my choice. I rented an apartment with two of my very best highschool friends. They were the first ones I told about my attraction to girls. Later, they were also the first to exclude me, reject me and smear my reputation for being gay. A few weeks after the long-awaited move to Tel-Aviv, I met the first lesbian, face to face. Needless to say, she was Jewish. There was nothing special about her, nothing except the fact that she was the first girl I have ever kissed. Later on, I met a few other Jewish girls, started going out to gay clubs and that’s how I was officially introduced to the gay life of Tel-Aviv; one that, at the time, did not include any other Palestinian girls.

In clubs, parties and gay bars a whole new world of dating proposed itself. I fell in and out of love, had crushes, relations, affairs and believed that those were the happiest days of my life. Feelings of ambiguity and confusion were finally replaced by feelings of clarity and serenity. Hiding in my dark closet was no longer necessary and thoughts of hope and satisfaction were ultimately replacing my helplessness and frustration. The only thing that mattered were all the girls I met, the parties I danced at till morning light and all the good friends I made during this period. That, and nothing else, mattered. As for my studies, it was clear that after being at the top of my class all through my schooling years, I thought Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d give myself a slack and be wild and reckless for a while. After all, I have just started living my life; my real life. A year passed, and as summer was nearing, I felt that I was losing control over my life. I felt that all the people I met, the friends I made, and the girls I dated- none of them ever asked me about my studies or how things were going for me at university or about my family. All of a sudden, I felt estranged, completely out of place. I was confused again, and felt helpless and lost in a world that seemed remote and distant.

One day, a married woman I was dating told me: ‘I love you more than anything, but I want you to go home. Go back home to your parents, don’t stay here. You will not flourish here’. As I listened to her words, I had tears in my eyes because for the first time I felt that someone really cared; cared enough to let me go. The thought of going back home has already occurred to me a few months earlier, but I guess I was waiting to hear from someone I care about. Her words echoed in my head for a while, till one day, I packed up and left, just like that, and without even saying goodbye. She let me go, but years later, I woke up missing her and wished that I could see her again. By the end of the summer, I was home with a fresh start at plan. My parents were thrilled to have me home again, and I felt that all the things that had happened in Tel-Aviv were part of my past; one that no one will ever know about. At first, it was extremely excruciating for me to let go of my past. After all, it’s the only past the defined me, defined who I am, my entire existence. Though I was living in Haifa, my heart and soul were still in Tel-Aviv. I missed my life there, my freedom; the freedom to be

what I am. I missed the way my heart beats around a woman I have just fallen in love with. I missed the beginning of affairs and the first kiss. But most of all, I missed being myself again. I felt estranged in my own body; and that feeling stayed with me for months. Despite the hardships and the challenges, I decided to stick to my decision and stay in Haifa, and little by little, Tel-Aviv and my life there seemed like a distant memory from a very far-off past. My second year in Haifa marked the beginning of my thriving years. After being excluded and rejected by my classmates because of rumors about me being a lesbian in the first year, I have become the star of my department. I excelled in all classes, and became the teachersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; pet. It was also when I met my best friend. Though it took me three years to come out to her, she was the only friend who accepted me the way I am. Three years passed with my resolution to stop dating women. I was in complete denial. I rejected the thought of women, being with them, or thinking about them. I did not even allow myself to fantasize about women. I believed that women were a distraction; one that I must certainly do without.

I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know if I was happy back then. I do remember though that I felt great contentment with my choice because I was included again, I fitted in, I was accepted, liked, respected, appreciated; though all that came with a price, a heavy one. All that recognition came at the expense of canceling out my true self, and concealing my real identity. I was in denial, and that lasted for years to come. Nonetheless, I decided not to sink into self-pity, and subconsciously convinced myself that I had followed the path of being truthful to myselfâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;being gay, but eventually, I was lead astray. And for many years, that thought was my only comfort. After graduating from college, I earned myself an excellent reputation and my professional career blossomed. My father was very proud of me and my mom, who always rejected the idea of me living in TelAviv, was again proud to have her daughter back. It was then that I met my future husband. His timing was perfect; he came at a time when I was completely alone in the world. My father, whom I loved more than anything, fell ill with cancer. It was agonizing to watch him die right in front of me. My husband was there for me, he was there for my family, and for that, I felt I owed

him for life. My father passed away, and thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s when my world fell apart. I still cannot get over the pain of losing him because I know deep inside, that he was the only one in my family who would have understood who would have accepted me for being gay. Unfortunately, he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t live long enough for that revelation to happen, and now, I blame myself for missing my only chance to come out to my family. After the death of my father, I debated the idea of getting married. After all, I was always expected to, and since I was confirming to social norms, and had met a wonderful man that I was already falling in love with, it seemed like a perfectly happy ending to a life of confusion and uncertainties. I was pretty reluctant but eventually we got married, and that in itself, released the last shred of doubt I had about my sexuality: I was sure I was not gay anymore! I was pregnant with my first and only child when our relationship began to deteriorate. We separated two months after my son was born, and divorced the following year. My son and I moved to a new apartment and once

again, I felt completely alone, though this time it was quite different. I had a baby on my lap and he meant the world to me. He was my pride and joy, and for the first time in years, I was overwhelmed with feelings of joy and happiness. Though everyday, as night falls, lying alone in my bed, I started to think about women again. I missed the softness of a womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voice, the tender kisses of a womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lips, and the passionate way a woman makes love to me, making me lose my senses. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t afford to go live in Tel-Aviv again; I had too many responsibilities towards my son and my family. I liked being among them and felt that my son came first now. But one sunny day, I met a girl at the beach and very soon, she became the object of my affection. She lived in my city, and though I always guarded myself against getting involved with a woman close to home, it felt perfectly natural to fall in love again. We spent a wonderful year together, but like all good things in life, our relationship ended. At this stage, I was more at ease with my sexuality. I knew that I want to date women, but never really thought about coming out. Now that my father is no longer with us, it seemed too overwhelming and far-fetched to

even consider coming out to my mom. She too endured the pain of losing my dad, suffered the ‘shame’ of my divorce, and constantly worries about her single-mom daughter, so it felt too much to burden her with one more truth—the truth about her lesbian daughter. My life began to take a different turn when I joined Aswat- Palestinian Gay Women. I didn’t even know they existed. They operated a support line and conducted meetings for the group members, all are Palestinian gay women. Though at first, it was extremely difficult for me to be exposed to so many complete strangers, slowly the idea of being part of this magnificent effort appealed to me. Today, with Aswat, I feel that I can be out, among the women who have become my closest friends. I talk about Aswat in local and international events, and religiously attend our group meetings. I have created my own world; a world where I can be me: gay but, this time, a proud and accomplished one. When I think about my life, I do not regret the ‘lost years’ of not being gay because they were the ones that empowered me the most. I have learned that coming

out is not all black and white, and that there’s a gray area in between; one that allows me to be in and out at

the same time.

Today, when night falls, I can hear the sound of her soft voice, whispering lullabies of love and affection. When I see her, I can taste the sweetness of her sensual kisses and feel her silky skin all over my body. When life descends into the pits, I know that being in her arms makes my heart sing with rapture and dance like a dervish. When night falls, I know that I love a woman; and whether the whole world knows about it or not is not an issues, anymore, it is enough that we know.

Who am Gentle as

a Girl First Be A

Woman

Yoyo

The

and Her

Who Am I

I was born in the city of Haifa. At the hospital, the nurse who helped with my delivery told my exhausted mother: "It’s a boy and he’s as beautiful as a girl." With goldenbrown hair, and a feminine beauty, I arrived to this world. And so, my strange, painful and hard journey began. From the age of five to eight, as I grew up, people’s confusion regarding my gender grew too. Some people thought I was a girl, some people thought I was a boy, but I knew who I was: a girl. I grew my hair long. I didn’t like to get it cut. I used to feel strange inside, as if something doesn’t really fit or match. I played with girls and stayed away from boys. I used to spend a lot of time looking at myself in the mirror, and I liked what I saw, I liked the way I looked. One day, when I was home alone, I thought I would try on my mother’s clothes, and her shoes. The moment I put it on, I felt that it suited me, and I really enjoyed dressing like that. I felt that it matched what was inside, that it fit my soul. At some point, my mother met a woman and they became very good friends. She used to visit my mother very often, and they would sit together and talk. After a year of having known my mother and us, this woman

came for a visit, as usual. As she was about to leave she said to my mother: "take good care of your beautiful daughter, one day I’m going to marry her off to my son". She was talking about me. The embarrassment showed on my mother’s face as she explained to her that I was actually a boy. The fact that this lady thought I was a girl for an entire year filled me with joy. The truth is, she wasn’t wrong: I am a girl. As a teenager, I was afraid of showing my real self, so I tried to hide it, but people were still amazed by my softness, beauty and femininity. There were some who tried to hit on me, and some who just stared quietly. However, the more I tried to hide myself, the more my true self burst out. Puberty began and the masculine hormones started to have their effect on me. The boy who looked like a girl grew into a gentle adolescent guy. At that point I started looking more like a guy than a girl, and it bothered me intensely. In the beginning of my teenage years, I began feeling attracted to guys, but I fought that feeling. I didn’t want to be that way because as far as my society goes, this is a taboo. It is not allowed. I tried to suppress my feelings,

but they were bigger and stronger than I was. This went on until I realized that there wasn’t anything I could do about it. After graduating from college, I decided that it was time for me to go and explore who I really am. I began seeing a psychologist who, after years of me thinking that I’m a gay guy, explained to me that I’m in fact a transsexual girl. But what does that mean? It means that my soul is

trapped inside a body that doesn’t match it. My soul is one of a woman stuck inside a man’s body.

So I asked, "What is the solution? Is there medication I could take, or a treatment I can undergo?" His answer was "No". He told me that the solution is to live as a woman, to allow my soul to express itself, and perhaps also to undergo hormonal treatment. There are those who think that someone would go through a sex-change operation for the sole reason of wanting and being able to have sex. But that is not the case; there are transsexuals who decide to undergo the operation. However, there are also those who have chosen to live as women without undergoing a sexchange operation, and they are still women. Today I am an academic transsexual woman who holds

a respectable position in her work place. At some point, I do intend to go through a sex-change operation. My message to you is: listen to your souls, give it its space, all the space it needs, search for it and live in peace with it. Live your life following your heart and soul, even if you go through hard times. Be patient, strong and brave, because those who lose their soul, lose themselves forever.

Gentle as a Girl

There are people in life whose outside appearances go along with what they feel inside, and they are the luckiest ones; then there are people whose outside appearances don’t go along with what is on the inside. They are of two kinds: The first are those whose appearances leave good impressions on others, though they might be "negative" people. They have no regard for others and all they care about are ways to set others up. Their appearances provide them with a pass card for getting whatever they set their hearts on. A good example for such people would be con artists. The other kind is the ones whose appearances do not leave good impressions on others. On the contrary, it can evoke disgust and ridicule, though they can be, mostly, "positive" people of good nature. I believe that most transsexuals belong to the second category, because nature has imprisoned their souls in the wrong bodies. And here I can talk a little about myself as a transsexual. Since my soul is trapped in the wrong body, I suffered the worst. I was worn down by the constant struggle, and my suffering exhausted me to the extent that my soul almost withered away from all the pain. I grew up in a conservative society, in which a male must be “masculine” in his body movements, voice and behavior – things I had always tried to do, though

my attempts were all in vain, for the female inside me seemed to always prevail, and appear in my voice and behavior. This put me in embarrassing and painful situations, for as soon as I turned my back I could hear people giggling and saying harsh and hurtful words, things like "look, he walks like a girl" or "his voice sounds like a girl’s" or "he is as gentle as a girl." The hardest part was when other students addressed me using the female pronoun. I was in the midst of a struggle. Even I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I felt that I was different, that I was unlike all those around me, and I thought I was the only one in the world born this way. I couldn’t share my feelings with anyone, which added to my pain and suffering. I felt all those feelings before I reached my teenage years, even before I knew what sex was. I kept quiet most of the time so that they wouldn’t hear my voice, and when I did speak, I tried to change my voice and talked in one that wasn’t mine. At school I didn’t move much so that they wouldn’t notice my “feminine” gestures. I didn’t even participate in gym class; instead I would read a book or do my homework. I suppressed a big part of myself, and that had a negative effect on the development of my social skills

and capabilities. I even believe it affected my intellectual skills, though I excelled at school. Despite all the difficulties, I fought and finished my academic studies. During that period, my understanding of life grew, and I reconciled with myself. I started to

accept myself for who I am, and as a result, others started to slowly accept me as well.

During my college years, I met people who were like me, each with their own story and their own share of suffering. Meeting them and knowing their stories made me feel better about myself. Finally, I understood that this is my destiny, and that I have to work hard to achieve my ambitions and to walk down my path in life to its end.

First Be A Woman

Today is my birthday, I just turned 33. The funny thing is that every day like this day, I start remembering the day I was born, my childhood and myself today... What a big difference, and what a hard journey it has been, full of pleasure and pain. I was born in 1976, in Beirut, Lebanon. I guess I was excited and so happy as I was coming out of my mom’s body, because I probably thought that I was coming into a joyful world. I wish I knew what I was coming out to, so I could’ve at least gotten ready for the battle of life. Why is my life harder than other people’s lives? Good question. I often ask myself! The answer is simple; it’s because I was born in the wrong body. A girl at heart, soul and brain, but a boy between my legs... What a combination! I grew up in a very small, middle class family. Not rich, not poor either. My father wanted to have only boys, and God gave him that. My mom decided not to have any more children after she gave birth to my third brother, but when she got pregnant a few years later, she got me; a cocktail baby, as if I was mixed in a blender. But of course they never knew that until I turned 14… I had 3 brothers, a wonderful mother and, unfortunately,

an alcoholic father. My mom loved me so much, and she still does. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m still her favorite baby and I can still see tears in her eyes whenever she sees me, because I know she feels sorry for me! I had a lovely childhood, my mom treated me like I was her doll. I still remember how she used to dress me up like a girl, maybe because she always wanted to have a girl. She even called me "Benti" 1 when she wanted to spoil me. I even had the right to choose a Barbie doll or a kitchen-set toy whenever she wanted to buy us gifts. I never wanted to play with guns, tanks or toy soldiers like my brothers. I never had the same interests as they had, and I remember that I only had female friends at school and in the area where I lived. The funny thing is that while I was growing up I always thought that girls and boys had the same thing between their legs. And of course, that I was a girl, because I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember ever feeling like I was a boy. Not even for a second...

1. My Daughter

I always wanted to have longer hair than my brothers had, and I always nagged my parents about the type of clothes they wanted me to wear as a teenager. The problem was that I looked so feminine, and it was a

nightmare for me to wear anything masculine because I was afraid that people might think that I’m a boy, and deep inside of me I wasn’t. One day as I was leafing through a magazine my attention was caught by some drawings of a boy’s body and a girl’s body, with arrows to explain the different body organs. Suddenly I realized that there was a small difference between the two pictures... A small difference, yet it shocked me, big time. I honestly felt like I was an alien from another planet that day. I can’t explain exactly the feelings that took hold of me when I saw that picture; a mixture of confusion, fear and disbelief. I didn’t know what to do or how to deal with this discovery; who should I ask? Who could I talk to? I spent many sleepless nights thinking about this and wondering about what to do. In the end, I decided to talk to my mom. I still remember how nervous I was that day: what would my mom say? How would she react? But I had to pull myself together and ask: “Mom...Am I a girl or a boy?” She had such a strange reaction; she laughed and replied, "Of course you are a boy, why do you ask?" I told her: "because I feel that I’m a girl and that I want to get married to a man and have a family just like you when I grow up. And I don’t want to be a boy, because I’m not..."

At that point, her facial expressions started to change little by little and her tone of voice changed as well. She said: "No, you are not a girl, you are just feeling this way because you are still young and look feminine, and people have given you this idea because you look like a girl". She also said that people made me crazy and ordered me to go to the hairdresser immediately and cut my hair short. I always had a unisex haircut; short but girly. It made me look even more feminine, which I was happy about, so I refused to cut my hair. One day she told me that she wanted to take me with her to see one of her friends. We went to the American University Hospital in Beirut and I found myself sitting in a shrink’s clinic. She began asking me lots of stupid questions about whether anyone had tried to play with me sexually or anything else like that. She also asked me why I feel the way I do. So I told her that I had never had any experience like that and that I simply feel that I’m a girl and not a boy. I visited her 56- times, and every time my mom used to go inside to talk with her a little after I had come out. Last time I met her she told me that I’m a transsexual girl, that I’m not the only one in this world who is like that, and that I can be a girl if that’s what I want, even with this body. But there was one sentence that she said

that I will never forget: "be a girl, but don’t be a whore" 2. A few days after, my mom took me to a doctor (a gynecologist) to check if I had any problems, and of course again he checked if I was raped or anything like that. He told my mom that there was nothing wrong, but he also told her that I have hormonal problems. After that they started giving me testosterone (male hormones). They thought that this would make me look, walk, talk and be more masculine. But they were wrong, because even if they manage to change the way I look, they will never be able to take the girl out of me. I still remember that I started to have some facial hair, and I used to always trim it with scissors because I didn’t want my family to see it and ask me to start shaving. Besides, I used to think that this was the only sign that might make people have doubts about me being a girl.

2. Some Transsexuals work as sex workers to pay for the expensive operations of sex change.

My family treated me cruelly, never telling me what kind of pills I was taking; they told me that they were simply pills to make me relax. I felt the complete opposite: the pills made me feel depressed, sad and aggressive, and every time I was angry, I felt as if I was being strangled: I couldn’t breathe and I felt an awful pain in my neck. I really can’t describe the pain.

One day my mom wanted to buy me shoes, so we went out and she started choosing for me, but I kept saying was: "No, too masculine. I don’t like it." At the end she got angry at me and took me home. The first thing she did when we got home was to collect all of my colored sneakers, take the biggest scissors we had at home and cut them all up. She said: "From now on you will walk in the streets with bare feet." She started shouting and hitting me. What she said to me that day I will never forget: "You want to be a woman! Do you think that a woman’s life is easier?" Then she said that I’m not allowed to go to school or anywhere else and that I have to stay at home. I wasn’t allowed to walk with girls because people might still think that I’m a girl, and I wasn’t allowed to talk to boys because people might think that there was something sexual going on between us. I became so depressed. I became extremely depressed and one day decided to end it all, by trying to commit suicide for the first time in my life. I was 16 years old. They saved my life and started to treat me better. They also stopped giving me hormones because my shrink told them that it wasn’t good to give me them without telling me what they were (since they had told me that they were only pills to

make me relaxed and forget the problems I was thinking about). Anyway, I moved to Denmark as soon as I turned 18 because I wanted to be free and enjoy life without pressure and constant challenges. The price I paid for

my freedom was great; I sacrificed my homeland and my family just to be myself, just to be the woman I am today, and to prove to my family that in the end I still

decided to be a woman, even though my mom thought that a womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life is not easy. For me it was more important to first be a woman and then deal with the challenges women face in this life. And if they ever gave me the choice of being reborn as a man I would reject the offer and would still want to be born as a woman, because my life as a woman has taught me a great deal, and made me a better human being. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m happy with my life today; I have my job and many friends who love me, and the most important thing that I have is the strong woman within me. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m so proud of myself because I showed my family how important it is for me to be a woman and that my wanting to be a woman was never for sexual reasons. I have never been a sex object and will never allow anybody in this

universe to treat me as one. My body is sacred and precious to me and I respect it as much as every woman respects her body. Today Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m accepted by my mom and by one of my brothers as being 100% a woman and I am like a sister to him. Today I no longer feel that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m only an X mark in society, I feel that I am free and have found my place in this world. Yara Karis 13.08.09

The Yoyo and Her 76

She passed the age of forty but still she hadn’t found the love of her life. She was circling from one story to another, finding no home amongst hearts and lands. She lived stung by love’s cold strangeness. Her personality drew me to her as soon as I met her, many years ago. She talked to me about issues I was never aware of before. She had a language and a philosophy about life that were unique to her. She talked to me about how people lose their lives in their struggle with the people they love, how much they when they stop talking to each other. She told me that life is simply not big enough to contain all of this, and that we shouldn’t waste our time on sadness and staleness. We should turn to others in an attempt to fix what is broken, and in an attempt to communicate. We have the ability to forgive, no matter how badly we have been hurt, and the ability to give second chances in order to enjoy the company of the people we love. She dreamt of having a “yoyo” as a child, just like her cousins and the neighborhood boys who she enjoyed to play with instead of the girls. She was drawn to the world of boyish games and mischief. One day she cried to her mother about the fact that all of the boys had a “yoyo” and she didn’t. Her mother calmed her down by telling her that she’s still young, and that if it doesn’t grow by itself, she would “go to the store and buy one for her”.

The little girl believed her mother, and she waited day after day. When her body began developing, and certain aspects of it began to take shape, she realized that she would never have what boys have, and recognized that she had a girl’s body but a boy’s soul, and that this fact would never change. She loved girls and joined the boys she knew in their talks about girls. She wasn’t accepted in the world of boys, yet she managed to find some who accepted her as a “friend” in the hope that she’d become something more. She took part in their adventures and their mischievous flirtation with girls. A few girls responded to her in love and sex. In each encounter with a girl she would try to change her appearance, to erase every indication of her feminine features. She would bind her breasts, which were all too developed, and she would go to the gym every day hoping to build up muscles which would give her a more masculine appearance. She went through many love stories and many one-night stands, all of which ended in mere memories of faces and names which she couldn’t put together. She would wonder why none of the love stories in her life lasted and why it would end up with the girl suddenly leaving after

a few meetings and after one sexual encounter. She never held back in her love and attention for those girls, and she would surround them with all she could, both emotionally and materially. She kept searching for an answer to her wonderings yet never found one. One day, she met what many people might call a “voluptuous” woman, charming in her humor and conversations, a mature woman who knew what she wanted. They talked and met again, and on their second meeting, each got a taste of the other in bed. She came to her with a “yoyo” underneath her clothes. When she saw it, she laughed and touched it. “What’s that?” “It’s a “yoyo”.” “What’s it for?” “I’ve always wanted to have a “yoyo” so I could use it with girls.” She took it out for her to see. Its color was skin-like and it was so detailed and realistic that it looked as if it had been cut from a man. “I can’t look at it; it reminds me of my ex-husband and what he used to do to me every night.” She covered her eyes with her hands. “Can you please take it off?” “I wish you’d understand me. I want to use it with you. I can feel it as if it was a part of my body.” “I just can’t handle it, can’t handle you penetrating me

with it.” She took the “yoyo” off in order to please her, yet she continued talking about it, what it does to her and what it can do. Her words and descriptions were pornographic, arousing, but apparently not for a lesbian woman. “I’m looking for a female, not a male.” Her problem, though she did not realize it, was that she was a woman, not a man with a penis. Lesbian women did not take too kindly to her dominant masculinity in bed. Each of those women was looking for women like them; they did not desire a man. She still has the “yoyo”, and the women she falls in love with still run away after their first lovemaking. with her.

The First Time I Fell in Love with a Woman

My Past for you My Future

for Me

My Mom and

Peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;sTalk

Curious

The First Slap

Our Story

Reconciliation with Myselt

The First Slap

I tried to prevent my pen from writing, because I felt it would betray my promise and write my sorrow, my suffering, my grief and my pain. It would write what I had tried to bury and throw in the cemetery of forgetting, yet I could not but leave it to write what it wished. My pen wrote the conversation with my heart I had so long avoided. I was so unfair to you my heart; I imprisoned you for so long in my chest, I exhausted you with every tiny and great thing, I exhausted you and was certain that your death was inevitable. But rest assured that I will take revenge on all who were unjust to you, who burnt you with their fire, prime amongst them myself trust me, it is only a matter of time. I will set you free once I have taken my revenge on every fool. I will send you to a rosy world where you will know no pain; I will send you to a space wider than my chest, where sorrows and burdens have piled up over time. I will let you fly in a sky filled with stars. I will bid you farewell, and let my eyes pour out their tears, let my pen’s tears scatter over the pages’ bodies. To you I whisper and say; stop beating, I wont be able to provide you with a happy life. I don’t know when I realized I was gay! Was it when I was in my mother’s womb, or was it when I grew up and fell in love with my teacher Ms Hanan, who was indescribably

beautiful; her blue eyes and her smile bewitch hearts, and locks of her sunny hair trail over her shoulders. I knew at the age of eleven or twelve that I was different from every body else, but I buried my secret securely inside me and swallowed the key. I found out after a while that she had got married; I was disappointed and I cried a great deal. Three years passed and I moved on to high school, where a volcano of disappointments erupted and hasn’t stopped till this day. I am a person who loves writing; unlike many others I loved Arabic language classes, because it included poetry, prose and other literature. It was through this class that I met the Arabic teacher, Ms Hadeel, though I wish I hadn’t. I had two friends - or at least I thought they were my friends - Sahar and Hadeel. We were inseparable, except when we had to go home, and even then we talked for long hours on the phone. At the beginning I didn’t know my true feelings toward Ms Hadeel, or maybe I sought an excuse not to admit that what I felt was the bitter truth. Until the day came when I decided to confess part of the truth to the girls I thought were my friends, and told them that I had a crush on Ms Hadeel. I wished the earth could have opened up and swallowed me, and drunk the Tigris and the Euphrates to follow. They laughed at me and

mocked me; they broke me and hurt me so much. I had no choice but to take my own words lightly and laugh with them, trying to save the situation and close the subject. The next day, Ms Hadeel sent for me. I stood in front of her as if standing in court, like a criminal awaiting a death sentence. “Aseel told me what you three talked about. What do you mean by that?” she asked. And here was my big mistake: I gathered my strength and told her, “Yes Miss, you are in my heart just like Aseel said”. She said: “How do you mean?” My courage was collapsing little by little, I fell from my steed and felt defeat even before pronouncing one word, but the words came out against my will, breaking my chains and overcoming the fear that tried to control me. “Yes, I have real feelings for you” “What kind of feelings do you mean?” I understood then that she feared what I felt for her. “It’s just admiration”, I replied. “Explain to me what kind of admiration”. I was quiet for a moment, words hesitating to come out of my mouth. I knew that I had ‘fallen for the wrong person’ and that my words might reach the school administration and I could be expelled, or it might reach

my family and I could be killed, or she might finish what my friends had started the previous day, leaving my heart to bleed from the mockery. I held myself together and said: “I admire your personality, your way of talking and your teaching style”, in a desperate attempt to deny the truth. I loved her so much, and my love for the Arabic language grew because of her. She was different; she had dark skin, her hair was like the darkest night and she had wide eyes as innocent as a small child’s. After I finished talking I felt her features changed; they became hard and cruel. “You are a teenager and you don’t even know what you are saying. I want this subject to be over now; you are not to mention it again, to me or anyone else”, she said. I nodded in assent, said goodbye and left, my feet barely holding my weight and my heart pounding outside my ribs. After my talk with Ms Hadeel I decided to forget her and get on with my life, but the opposite happened: she became my obsession. What was not expected was for me to become her obsession too; not, however, in the the way I wanted, of course. She began getting closer to me and to my friends in an attempt to cure me, for in her eyes I was sick and she the generous person who would grace me with a cure. Oh the irony and injustice of fate! She started sending for me and my friends during recess to try to talk to us, and would look at me with contempt

and disgust. This continued for some time, during which I didn’t talk to her or even participate in a conversation unless I was personally asked a question. I felt she was trying to get close to Aseel, and that Aseel shared the same desire. They began to develop a kind of friendship, and Aseel started visiting her at home in the company of her sisters. It was as if I were standing in a deep valley at the foot of two mountains. I began noticing certain glances between the two of them and didn’t know what was going on. It was like that for weeks, until, on teachers’ day, all became clear. I remember taking money from my parents, and borrowing some from my sisters, in order to bring her a gift that fitting for her place in my heart, and indeed I got her a present, not knowing what was awaiting me. I was sixteen years old when I got my first of life’s cruel slaps, the first and greatest disappointment and betrayal in my life. At the party I gave my gift to Ms Hadeel, and got a cold hard look in return. I felt like as if a mountain of snow had collapsed upon me. I tried to lean over and kiss her on the cheeks like all the other girls, but she moved away from me as if I were infected with a contagious virus. I don’t even know how those minutes passed. Then my friend Aseel arrived, threw herself into Miss Hadeel’s armd and they showered each

other with kisses. The blood rushed to my head and I boiled inside, realizing the truth: Aseel and Ms Hadeel were having a secret affair. The party ended and I don’t know how the night went by. Next morning I went directly to my friend Sahar. I told her what had happened the day before and told her of my suspicions that there was something going on between Aseel and Ms Hadeel, but she answered me coldly that my imagination was sick and that there was nothing between them, that I was just jealous of Aseel. However, I didn’t give up and, my thoughts fighting inside me, I decided not to stay silent. I found out by chance that Ms Hadeel’s birthday was coming soon and so I bought her an expensive gift. I tried to give it to her first thing in the morning, but I had no luck. At the end of the day I went to the teachers’ department and looked into the teachers’ lounge; it was empty, as so was the principal’s office. I walked onwards, thinking that the department was big and empty that I should just forget about it, go home and try again tomorrow, but my steps led me to a room at the end of the corridor. I opened the door and was amazed to see before me Ms Hadeel and my friend Aseel, kissing. I was aghast and my body trembled from head to toe. I slammed the door behind me and left. I don’t know how I got home.

Morning came after a bitter and painful night, from which emerged a decision: to act naturally, as if nothing had happened, and not to talk to either of them about it. What surprised me was Ms Hadeel’s behavior; she looked at me as if I were the one who had done something bad to her. I tried to heal my wounds, move on with my life and preserve my dignity. Ms Hadeel wouldn’t leave me alone, publicly displaying her affection and love for my friend in front of me and deliberately provoking my jealousy by kissing her or holding her by her waist or chest while I fumed inside. My life became hell and I cried a lot, though I didn’t know whether it was because of her betrayal, or her constant rejection and ridicule, despite the fact she was gay like me, or because of my treacherous friend who knew my true feelings and mocked them. I spent my teenage years isolated. I didn’t know that I was wasting the best years of my life with people who were utterly inhumane to me, and that I was missing every chance to enjoy that phase of my life. I became burdened with sorrows, sorrows that would accompany me throughout my life. My days and nights became lines in the book of my woes, became words that expressed my suffering.

My Past for you, My Future for Me

I have been perplexed ever since I decided to write my story. What shall I write? Where do I begin? And what will be the boundaries of this story? For my story did not begin today, nor yesterday: my story began before I was born. It is not my story alone; it is the story of an entire community of which I am just a part. No matter how much I try to separate myself from it, there are always roots that bind me to it. Sometimes I am proud of these binding roots and other times all I wish for is to uproot and cut them. Where do I start when every thing is connected? I began writing when I entered a new phase, reached a new peak in my life. I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what was waiting for me. Here I am preparing myself to leave, feeling a burning in my heart. Why should I leave â&#x20AC;ŚAnd when do I come back?! I find myself looking forward towards coming back even before I leave, for it is not my choice but the only option I have. Leaving means living in exile and facing the unknown. It is what was chosen for me by my family and my society, because I asked for my right to live, to choose and to be. That night my life took a sharp turn: I realized what my life was worth as I felt it slipping through my hands, my father beating me because he suspected I was talking to

a man. My brother joined him without even knowing why. What would have happened if they had known that I was talking to a woman and not to a man?! A woman who is my lover! I gathered all my strength to run from the blows of their fists and the kicks of their feet. That day I felt how much I loved life, and thought of nothing but saving myself, saving my life. That night I ran like I had never run before. It wasn’t an easy escape, but I can say that it could have been worse. Without thinking I got in touch with Aswat, who helped me and referred me to a shelter. I don’t know how things happened after that, but I remember that I found myself in a place I had never imagined entering, a place called a “shelter for girls in distress”. A woman with a friendly face took me to a room with two beds and a closet. The beds were empty, and she said to me; “you can sleep here.” I sat on one of the beds, fighting my fears and my confused thoughts. I believe it was already after midnight, and I stayed like that till the break of dawn. The next day I found myself in a strange place with girls I didn’t know. We had nothing in common other than our destiny as victims of society. Slowly I began to get used to the place and its rules. I got to know the girls, each

bearing different burdens and different problems. The only common point in each story was the identity of the perpetrator - our own society - whose guilt was attested to by every piece of evidence. But the sentence was suspended, unconditionally. During my stay at the shelter, I came to realize that the real tragedy wasn’t my problems, or the other girls’ problems, or even the ignorance of my family. The real tragedy was the ignorance of our entire society. The twenty days I spent at the shelter felt like twenty years. The only thing I did there was to struggle with my endless fears… Fear of everything, and fear for everything. I would scatter my thoughts, then recollect and reorganize them once again, in the hope of finding something to help me out of this situation. I would recalculate my gains and losses a thousand times a day, asking myself the same question over and over: did I do the right thing? The answer was different every time. My thoughts were mixed up, and I was too confused then to answer such questions. I was stuck. On the one hand there was myself and my being, my existence, my freedom; on the other hand was my family and my society, their constraints, their habits, their traditions, their judgments. I had, however, reached one definite conclusion: that

I wouldn’t gain anything without sacrificing something else. It would be hard to give up my family, but harder to give up myself, though both were dear to me. I struggled with the decision to go back home - and risk my life if my family chose to get rid of me - or leave and save myself. My biggest concern was that the people that I love should not get hurt because of me. So, I chose to go back home and face everyone, regardless of the consequences. It was more important to me to take responsibility for my own actions. When I got back home I found out that nobody knew of my running away except for a few members of my close family. What they cared about the most was what people would say, so they had kept quiet about it. I also found out that my sisters hadn’t said anything either. They knew that the reason I had run away was fear of my father and brothers’ reaction if they were to find out that I was gay. Almost none of my family knew about my sexual orientation, not even my father. They assumed that it was because of a guy. What mattered was that luckily for me they didn’t know. It made the confrontation a little easier. My relationship with my family worsened. We had no contact except for the fact that we lived under the

same roof. Everything around me was fake except my relationship with my mother, the only one who didn’t change. I knew that she had a feeling something was going on, and though she didn’t really know what it was she always took my side. However, my sisters, who knew about my sexuality, kept trying to convince me that being gay was wrong even though they knew that there was no right or wrong in the matter. This time I didn’t remain silent as I usually did, I defended myself, though I couldn’t be accused of any wrongdoing - I was just saying what I thought and felt, I was showing them my true self. I didn’t choose to be gay. I am gay. I am what I am. They tried everything with me; they pressured me and pushed me to see a therapist, with the excuse that it would help me with what I am going through, though the real reason was that they thought it could change me. I didn’t object: I knew the truth about myself and nothing could change it, but I agreed to what they wanted in order to put both their minds and mine at ease, to prove to them that my sexuality was born with me and cannot be changed. I went to a therapist for over five months. I don’t deny that I needed the sessions, though not because of my

sexuality. My problem wasn’t my sexuality. My problem was that my family does not accept me, and that my society rejects me for the way God created me. That period was the hardest I have ever had to go through, for the confrontations with my sisters were viciously difficult. They planned everything; they would lie to me so I couldn’t defy them. Their fear that people might find out was obvious, their sole concern other people and what they might say. It has been two years since it all happened. I still remember the following year; it was my last academic year at college. At college they knew about my running away and doubts about my sexuality appeared. My classmates tried to treat me as if nothing had happened, but I could feel their whispers and their looks following me, so I kept away from everybody. I preferred to be alone than be the center of attention. I felt like I was the victim of my society’s prejudice and judgments. I didn’t feel sorry for myself, I felt sorry for the other girls for their ignorance, for their inability to understand that which is different, and their inability to understand that this gay person could be their sister or daughter or even their closest friend. What comforted me throughout was two gay friends of mine, and another friend who found

out about me and accepted me the way I was. I finished my studies and kept away from people. I found comfort in the support I got from my lover and the girls at Aswat. I consider them my family, with no conditions or restrictions, for Aswat is the warm and democratic home that I have always dreamed of. Growing up, I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel either female or male! I would forget that I should behave and dress like a female. I thought and behaved as a human being, not as a female or a male, for I never felt that my gender dictated my behavior, though I cherished my femininity and was proud of it, and when I looked at myself in the mirror I admired my femininity and my body which distinguished me as a female. However, what reminded me that I was a female were the people around me; their looks, their comments, their discriminating behavior towards me, how they treated me a inferior to a male. I never understood how wearing a dress would make me a female, as my parents, who always reminded me that I should show my femininity more, seemed to think. I remember how they forced me to wear dresses in my childhood. I would always tell them that I wanted to play, and wearing a dress made it uncomfortable, but to no avail, for as a female I had no choice but obey their orders.

In puberty, it became hard to force me, but that didn’t stop them from talking about it and making remarks to get me do what they wanted. They repeated, countless times, “why can’t you be like the girls, look at so-and-

so, she is always so nicely dressed, be like her! But you’re always dressed like a boy, wear your hair down, wear heels…” and so on. They never wanted me to be

the female that I chose for myself. My femininity and my feelings that I am a perfect human being were sufficient for me, but could never satisfy for them. They wanted me to be like all the others, fresh from the matching molds that society has designed for women, pouring in all the qualities that are desirable in a woman - mostly those which suit men, along with all those old-fashioned, worn-out customs and traditions that have no place in this era. Then the girl gets sold at the age of eighteen through a marriage certificate to serve the customer - excuse me, the husband! - and bear children. But I was always a rebel in the eyes of my society, because I refused to abide by the limits of these molds, and instead chose to be free of any mold that would restrict my thinking, my personality or my self. I just wanted to be myself and define my own limits.

I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always succeed in escaping their limits, but I always tried to find an outlet that would allow me to see another horizon. I lost a lot because of these limits, but I have learned a great deal as well. I have learned resilience, patience, defiance and confrontation; I have learned that if I want something and pursue it determinedly, it becomes mine. The most important thing I have learned is that for every loss there is a gain, and to gain something I have to let go of something else. I have also learned that there is a middle ground between what we want and what others want, and that most likely that middle ground is the solution. As for the middle ground between my sexuality and my family, I found it after I came back home from the shelter. Despite their harsh looks and the grudge that I see in their eyes, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to give them up, and if six of them have chosen to reject me, there is still my mom and fifteen other children who love me and whom I love like I have never loved in my life. I gave to them as I would give my own children one day. I carried them in my arms, fed them, and held them close to my chest. They laughed and cried with me, I can still remember playing with them, and the echo of their laughs in my ears, sweeter than any music. They are the ones I love, and for them I would travel far away. Here I am, before I have even left them, unable to stop crying or thinking

about it, but for them I will come back one day and tell them stories from their childhood, and we will laugh together. Today I am in a relationship with a wonderful woman. We have been together for almost two years; I feel happy with her and I dream of spending the rest of my life with her. There are no limits to my love for her. However, because of my family and my society I am not able to live with her, not even for one full day, from morning till night. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe that the relationship can last like this; we meet in secret and talk in secret, and despite the love, the understanding and the beautiful things between us I see it is inevitable that we will part. Therefore, I am trying to set the time of our parting myself, and not just wait for the time to come when I lose a lover, a family and myself. Maybe through that I can also set a time for meeting. So I wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let life decide for me when we shall part, this is my parting and my love, and I will be the one to choose the time and the rituals. It will be sad but I will make it beautiful. I will decorate it with love and hope, I will leave love with love, and will buy it an open invitation to come backâ&#x20AC;Ś For this and for the sake of my love, whether I bid it farewell or keep it; in order to keep my family and my

relationship with them; in order to attain my freedom and live in reconciliation with myself and my sexuality – for all these things I have to immigrate to a society that respects my freedom. However, leaving my parents’ house and my community has its tax: marriage. Marriage could mean giving up my sexuality, unless I have a fake marriage, and thus I have “arranged” a marriage with a gay man who lives abroad and faces the same pressures with his own family. We are each other’s solution. Here I am today, preparing myself to get married and then to travel to the unknown, and I wonder if there will be any return…?!

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101

My Mom and People’s Talk 102

I never cared whether people would hate me because of my sexual orientation. I always knew that whoever truly loved me would still love me even after finding out. But I remained in the closet, not for my own sake, but for my mother’s. I’ve always felt that she truly cares about what people think, and I knew that she wouldn’t like it if I came out, to say the least. Ever since I was a little girl, I have been raised in an illusion, the illusion of the "Perfect Family". What can I do? My family is well known where I live, and my relatives are considered important people of good reputation. In other words, they are the kind of people who would not allow scandals such as that of a lesbian daughter in the family, to happen. I always thought that this illusion was created by the imagination of rotten people who try to conceal their reality with a halo of perfection that they try to project onto others. At the end, it turned out I was right. Boy, was I right. I’ve always dreamed about the day I would come out of the closet, the day I would tell my mother: "mom, I’m attracted to women!", the day I would stop lying to everyone, and finally be openly bisexual. It sounds so nice when I think about it! But in reality it was a nightmare, even before I got to the stages which followed telling my mom.

I told her that she doesn’t understand anything, that I’m far from being the perfect girl she thinks I am and that I don’t want to be perfect. I told her that there are things I’ve been hiding from her for years; I’m… attracted to girls, and I have been for as long as I can remember. I think I might have said too much. When I get angry, I do stupid things, I’ve always known that, but this time, I went too far. She cried all night, and all through the next day. It went on for a week. For an entire week all she did was cry and blame herself for failing to raise me properly; actually, mostly she blamed the rest of the world: the internet, television, my friends, she even blamed the school I was attending for not teaching us Islam - which is why (according to her) I drifted away from religion and started thinking about such "sins". After a few days, I found myself sitting in a psychiatrist’s office, just so my mother would leave me alone and everything would go back to the way it had been. The psychiatrist was actually very nice (though I don’t know whether it was because she’s a genuinely nice person or because she gets paid a lot of money to be nice); it’s just a shame I made her life miserable once a week for months instead of being cooperative. From the first meeting with her, I made it clear that she shouldn’t have any doubts, and shouldn’t try too hard. "I have no

103

intention of changing; I love who I am and I really don’t want to change, not for anyone! As far as I’m concerned, those who have a problem with it are the ones who need a psychiatrist. I’m fine; they’re the ones who are not." After a few sessions, I decided to tell her that that was it, that I wasn’t going to come back. I asked the psychiatrist to respect my decision to lie to my mother and tell her that the problem had been solved, that I was ok and that I’d returned to "the right path". Without going into too many details, so she wouldn’t have a chance to protest, I simply told my mom: "I’m not going to the psychiatrist anymore, I’m ok now. That’s it!" That was the end of it. After many months and countless fights, it was over.

1. In 2.8.2010 a gunman shot dead two people and wounded at least 15 others in an attack at a central Tel Aviv LGBT youth center.

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She still makes sure to remind me that her opinions haven’t changed, and will probably never change, by saying things like "I wish they had killed him and everyone else who was there" when we were watching the news about the shooting incident in the Gay-Lesbian center in Tel-Aviv1. Then, to emphasize her point of view, she would change the channel. Looking back, I don’t regret what I did, but it will always be heavy on my heart knowing that even the closest person to me could do such a thing to me. It will always hurt knowing that she’ll remain religious and that her religion and what people might say matter more to her

than the happiness of her daughter. But I will always remain bisexual, and a happy ending to this story might never be written.

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Curious 106

Every one of us has an interesting life story. This isn’t some cliché. The experience of writing our stories represents summing up our visions and worldviews. "What do I have that is worth writing about? I’ve lived my life, for better or for worse" - a sentence that many repeat. All we have to do is to tell our story and show

the opposite, to show that each and every one of us is an entire world of emotions, experience and memories.

I don’t know why I decided to tell my story; it was a surprise even to me. I sat down and started to wonder what it was that I was supposed to tell. I went back in my mind to six years ago. I was twenty years old then. I used to sit in front of my computer and chat, bored, with nothing else to do. One day, I started talking to a woman; I didn’t think much about it and told myself it was just a chat. I never believed in relationships that start on the internet. We talked about many things. It was a long and interesting conversation. Bit by bit, she started to talk about a subject I had never dared to talk about before. I wasn’t comfortable, and said to myself "What is she saying? How dare she talk to me like this?" She intrigued me, but I chose to remain silent. There was no dialogue; she was the only one writing. I then wrote to her that I wanted to be with a woman in the way she was describing, and that I wanted to feel the love shared by two women. We moved our conversation to

messenger and talked there for hours. We continued our online chats for several days, after which I decided that I wanted to be with a woman – something that I knew my community disapproved of. We decided to meet, and went to a beautiful and lovely place. She began to talk, as she had before, and asked me what I wanted out of life. I said that I’d always wanted to be with a woman, but that I’ve never dared to do so. I was afraid that the world would look at me differently, as if I were a criminal or a murderer. I was taken by the feeling of her hand upon my cheeks and the way she held my hand when she kissed me; she excited me, made me addicted. I was nervous at first, but she opened a new world to me, a wonderful lesbian world, one that we should not be ashamed of. Despite all that, I had an infinite number of questions running through my mind, and I didn’t know where to find the answers. "How will the world around me accept this? What will they say about me? Will I seem strange to them?" I was curious: how will this first stage begin? Where is it going to lead? What would my parents and hers say if they found out? What would their reaction be? Would they look at us differently? Would they see us as two

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strange creatures in need of therapy? We let our relationship grow quietly on its own, even though it wasn’t easy at first. I always knew that every new beginning holds some difficulties and that there is a lot that is unknown. I think that we have to wait and to always think positively and do our best to make it work. She was my first lesbian love. I loved her deeply and was attached to her. I couldn’t start my day without hearing her voice or seeing her face. However, as time went by, I realized that our relationship had no future, for many reasons, most importantly the way she treated me. I need someone who can appreciate and respect me. It is true that every couple fights - only those who do not love do not fight - but there are always compromises. She, however, could never compromise or relinquish her control over me, which is what led me to break up with her. We were together for two years, and breaking up was very painful for both of us. This is a small part of my story, of my first experience in the lesbian world – a world that is exciting and full of surprises. I never imagined this world to be so different and so beautiful. I believe that a relationship should start on its own without conditions and illusions; it should be able to endure ups and downs and not fall apart when it

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faces difficulties. We have to learn how to give and how to receive; we must not let our emotions control us, for that can complicate the course of the relationship. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve learned a lot, and I hope not to repeat the mistakes I made in the past. The bitterness of what was is now forgotten, and our sweet love and friendship is all that remains.

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The First Time I Fell in Love with a Woman 110

I stare at the emptiness. The wall of the room is often boring, but this time it feels interesting. I think of everything that exists and does not exist. I think of her. How every thing started and ended. My eyes return to the screen, I see a mix of meaningless words. How do I start talking about my first true love; where has she disappeared? There was not a point in my life through which I felt that I have not been given the chance to be popular. I had many relationships with men, most of them ended before they even started. After spending some time with them, I used to get bored of the relationship; I felt the lack of passion in these relationships. Very often, women played the role of best friends in my life. When young, I used to be attracted to women, but I ignored such feelings and denied it skillfully. In the last years, I had an urgent need to fulfill my vague attraction to women; it was an obsessive feeling that I used to have every time I had had a relationship with a man. First I thought it was only a feeling of curiosity and the desire to become acquainted with a close and odd world at the same time. That was what one of my friends felt as well. Nevertheless, I lacked the courage to put that feeling into practice. I met her several years ago at a birthday party through mutual friends. She was tall and noticeable among the others. She had a heart-capturing smile and eyes that

invite you to her. She was wearing a short white skirt and a tight white blouse that showed the attractive parts of her beautiful feminine body. It was hard to ignore her, even by the men who were hovering around her in the party. She came with her boyfriend to the party. It looked like jealousy made its way to his heart with every look others had towards her. We talked in the party about unimportant things. I stared at her curiously all the time, and waited for a chance to be with her for a short time, which unfortunately did not happen. At the end of the party, I understood that I have no transportation to get me back home, so I used this excuse and asked her and her boyfriend to give me a ride. We continued our chatting in the car. I was very tired and highly intoxicated. I got down of the car in front of my house, and we agreed to stay in touch. With time, our relation became tighter, and we started to talk on the phone for hours about trivial things. We met two times a week in cafĂŠs and restaurants in the area where we live. We talked about life, especially about men, about her relationship with her boyfriend and my relationship with my ex-boyfriend. One time she mentioned that she had a relationship with a woman once. I asked about it and she said that she is attracted to women. It made me interested, but we did not go deeper than that. There were times were we used to meet at my home or hers, and other times where her boyfriend used to go out with

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us to parties; it was clear that he felt threatened by my presence. I can understand why she used to spend most of her time with me. After about two months her relationship with her boyfriend came to an end. We started to go out together; every new meeting was better than the previous one, and when she was gone I felt her loss. We continued going to parties with friends of mine. One time we met at her place, there was no one in the house, and we decided to invite a mutual friend. We opened the night with pizza and a film. When the alcohol began to take over, the innocent meeting turned into wild dancing. We danced and jumped together and alone. I felt a hand sliding towards my right thigh. I turned towards the hand and I saw that it was her, and that that was her hand. It was a wonderful feeling, full of pleasure. Her hand was soft and almost touched me there. I focused my eyes on hers and she removed her hand. We did not talk about that incidence for many days, but until this day I can still remember her hand touching my thigh. I could not but think of what happened all the time and I had no choice but to talk about it with her. She was at my place that day, and when she started talking about it, she immediately apologized to me. I told her that there is no need to apologize because her hand touching me gave me pleasure, so she admitted that she is attracted to me. She had to go because it was late; we walked

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together to the bus station in silence, peeping at each other. When we got to the station she looked at me dreamingly and we kissed. That was the first time for me kissing a woman. It was a nice and odd feeling at the same time, for she is a woman. Apparently she had the same feeling and so she retreated. Her bus had arrived and she had to get in. I knew I would not see her for a week. She looked at me with sorrow the minute she got into the bus. I thought I did something wrong, and when I got back home I found myself crying for days. I wanted to see her again, so I called her and we decided to talk about everything. After a long talk, we suggested the possibility of having a relationship between us. We used to go out together to bars, peeping at each other and stealing some kisses here and there. It was confusing and enchanting at the same time. We used to meet at each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s places; closed the doors and unleashed those unforgettable moments of touching and an overwhelming feeling that was out of control. It was a wonderful love with all its meaning. My eyes were smiling just from seeing her, and it felt like I was flying among the stars. I did not want to get back down, not even for once, to the cold ground. It was enough for me to have her look at me and smile. We met over two weeks and were carried along with a stream of wonderful feelings. At this point exactly, she began to withdraw. She stopped answering the phone

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or my SMS; and before I understood what was going on, she said to me that it was difficult for her; that she canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t go on with this and that she needed some time to think on her own. I gave her all the time she asked for, and I was sad and depressed. The two weeks became a month, and I knew it was a lost battle from the very beginning. We were not in touch for six months. I thought of her every night before falling asleep, and every morning when I woke up. I could not take her off my heart and mind, and so I decided to take her off my life for good. It has been months since my last decision, and I realized how I was wrong. I should not have let her go. I need to find a way to get her back to my life again. I called her, I remembered her smooth voice. However, the voice that came from the other side of the line was harsh and in pain. I felt bad and was no longer capable to handle another disappointment. I retreated from where I was. After about two months I tried again. I picked up the phone and my hands started to shake. The phone rang. She answered. I did not expect her to answer. After a long talk that lasted for an hour of self accounting we decided to meet. So we met in the mall. She looked happy and I was happy for her. She said that she has a partner now and that she was able to go on and that sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s satisfied. I forced myself to smile, a fake smile; she was satisfied without me. A lot had gone over me

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and her ever since. There were harsh times to the extent of crying. Other times were enchanting to the extent of pain. We no longer belong to each othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; lives. But I will never forget the first time in which I fell in love with a woman.

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Our Story

I began my life just like any other teenage girl, even though there was something inside of me that I wanted to understand. I was in a relationship with a guy for a year. I ended it for reasons I myself did not understand. Despite of a certain attraction, mutual understanding and his great affection for me, we decided to break up. That was the turning point in which I began to explore who I am. I decided that I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to enter another relationship; I wanted to be alone with myself for a while. I remember that when I was in the eighth grade, my friend came to visit me as she usually did everyday. However, that time she acted in a slightly strange manner. She said she saw two girls hugging on TV and their lips were intertwined, and that she liked it and wanted to try it with me. I thought she was joking. I asked her again, "you want to try this with me? Are you crazy?" She managed to persuade me, got closer to me and kissed me. Then we started laughing about what we just did. She offered to do the same thing the next day. This time, I was more excited about it. We came close, we kissed, I hugged her and told her what a dear friend she is to me. Our sisterly lives went on, along with our hugs and kisses, until I started to feel that what we were doing didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t come out naturally. So I stopped playing along.

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Our friendship went on despite what happened, in the hope of forgetting what went on between us. I remember how I was infatuated with my teacher at the time. Whenever I saw her, my heart would start beating fast, and I would forget everyone around me when she talked to me. I wished the world would stop and it would be just me and her eyes. Despite all that, I ignored those feelings and went on with my old life routine. Years went by, and I was still exploring. I had a friend whom I met by chance; exchanged phone numbers and started corresponding through the internet. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve always known what a great girl she was, and everyone around me knew it as well, which added to the affection I had for her. I would always tell her, over and over again, how much I appreciated her, how happy I was that we became this close, and how I wished this would last forever. I was willing to spend the whole day in front of my computer just so that I could talk to her. She understood me, kept drawing me to her. My love and attachment to her grew more and more with each day that went by. One day, we met by chance and she invited me to join her in the swimming pool. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe it and my heart started screaming of joy. I tried to stay calm,

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but my smile was hard to conceal. There was a great chemistry between us, but we were afraid to talk about it, afraid to get close. We went into the hot tub. We were alone, and each sat in the opposite end of the hot tub. After a short time, she started getting close to me, and my heart began beating like it had never beaten before. Our bodies were fused together, and she asked me if I was also feeling what she was feeling. I was literally shaking from joy. I was honest and told her that I liked it, and that I want her to stay beside me. We hugged and held hands. I was about to cry for tasting true happiness, genuine attraction and first love. Unfortunately, our day had to end, and each went home with a smile on her face and an indescribable feeling of happiness. After an hour had passed, she sent me a text message saying that that day was one of the happiest days of her life, and that she missed me. I read her message a hundred times, and each time I smiled all over again. I replied that I was very happy, and awaiting our next meeting. And thus our story beganâ&#x20AC;Ś Every time we met, we

forgot everyone around us. We talked for hours. It was as if she was all I needed and wanted out of life.

After a while, she told me she was going to take me somewhere and that she urgently needed to talk to me. I

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panicked. What was she thinking about? What did I do? I had a million questions running through my head. She took me to a quiet spot on a high mountain so that we could talk freely and without interruptions. Her eyes were watery and she was shaking, all of which added to my fears and worries. I held her and said, "Speak, my love". She confessed that she was madly in love with me, that she sleeps and wakes up thinking about me, that she counts the minutes till she sees me, and that she doesn’t know what to do anymore... She was talking and crying at the same time… She made me cry, made me happy and drove me crazy… I held her for a very long time, and told her that my feelings for her were all I ever wished for in life, and that I am sure of my feelings and my great love for her. It was like a dream. I didn’t feel there was anything strange in what I was saying, doing or feeling. She reached out her hand and asked me whether I was ready to take this journey with her, and whether I wanted to be hers and for her to be mine. I looked at her smiling and with tearful eyes, I accepted her challenge and her love. From that moment on, my life turned upside down. I became a different person who saw life from a different point of view. My family fell in love with her. I was the happiest person

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on earth. We went through many obstacles, and shared moments of chaos, happiness and pain. She was there for me whenever I needed her, sharing my happiness and my sorrow. That was the most beautiful year and a half of my life. It was a magical love, an eternal loveâ&#x20AC;Ś until we broke upâ&#x20AC;Ś and that was the end of our dreamâ&#x20AC;Ś Forgetting her was the hardest thing I ever had to do. Thus began my story with my beloved, and thus it ended. Every time I see her I look back on our past and remember the happiest experience of my life, in the hope of finding a love similar to what drew me and her together.

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Reconciliation with Myself 122

I do not know how to start my story. I am used to talking about other people’s problems yet I find myself incapable of writing one word about myself. Inside of me still lives that little girl who hasn’t exceeded the age of five, that little girl who would talk for hours about the adventures of her friends, but would quickly get quiet when her mother asked about what she herself had done in kindergarten. I try to search within myself. Why do I lack the ability to express my feelings? Did I, and do I still, feel that there is no value to what I do? Perhaps it has to do with me feeling that the details of my daily life were different from the other children. My mother made a comment one day about me not being married yet, saying that it was obvious ever since I was a child, since I never embraced my doll and pretended that it was my daughter like all girls do. I think she was blaming herself out loud for not interfering earlier in my life and enforcing a traditional upbringing that would have qualified me to be a wife. I didn’t want to shock her at the time, even though I wanted to be honest with her and confess it wouldn’t have worked anyway because I was different; I liked women. I had no other choice but to ignore her comment despite the fact that I excelled in my studies and my

work. I felt that it wasn’t enough for her. What she really wants is for me to be a wife and the mother of her grandchildren. For a reason I do not understand, be it a blessing or a curse, I was born different than others. I never imagined myself in the arms of a man, but I could see myself holding a woman. My first dream girl was my seventh grade science teacher. I remember how I cried for hours when she got sick and was taken to the hospital. Everybody thought I was crying for my teacher but I was really crying for my dream girl who was hurting in front of me. I couldn’t explain those feelings at that young age. I lacked any information about sex in all its forms. I started high school with sexual information resembling those of fairy tales. I remember washing my face several times after my uncle kissed me, thinking that a man’s kiss for a woman causes pregnancy. A friend of mine was shocked when I told her about it, and she volunteered to provide me with the right information. I felt sick imagining that there will come a day when I might stand naked in front of a man. I tried to escape that day. Working was my only way to escape an inevitable destiny imposed by customs and traditions on every Arab woman. My work enabled me to travel to distant

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places, and to wander from one refugee camp to another, documenting stories that can make the skin crawl, living some of them and listening to most. Though the stories varied, they all had one thing in common: intolerance towards the other. I saw part of myself in every story; I imagined myself as the other, an outcast from my family and from my community. For years I tried to pretend that everything was alright but I could no longer go on with this play. Three years ago I had my first relationship with a woman, but I broke it off after our first night because of her relationships with men. The idea of sharing my belovedâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body with another person sickened me, in addition to her disrespect for the privacy of our relationship. That night became the topic of conversations between her and her friends. For three years I had tried to forget what happened that night, and to pretend I was only experimenting, but I was lying to myself. I also tried to ignore and justify my ability to easily spot gay people, and the fact that some gay women were attracted to me. During the year 2008, misfortunes poured on me, starting with the death of my father, being injured in a car accident, and then the sudden death of my mother. I endured all these ordeals and was able, at the same

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time, to do my job the way I was supposed to, and even better. I was set as an example by my executives for my colleagues whenever they complained about their personal problems. But nobody realized that I couldn’t go on working in a country that is thousands of miles away from my own. I didn’t complain to anybody about the amount of problems that followed my parents’ death. I used to talk on the phone for hours trying to rebuild a cracked structure but all my attempts failed. I decided to resign, but my boss suggested I go on vacation instead, some sort of indefinite leave of absence. So I took a three months’ leave and went back to my homeland. As soon as I got back, a friend of mine offered me a job, which I accepted knowing I will not be able to sit around doing nothing. I could never relax on my couch at home during weekends; I always had to find some work to do. So I couldn’t imagine three months of doing nothing. It might be what some would call fate; I was destined to see her and meet her. She wasn’t any girl or some passing adventure, but the only woman who stole the keys to my heart and mind. I only met her once but her face hasn’t escaped my mind ever since I laid eyes on her. I was drawn to her sad, stubborn, intelligent eyes. I felt the truthfulness of her every word, and found the

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most humane expressions in her look. I was happy to see those expressions after believing that materialism had wiped them off the face of humanity. I was at my lowest point, having just come back, several days before, from a conflict zone which was under heavy attacks. There were thousands of refugees and wounded people in need of shelter, food and drink. There were thousands of casualties, including elderly men, women and children. Oppressive authorities there prevented humanitarian aid from reaching the victims. However, the state of pain, despair and pessimism I was in, was greeted with laughter, smiles and sarcastic comments from everyone. I felt she wanted to talk about the war but I couldn’t hear anything about that subject. I wanted to cover my ears and run away. I couldn’t take any more tragic stories, so I changed the subject and avoided it. The meeting was over but I could still see her image in front of me and hear her voice in my ears. A few days after we met I wanted to get in touch with her but I was still denying my feelings, and I didn’t know anything about her. I tried to communicate with her by e-mail but I couldn’t even write a letter. For the first time in my life I found the courage and told a foreign friend of mine about all those feelings I had and about what happened in the meeting. She said that

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my sexual orientation was obvious to many people for a long time now, and was surprised that I myself wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t aware of it. She tried to encourage me to get in touch with that girl but with no result. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think I can even write her a friendly letter or even call. I am still in a state of reconciliation with myself. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to try anything or face rejection at this stage. I traveled to so many places attempting to run away from myself and hide my difference. But this self of mine accompanies me all the time, and this difference from others is one of my self traits. Killing it and burying it in the ground will mean killing my loving soul. Perhaps I pity myself and my family when thinking about admitting my sexual orientation. Today I have the courage to face myself and accept my difference, reconciliate with myself and maybe even attempt to share my differences with others in the future. Haya Suleiman Cairo August 2009

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My Journey Towards Pride

Pieces of a

Puzzle

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My Journey Towards Pride 130

19 years have passed yet I still remember those thoughts that ran through my mind at the age of 6, those pure cozy thoughts which are still with me until this day. I remember that even at the age of 6 I used to love women and love being around women, and I used to always paint pictures in my head of a brilliant future.

As a little girl, loving women didn’t seem like a weird thing, or a thing out of the norm. It was completely the opposite; I used to think that I was as natural as can be and that other people were the ones who were "weird" and "strange". Unfortunately today, at the age of

25, I’m the one who is made to feel weird and strange. Growing up as a lesbian girl was not easy. There were times when I hated the fact that I was born into this, and there were other times when I thought that my life wasn’t worth living, not with all the pain and sadness in it. There were nights in which I used to count the minutes until morning comes, and many different versions ran through my mind of how my life would be as a lesbian, a straight girl or even a nun. I think that I thought of every possible option back then. I even lied to myself; I tried to deny the fact that I’m a lesbian, and tried to look just like everybody else and to act in a manner that would least bother my parents.

I didn’t get married but I put myself in monastery and I told my entire family that I was going to become a nun. Deep inside I truly believed that this way would allow me the choice of a serene life, a life that would be free of my parents’ constant pressure to get married and carry their grandchildren. I assumed that if they understood that I decided to dedicate my life to God they would let go of their fantasy. After all, being a nun is considered to be normal, isn’t it? Well, what a surprise it was. My parents got furious, started shouting and crying. They were disappointed and I was told that I was definitely making a mistake by choosing this way; the way of God. Who would’ve believed that those devoted religious people, the ones who went to church every Friday and Sunday, would think that being a nun is insane? And I thought that I was the complicated one! After two months of pretending to want to be a nun I quit and promised myself that never again would I pretend to be anything else other than myself. The most important thing was that I came to realize that my parents don’t want to see me happy being myself, rather they want me to be happy with a life that they’ve picked for me, and no matter what I do or accomplish, it will never be enough for them.

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I made a decision to come out of the closet. I used to believe that coming out and choosing life meant that the world would come to an end, that life would be over. I was wrong. The period in which I came out was definitely a scary and a frustrating one, but at the same time, it was challenging and full of possibilities. I still remember my mother’s tears when she realized that she hadn’t been mistaken, and that her suspicion of her daughter being different, a lesbian, wasn’t far fetched. I still remember the shouting and the violence that I endured from my father that day when I decided to live my life and move out of the house. At that day I gathered every ounce of courage I had and decided to update those who needed to know; my sister was first in line. I arrived at her house, and as I was still standing at her doorstep I said "I’m a lesbian". She was in shock, but she still managed to tell me to keep my voice down and shut the door so that the neighbors wouldn’t hear. At that moment I just burst into tears and I asked for her help in coming out to my mother, and she agreed to help me. The most difficult part of coming out was telling my mother. I prepared myself mentally, I told my friends and I told my brother about what would probably happen since I knew that my mother would run straight to him in

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attempts of talking me out of it. What my mother didn’t know though was that he was the one who convinced me to tell her. At seven o’clock that same day I picked my sister up from her house and on the way we also picked mom up and drove to a restaurant in town. I chose to tell her at a restaurant, rather than at home, because I hoped that she would restrain herself and not make a scene out of worry about what people around her might think. We sat down and my mother knew that there was something going on, so I decided to tell her immediately: "mom, the friend that you see me with all the time is my partner, and I love her just like you love dad…I love women". There was silence, which seemed to me to last forever, and then she broke into bitter weeping: "I always knew you were different. What sin have I committed for God to punish me like this? This is not how I raised you. Just so you know, this is not normal at all." I was in shock and my entire body was shaking. I didn’t know what to do. I tried explaining to her that she’s a great mother who raised me well, but nothing helped. She simply carried on crying and mumbling to herself: "I thought I’d have a big wedding for you. What about the dress I bought? What would the neighbors say?" This went on for two hours and eventually she calmed

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down. We drove back home with a very intense heavy feeling, but at the same time I felt at peace because I finally told her. I still remember how I was afraid to walk in the streets at night, how I was afraid of every little beep or movement. I was very threatened by the rage of my family and of my society which found it difficult to accept anything that was different. I didn’t go out much during that time, and I tried to avoid contact with people I didn’t know. I was living in a bubble of fears and worries. I was afraid of my own shadow, but with the support and love of people around me I managed to survive those hard times and come out stronger than ever. True, it didn’t get any easier but it was definitely worth the effort, and I’m proud of myself and of what I’ve done. If I hadn’t done what I’ve done, and if I hadn’t made those decisions and taken a stand I wouldn’t be where I am today. My parents accepted me and the life I chose for myself, my true friends supported me and stayed by my side throughout my journey, but what matters the most is that I accepted myself and never gave up on who I am.

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Today I sit at my home with my partner, recalling the past and I know that even if I could turn back time, I wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t change anything. All that I am today is a result of everything I went through. And yes! I am happy, and so are my parents.

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Pieces of a Puzzle

My story is simple; I was born into a Lebanese family. My mother is of Armenian origins – her great grandparents were survivors of the massacres that took place in 1914 – and my father is of Palestinian origins from Haifa. In 1948, his family escaped to Lebanon; my father was 40 days old. Destiny brought my parents together through a mutual friend and they got married in 1972. I was born in 1977. My name? I was named after my grandmother – Souraya. My parents had 3 daughters, me being the middle child. I was born during the civil war in Lebanon. Those were horrific days, but we survived despite the fear and the pain that will always remain. My parents decided to move to Saudi Arabia in 1980 as my father had a job there and the situation in Lebanon was not, in any way, good. Besides, there was this whole issue of Christian/ Muslim thing; the possibility of being murdered for one’s religious background was pretty high. Thus, my dad moved us to Jeddah. I remember that ever since I was young, and even by just looking at my pictures back then, I was a tomboy. Everyone called me that – “Hassan Sabi”. I never gave it a thought, but I do remember my fascination with my mother’s Indian friend. She was a very beautiful woman - long, silky black hair, big black eyes and a full mouth.

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I used to be filled with joy when I saw that woman. I was about 5 at the time. I also still remember how when we’d be watching a movie with my mom and dad, and there would be a scene where a man and a woman kiss, I would imagine myself in the man’s place kissing the woman. Again, I gave it no thought. In 1985, my dad sent us back to Lebanon after he had bought a house in an area not too far from Beirut. Dad stayed behind in Jeddah. I was 8 back then and had started to notice my constant attraction to girls. I used to call it platonic love – the pure emotional feeling. I was not aware of any labels, and was certainly not aware of the word “Lesbian”. The first time I had heard this word was when I was 11 years old. I was in school and had this huge crush on a girl who was two years older. I had written her a letter telling her how much I’d like to meet her and get to know her. I sent the letter with a boy who used to ride in the same bus she did. The next day, I received a letter from her asking me to meet her. It was the happiest day of my life, and I was so nervous that I had to drag my best friend with me. I stood there, trembling, waiting for her to walk down the corridor and meet me. I made sure I was dressed well, since we did not have a school uniform at our school. The meeting went well and we became friends. But something happened, which I am still, to this day, not sure what it was.

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The kids in school started calling me a ‘lesbian’ and looking at me with disgust. I did not know what it meant, and thought it was some sort of a curse word. Nevertheless, it hurt me deeply. Then one day, the principle called me into his office, along with my older sister to ask me if I were truly a lesbian. I did not know how to respond… I remember how my sister got furious with me and held that against me, threatening me that she would tell my parents. It scared the life out of me, and I guess that was when I ‘knew’ I was a lesbian, but hid it. Ever since that incident, I made sure no one would ever call me a lesbian again. It was a painful word that carried a lot of threat with it. I solemnly believed that if my parents ever found out they would hate me for the rest of my life, and that thought killed me. So, I let my hair grow, dressed like a girl and acted like one. It is not that I did not see myself as a girl, but – as I had mentioned earlier – I was a tomboy; and I had to change. I was hitting my teenage years at that point and used to hang out with the girls from the neighborhood. They were shallow, always talking about boys and ways to get one of the boys to notice a girl. For me, all that was nonsense. Deep inside, I was still feeling a ‘platonic’ attraction to girls, but could not express it. And since I could not be

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it, feel it, share it with anyone or live it, I buried myself in my education. It was the best excuse to give to people when they would ask me of the reasons why I did not have a boyfriend. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get me wrong, I did try to go out with boys, but it was the stupidest thing I had ever done. I remember this one boy, Shadi, who was so into me that he was willing to do anything I said. He used to like to watch the moon together while holding my hand, but all the while my mind would be wandering off, thinking of this one girl from school. It was not until I started my higher education that I felt the freedom from the bondage put around me. I still had not admitted to myself that I was a lesbian, but I allowed myself at least to like a girl and day-dream of her. Little did I know that my time at the university was going to change my life for the better. In 1997, as I was waiting for my turn to register for the new semester, I met a girl called Zena. She and I clicked instantly and eventually became good friends. We used to spend all our time together, and since her house was close by, we would hang around or study together. We used to talk a lot, too, about various things. One day, she asked me what I thought about homosexuality. It was the first time, ever, in my life that I hear that word outside of a Psychology book, and the first time that

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someone wanted to know what I thought of it. It was a big deal to me. My reply to her was simple and honest: I do not have anything against them, they are as human as I am. Plus, I do not have the right to judge. Somehow, with those words spoken, I felt a certain relief; it was like a light-weight rock was lifted off my chest. But that question made me think. One day, I arrived to my class feeling really upset because of some family issues. Zena was there for me, as she always had been, and offered me to go with her to her place so I could have some time alone by myself if I wished. I accepted. She made me coffee – to which I am an addict – and she tried to comfort me. All she had to do was hug me for me to feel like an electric current had passed through my whole body. It somehow scared me, but it felt good so I did not fight it. The hug turned to a kiss, and a kiss turned to flirting. But when all that was over, we both felt embarrassed and I hurried off… I was 20 years old when I admitted to myself that I was a lesbian. But there was a problem for me – religion. Back then, I was a devout “Christian”; I attended Bible study classes, and was a part of the Spiritual Life Group on campus, went to Youth Leadership training, was a member of a choir – the whole nine yards. So, being a lesbian

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was wrong! I had to make amends with God and my best choice was to go to the minister on campus and talk to him. And I did; I told him how I believed I had committed a sin and how I needed to sit down and pray with him because I wanted to set things straight with God. His reply was harsh… Ever since, and because of the behavior of my “sisters” and “brothers” in Christ, I decided that I was not going to believe in God; for if His children (the believers) were not forgiving towards me, then that must mean that He was not going to forgive me. To add to all that, my financial aid was dropped from 70% to 50%, which meant I was unable to pay my tuition since my wages did not cover the tuition fees. And so I was on my own. I could not tell my family and I had no more “brothers” and “sisters” in Christ. I used to believe that I was the only lesbian in Lebanon. I knew there were others outside Lebanon, and thus I started to use MIRC, MSN and various chat rooms to meet girls who had something in common with me. I did find many, but unfortunately, my thirst for God was not quenched, and my need to know if He was ok with me found no answers. It might sound funny to some, but it really did bring me down. With the days that followed, I met many lesbians in Lebanon; some were older, some were younger. I was

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even a part of a big mailing group back then which was called GayLebanon. We used to meet and go out, a big bunch of 30 or so people. But still, I felt empty inside, despite being surrounded by many people with whom I shared a lot in common. The emptiness inside, mixed with a lot of financial problems that forced me to quit my education, led me to the wild side of life: working in nightclubs, going out all night, drinking till I was drunk, and sleeping all day. I tried to fill my time with what everyone else was doing, yet, still, I was empty. Something was missing, and with the time having flown by and the worries of life having grown bigger, I had forgotten what it was that made me whole. In addition, at some point in Lebanon gays and lesbians were under surveillance from the Internal Security forces; some were arrested and we were scared to be visible. Which was an additional stress to me since my appearance is of a typical dyke: short hair, blue jeans, white shirt and a pair of army boots. I was not to be missed. And that scared me, especially that my younger sister was my companion in almost everything, and I did not want anything to harm her. so I kept a low profileâ&#x20AC;Ś It was back then, in 1999 - 2000 when Helem first started as Club Free by a group of friends of mine. I must admit,

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though, that I was scared to join as all the meetings were held in secret and I was too scared for my sisters’ reputation – living in an oriental society, I had to abide by its norms… Coming out held a price tag, a very high one, for me. I lost my ‘faith’, I lost friends, I lost my education and I lost jobs. In a society like ours, where women are only defined by how good they are as wives, mothers, house maids, and where a man is only a man based on how many times he has used his “tool”, a lesbian suffers much. Let me elaborate with the following example: My family knows I am gay, but they always try to “convince” me that it is better not to be, as if it was a choice between having chicken or meat for lunch. They

keep on telling me that I would need a man to protect me, and kids to look after me when I get older. Or they would say that they are ok with me being gay, but I should not look it or behave like it. In other words, they want me to grow my hair (which I don’t like, not because I am gay, but because I do not like my hair long); they want me to wear make up and dress in a more “feminine” way. When I was younger, I rebelled – I did not care and did as I pleased. I had a hard time at one big fancy hotel where I worked, lost another job because of it. But I did not care. Now, I do care, although I hate to

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admit it. Somehow, deep down inside, I know that I have to change how I look in order to find a job that would pay off my bills. What happened to the emptiness inside me, you might wonder? The answer is simple: after many years of ignoring God, and, at one point, rejecting Him completely, and after many questions I had asked, I came to realize one simple truth: that the answer was there all the time. God is the answer to all my questions and to all my needs. I did not have to look for Him in people, or places, or things; He was, and still is, with me. It was my faith in Him that I had lost. And I remembered one very important verse from the Bible that helped me know that He still loved me the way I was: “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life” – John 3:16. There it was, the simple truth: as long as I believe in Him I have eternal life, because God loves the whole world. Nowhere does it mention that God does not like gay people, or blacks, or any other ‘minority’ group. God loves me the way I am – a lesbian. When I was asked if I would be interested in writing “my story” to be shared with many of you, it made me look back at my life, which – up till this point – I hadn’t really

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thought of. Is it truly worth writing about? Who am I to tell “my” story? And does it matter or make a difference? Then it hit me: yes! It does make a difference! For each one of us has something to add to this world; each one of us is a piece of a great big puzzle. No matter how small we might think we are, we make a difference, for without each and every one of us, the ‘puzzle’ can never be complete.

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A Voice from

Liberation

Aswat (Voices)

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Liberation

There are two things that stunted my sexual development: my life, and my lack of interest in technology. Growing up in the Gulf I lived a sheltered life until it was time to return home due to political happenings in the region and a full on war. As a victim of the Gulf war in Kuwait and having to deal with the loss of a parent, as well as a complete change in lifestyle, I was busy surviving a massive cultural and socio-economic change. I was learning to adapt to new cultural and educational norms with a seismic shift in language too. That meant I went straight from 12 to 20, skipping a lot in between. I was always commended for my poise, my maturity, my resourcefulness, and my adult like manner, yet never given adult privileges. I learned a lot of what a good family woman needs to know and do in those years, but never what a woman is. I really didn’t think of boys and girls, like I said I was too busy surviving. I do remember thinking that a woman’s body, her curves, her legs, chest, arms, waist and belly were all more beautiful than a man’s, I even knew I preferred Reubenesque figures, and I love to pour over Reuben’s art and the nude and semi nude women- soft porn if you will. But that was as far as it went, To me bodies were about aesthetics, art, its proportions, its representation,

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not its sexuality. There was no time between cooking, cleaning, working and of course studying to think about these things; life was more pressing. So my first relationship came at 18 with a young man who was 22 years old. We met at university, a pretty boring standard boy-meets-girl story. It lasted four and a half years and ended with me being a runaway bride. But what that relationship started was a slow sexual awakening, not because we had fabulous sex, but because it started my questioning of sexual taboos and my breaking down of sexual shame. It took me a long time to deconstruct a lot of my inherited and taught sexual attitudes and shame about my body, my virginity, my desires. I come from a traditional conservative modern Muslim family. They are progressive on some fronts but die hard traditionalists with deeply rooted notions in customs and culture on many others, especially marriage and sex. It took me eight years to “come out” about being sexual, about being a non-virgin. Mind you, in those eight years I wasn’t a saint, I wasn’t coy, I wasn’t pure or innocent. What I was, was discreet. In those eight years I experimented, I played, I had numerous casual encounters with both men and women. And then I met a group of people who were open about their

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sex lives, their sexuality, they were “out” about being sexually active. And that helped me get over my sexual “dishonor.” I was no longer in the shameful few, but amongst many who were sexually active and talking about it. They were straight, gay, and everything in between. For too long a time, I questioned my worth in society, as I had become a “loose dirty whore” by societal norms. Today, I discard this narrow view of worth and value. Honor is not measured by what is, or isn’t between one’s legs.

It was meeting real people, face-to-face, having the conversations, joking, hooking up, or not, that helped me come out of my shell, not technology. Like I said earlier, technology and I are not friends. There was no time, and when there was I didn’t have the patience for the chatting games and lies. It was something that didn’t interest me. So even though I hear from many that the internet was their salvation and it was the way they learned the ways of the world, or met people, explored their sexuality or what have you; It was not for me! To this day I prefer real faces and voices, not words typed on screen, hiding behind layers and layers of wires, bytes and screens. Accepting myself as a sexual being without the shame

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and the guilt of no longer being an intact virgin, an unscratched glass, was to me the hardest part of my journey. It was much more difficult than my “coming out” about being a lesbian. Sleeping with women came naturally in my experimentation, it was something I wanted to try and enjoyed. I never had any angst about it. I was straight, then bi. Today with men, I’m called a lesbian, change. At the end of the day what I do in my bed, or who I

with no desire to sleep but that too may it is no-one’s business do it with.

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A Voice from Aswat (Voices) 152

Almost all couples, whether they are Homosexual, Heterosexual, or otherwise, have a unique story about the way in which their relationship began. Each person possesses his or her own memories about who made the first move and when, who flirted with who first and how the first time felt and why. When my friends and I decided to write about the process of the establishment of Aswat (Palestinian Gay Women), we discovered that there were at least nine different accounts of how it happened. Although there were differences between each of our recollections, we did remember and agree that there were specific events which served a critical role in the establishment of Aswat. No wonder that this was the case! The experience was huge, intense, very unique and exciting for each of the women who took part in the process which led to the founding of the group. For quite some time, I boldly claimed that the first meeting held by the group took place during the summer. I remember that it felt hot, and that I was sweating in shorts and a tank top. So as far as I was concerned, it was definitely during the summer. But after numerous discussions and attempts to trace other situations and notable incidents which took place during that day, I remembered that it rained and that my feet and flip flops got soaked when I escorted the women that came to attend the meeting from Jerusalem to their

car in the parking lot. Consequently, writing one clear-cut and linear account of the chain of events which led to the founding and activities carried forth by Aswat, is a difficult task! However, when I study the story of each of the women, I find that we all had the same core motivation for founding the group. We all aspired for, and felt an intense need for a place that would embrace all the aspects of our identity. A place that would encourage sexual, racial and gender based otherness. A place which would not force us to conceal, explain, struggle, give up, or apologize for a part of ourselves. We, sexual deviants in a heterosexual world, women in a chauvinistic society, Arab women in the Jewish state, were required many times to give up and leave behind a part of our identity in order to be accepted as normal. Giving up became increasingly harder from time to time. At that point in time we realized that we do not want to go on negotiating our identities. We made a decision to create a place that would cater for a coexistence of the different facets of our identity. I consider the process which led to the founding of Aswat to be an exciting and interesting one, which always brings a smile to our faces and joy to our hearts. However I do not view it as the most important thing in our narrative. Above all, Aswat was there to provide a safe haven and a safety net for Gay Arab

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women in Israel, as well as Palestinian women in the West Bank and Gaza. In my eyes, this is the most important founding principal behind our activities. It was a motivational force from the beginning, and it has continued to resonate with us at any given moment. At this stage, I am deliberately avoiding the use of the term Palestinians with regards to Arab women in Israel, since not every Arab in Israel defines herself as Palestinian. The deletion of the Palestinian identity in Israel was a deliberate project that was set forth by the Israeli State, which categorized the Palestinians in Israel as Non-Jewish, religious and ethnic minorities. It is therefore no surprise that many of the Arabs in Israel do not define themselves as Palestinians. Those who declare themselves to be Palestinians, do so as a political statement, which is directed toward the State of Israel. Such a self - identity goes beyond the expression of political awareness in the sense that it provides a structure for the opposition of the State of Israelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s aggression. The existence of such an identity in itself, reflects an opposition, protesting against the attempts to erase the Palestinian identity. The ability of certain groups of Arabs in Israel to define themselves as Palestinians is in most cases, a byproduct of upper/ middle class socio/economic backgrounds, as well as involvement with the Academic and Intellectual communities.

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My father and Mother, who were both born in Palestine prior to the founding of the Israeli State, will never define themselves as Palestinians. They are a part of a generation that learned to fear, accept and adopt the definition, “Israeli Arabs”, having to distinguish and separate themselves and their fates from their brothers and relatives in the occupied territories. Around a decade ago, I accompanied my mother to a medical examination in the Hospital. Whilst filling out the form for the examination, I was required to write down the country of my mother’s birth. Naturally, I wrote Palestine since she was indeed born in 1936, however the sight of this threw my mother into a fit of panic, shouting that I am crazy. She feared that this would cause her problems, so she erased it and replaced it with ”Israel”. Most of the women that took a part in the establishment of Aswat are Politically conscious Academics with middle class backgrounds. The women who arrived when the activities and promotion of Aswat began, were deterred by the definition “Palestinian”, unable to identify with it. Some of them were barely able to complete a sentence in Arabic without using Hebrew words, others defined themselves as Arab Israelis, while one of them volunteered in the Israeli national service program. The forum’s capacity to accept and include such a diversity of women with different Political identities in such an

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1. Nakba Day (Arabic: ‫يوم النكبة‬ yawm El-nakbah), meaning "day of the catastrophe" is an annual day of commemoration for the Palestinian people. It is held every May 15, the day after the anniversary of Israel’s Independence according to the Gregorian calendar. For Palestinians, the day marks the expulsions and flight of Palestinians from their towns and villages, displacement from Palestine, and the loss of their property.

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unconditional manner, is the most important thing that happened! And in such a way, we managed to preserve the most fundamental principal behind Aswat. Our identities and self-definitions did not spring forth from a vacuum, they developed as a result of political and historical events and experiences. When I was eight years old, I sang in the school choir in honor of Israel’s Independence day. Facing the Israeli national flag, amongst the rest of the school choir and the music teacher who was thrilled by the visit from a Government minister, I sang: ‘’On my country’s day of independence, the nightingale sang, and joy swept across the country, from the hills to the valleys". I did not realize that that day was my day of "Nakba"1. I still feel traumatized every time this memory springs to mind, yet I am very aware of the strategic measures which were taken in order to erase the Palestinian identity. These measures came into effect and continue to operate within significant parts of the Arab population in Israel. I remember the meeting when D first joined Aswat, and the way she spoke about her activities, about her firearm license and her national service. Even though we all felt choked by her words, as soon as the discussion began, we all knew that Aswat would be a home that would embrace and love D. Aswat is a group that assumes a significant stance

against occupation, oppression and discrimination. It advocates for a non-violent civil society with equal rights and opportunities (socially, economically, politically and sexually). Aswat does not coerce women into defining themselves in one way or another, neither does it exclude women on the basis of their political identity. Every Arab woman in Israel and / or a Palestinian from the West Bank or Gaza who is associated with sexual and gender based minorities has a place in Aswat - regardless of political affiliations, religion, level of income, education, appearance, or age. Aswat aims to provide an alternative within a place where we are required to appear, behave, think and speak according certain laws and social conventions, a place that imposes upon us feelings and identities that do not belong to us. I believe in the ability to make a change and in the need to take action on behalf of the desire for change. The change can become a reality in the long run only through the provision of education in schools, lectures, workshops and by setting an example on a personal level and through assuming leadership. In my opinion, the role of education is one of the functions that Aswat should aspire to fulfill. I do not mean educational in the sense that it embodies terms and concepts that refer to a set of morals or a notion of morality, because by attributing moralistic concepts to the term education,

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I will be contradicting and canceling out the premise behind Aswat. According to the society we live in, it is morally wrong to be a sexual or sexually active woman outside of the heterosexual Institution of marriage. The educational role of Aswat isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t limited to the Arab and Palestinian societies, it should make a difference globally, especially in the global LGBT community.

The very existence of Aswat and other like minded groups and organizations in the world, challenges our preconceived notions and prejudices, reviving that which was lost from our consciousness, opening us up to worlds we did not know and feared, revealing and exposing us to new things. The presence of Aswat is symptomatic of education and change by default.

Being a proud Gay Palestinian, a teacher in a nursing school in Tel â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Aviv who works alongside her partner in the same hospital is in itself an educational experience for every individual that I encounter. This was the case with the Palestinian staff and students whom I taught, instructed and worked with. It is possible to be a proud Palestinian political activist within the state of Israel and in a hospital in the heart of Tel-Aviv. And it is also possible to be a sexual or homosexual individual who is appreciated and respected by everyone. It was an educational experience for the staff members and the Jewish students alike. They learned that being a Gay Palestinian woman is not some urban legend, but rather,

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it is possible to be “out of the closet” in an Arab society and stay alive. Arabs aren’t just the people who clean the stairs or at best, those who serve Hummus, Fries and salad in the restaurants in Jaffa and in northern Israel. Even when I do not express my opinions and dispositions, the way in which I exist and live my life demonstrates the possibility for an alternative, and that in itself instigates change. I believe in education, discourse and dialogue. About six years ago I went out for a coffee with a very nice Jewish woman who declared herself to be a left winger (Supporter of the Meretz Political Party) who advocates for peace and a Palestinian State. We ordered coffee and began talking. She said: “I am in favor of a Palestinian State, there! We will live here and they will live there, on the other side of the fence (separation fence)”. She went on to say: “I support the separation fence. It’s good for the State of Israel since it prevents Terrorists form coming to Tel- Aviv and Chadera to blow themselves up. She said other things which were written, published and distributed by the ministry of defense website. As for my part, I sat there, listened and smiled to her. I did not get upset when she said something distressing, I didn’t shout: “racist” when she made a racist remark, and I avoided arguing that a person who possesses opinions like hers, cannot declare him/herself to be left- wing. I smiled at her and began asking her

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questions. I asked: “Do you know were the separation wall extends to?”, “No” she answered. Do you know how far the separation wall is from the “Green line”? Which and how many territories are annexed into the State of Israel? Which villages does it split in two? How does it create a separation between houses and the agricultural lands? How does it encircle with one entrance and one exit which effectively create a ghetto? What is its length, height, width and cost?, and several other questions which all received the “No” response. As I continued to smile at her I said: “I am surprised at you, such a bright and educated woman! As a doctor, if tomorrow you were to be approached by people who will present you with a pill, claiming that it will heal cancer, would you simply take the pill and administer it to your patients without requesting testimonials, documentation, research and test results?...Wouldn’t you weigh the benefits in relation to the costs, efficiency versus toxicity? Wouldn’t you make any inquiries? This very woman, who will soon to celebrate a six - year relationship with me, had to be calmed down during heated arguments with her family in the Second Lebanon War. I was telling her that she couldn’t point her finger everywhere, saying to people and friends at work that they are racists! Not to say that she was wrong, but I think that when a person throws accusations at the person facing him/her, it becomes much more difficult to

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make the other person listen, and increasingly hard to achieve the desired change. Of course there is a certain percentage (which I would like to think of as a minority) that is driven by hate for its own sake and would refuse to listen. It will not listen to anything but its own selfrighteous narratives, seeking to destroy anything which is “other “ to itself (which today , may very well be the Arab, the secular, tomorrow and the day after tomorrow, the Homosexual). When I speak of education, discourse and dialogue, I do not include these hard liners. The deliberate acts of segregation and intimidation carried out by the Israeli State, as well as the implementation of an education which emphasizes dissimilarities and difference, paved the way for racism, and racists who are not aware of their own prejudices, as well as those who are simply ignorant of the racism all together. In such a situation, exposure and close interaction are tools for educating and creating new conditions. There are Palestinians who would claim that it isn’t our place as Palestinians to educate and introduce others to who we are and what we are, yet I believe that I don’t need to fuss over who does what, as long as the result would provide me with better living conditions. The same should apply to the LGBT community with regards to educating the Heterosexual majority. I could very well argue that these people should be educated about alternative sexual identities. Why should I go through

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the trouble of attending several lectures and workshops, and deal with intrusive questions about my personal life, as if I were some “lab rat”? I do all of this because I acknowledge that I am the one who is suffering in a homophobic society, and it is I who desires to create a change, so that I can have a better life. These people live a life of convenience, therefore it is my duty to act, fight and educate. One of the main initiatives carried out by Aswat and Alqaws (Al – qaws for sexual and Gender Diversity in the Palestinian Society) within and outside of the contemporary Palestinian society, is the educational program. The program includes workshops and seminars for teachers, social workers, psychologists, educational consultants, and counseling services on issues which pertain to homosexuality and sexual deviance. This project has always been relevant and necessary since education and change are a part of an ongoing process. And we, the people who want our society to be tolerant and oriented towards equal rights and freedom, can never say that we have finished our work and that we have eliminated racism and homophobia. During September of 2008, Aswat and GALZ (Gays and Lesbians in Zimbabwe) embarked on a fundraising tour in the United States. One of our lectures, which I believe, was held at the law department of the University

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of Berkley, was followed by a pleasant discussion with the students. At the end of the discussion, a remark was made by a woman who sat in the front row and slept for the most part of the lecture. She woke up abruptly and exclaimed: “But we are in the year 2008, there isn’t any racism or Homophobia!” The thought that the entire world is rosy is the worst thing that could have happened to us over the years. The Gay Pride Parade has become the marketing company’s colorful celebration, which has nothing to do with the struggle for freedom and equality, or the right to live a respected life that is free of humiliation. The notion of “Queer” has become a theory studied in Universities which is has no real connection with the struggle against discrimination and oppression. The Gay & Lesbian movement was, and remains, in my eye, a liberation movement, which still takes action against discrimination and oppression, fighting for diversity, equal rights and social justice. The universe bestowed great gifts upon me. I was faced with the challenge of being a woman in a chauvinist society, an Arab in a Jewish State and a Lesbian in a Homophobic community. These gifts taught me the meaning of being a minority. I learned about invalidation which is based on one’s (or collective) identity and what that involves, what oppression is, and how it bruises

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the spirit. Thanks to these gifts, I came to realize the meaning of solidarity with the “Other”. I learned to associate and connect between different forms of oppression (race, gender, sexual orientation etc.), and to use my power of self-reflection in order to minimize the impact of oppressive and antagonistic situations on my life. I do not claim that the correlation between different forms of oppression is made at the moment when one realizes that he/she is Gay. The association between different forms of oppression does not happen by itself, it is a process of learning and understanding that has to be desired and sought after. In most cases, this kind of search is usually ignited from states of pain and agitation. Individuals who live a privileged and convenient life usually have less of a need to investigate, understand, connect and take action toward change. Those who chose to avoid making associations between different forms of oppression should ask themselves what kind of world would they want for themselves and their loved ones, and what is their responsibility toward the realization of such a world. As a Gay woman I ask myself whether I want to adopt the nationalistic, militaristic, patriarchal ideology. In innumerable situations, many individuals adapt themselves to mainstream society in order to be “accepted”, even if it is at the cost of contradicting

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and opposing their intrinsic values and principals. My question is: "why canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t an individual be accepted and treated equally without him/her being militaristic or nationalistic in such a society? Why to accept, at all, society who is built in militaristic and nationalistic values??" My acceptance of such a society mean that I must toe the line with the majority and comply to a set of norms and values without questioning those in positions of authority. Agree to what is thought of as true and moral as if it were a God given truth. Surely, if we comply with such a society, we will actually be agreeing to toe the line with the Heterosexual identity of the majority. Aligning oneself with social conventions which condemn homosexuality, without undermining the authority of religious figures who shed our blood, would cancel out everything that we stood up for since Stonewall - our right to be different, but still eligible for equal rights and opportunities. Our right to be colorful and different from everyone else! My partner and I participated in a documentary film called â&#x20AC;&#x153;City of Bordersâ&#x20AC;?. A nice homosexual guy named Adam also participated in the film. Adam was stabbed by an ultra orthodox religious guy during the Gay Parade in Jerusalem in 2005. Adam testifies that since the stabbing incident, there has been a significant increase in his political awareness, and he has become an equal rights

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2.The same word is used in Hebrew for gay and proud

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activist who strives for a liberal society. Adam who is a settler, arrived at the Gay Parade during the second Lebanon War (2006) sporting a t-shirt which had “Proud2 in the IDF” printed all over it in rainbow colors. He also claims that he has quarreled on several occasions with other LGBT activists, arguing that there is no connection between the struggle against the occupation and the Gay Parade. Adam forgot the meaning of the Gay Pride Parade, why and under what circumstances it took place! Adam forgot that he situated himself at that moment in that place to demonstrate love and protest against hate and violence. Adam forgot that both racism and homophobia are expressions of hate and discrimination. Adam FORGOT !!! I make the same analogy in the Palestinian community in order to promote the issue of sexual “Otherness”. When I encounter Palestinians in Israel, I make the association between our society, which has experienced oppression and discrimination, and my personal experience as a sexual deviant, stressing the necessity for the struggle for exposure and legitimacy. During the meetings that I conduct as a volunteer in Aswat’s educational project, I meet men and women from a wide political, socio/ economic, geographic and religious spectrum. Besides speaking about myself, and my personal and familial experiences, I attempt to reach out to them directing their attention to the ways in which they experienced

oppression and discrimination as a minority which has been shamed. I go back and forth drawing parallels between situations that they experienced in their life as a minority and my own and other’s experiences. Perhaps I am a dreamer who fantasizes about creating a Utopia (or so I am told), and even though there is no harm in fantasizing, I do believe that we – lesbians, homosexuals, trans-genders and queers are capable of bringing a new message to the world, a message of love and tolerance, things which our world seems to lack. We who have had first hand experiences of hate, invalidation, oppression and humiliation, know that homophobia is a form of racism. We understand the meaning of love, happiness, relief and self-fulfillment. We must make a stand against all forms of oppression, racism and hate, because when we cease to do so, we will be actively legitimizing Homophobia and discrimination against us. When I was about ten years old, as I was walking home from primary school with a friend, I told her that: “Our generation will play a critical role in the future, and that it will be remembered as a significant generation in the course of history…we will have the power to build and destroy the world”. I felt those words so intensely back then, and I still do now, and I know that I belong with those who want to build a new world. I do everything I can to ensure a better world for myself and others, even

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for those who I disagree with. I want to love, live and be happy. I want to experience excitement without being indifferent and ignorant toward other peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s suffering, just like I would not want them to ignore mine. I do not want to hate, or hurt. My words may be received as far - fetched and utopian, but I truly believe in them. We should aspire to live in accordance with the principle â&#x20AC;&#x153;I will do unto the other what I would like to have done to myselfâ&#x20AC;?. For the past 14 years, I have been working as a nurse in the fields of Oncology and Hematology. It is a tough and exhausting profession. People ask me how I am able to persevere in this profession and remain so dedicated to my patients. My answer is simple, "I treat patients in the same manner that I would like to be treated". It is a simple and better formula for future living.

Samira Saraya

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