Not necessarily a tragedy!

The stories of displacement are often reduced to tragedy — but in this story, we are not victims. As queer people who arrived in Cairo, it became clear that asylum also carries within it postponed dreams and opportunities for identity liberation.

Our stories are not just about surviving the war; they are about reclaiming the body and rebuilding the self under extraordinary circumstances. In Sudan, in one way or another, we experienced a form of forced invisibility; social authority and community surveillance outweighed any sense of personal autonomy over our bodies and identities.

With the outbreak of war, the journey of displacement to Egypt became a twofold one: the search for physical safety, and the search for identity liberation. The war, in its cruel irony, granted us the geographical distance needed to begin a new, perhaps freer, chapter. A space for existence and self-ownership. Cairo was not merely a city of refuge, but a land of potential liberation.

Unlike “home,” here I have relative freedom of movement and unprecedented variety in clothing markets — not just markets, but enabling spaces that allowed for the reclaiming of the body. From theoretical expression to tangible action, Amal — a trans woman — found the courage to wear a wig and film herself publicly, documenting her triumph. Nadia exercised her full freedom by choosing bold colors and diverse sizes, transforming the street into a personal stage to assert her sovereignty over her appearance.

As for me — a trans man — I now have a slit above my eyebrow and a tattoo that reads: The struggle continues… victory is certain! (A luta continua, vitória é certa). I wear the jalabiya on Fridays as a conscious choice — not as a rejection of culture, but as a reclaiming of heritage, purified from constraints.

These simple yet daring experiences have proven that self-expression can reach its peak in defiance and celebration. The presence of Drag Suhoor during Ramadan in Cairo was a stunning symbolic fusion — a declaration of identity in a public space, in an artistic act woven into a deeply rooted religious social ritual. This act is undeniable proof that asylum has created a new space for existence.

Hope was not limited to individual experiences; amid this transformation, we were not alone. Cairo opened its doors, turning liberation into a shared experience. We met Egyptian queers, bonded with some, and formed a support network. This connection broke the isolation imposed by war and displacement, transforming Cairo into a meeting point — a place of hope for building a cross-border queer community where everyone can feel safe.

Our stories remind us that true safety for a refugee is not limited to having a roof overhead — it extends to include identity safety. It is a message that survival lies in liberation from dual oppression: the oppression of war and the oppression of identity. Every moment of freedom — from the jalabiya, to the wig, to the Drag Suhoor — is a victory against harsh circumstances, and a testament that exile does not carry only tragedy, but also the promise of self-reconstruction and living in truth.