Queer

It seems that the queer community in the Arab world is trapped from two sides: on one hand, by state and institutional repression; on the other, by a constant feeling of isolation and alienation. Not because we are absent from reality, but because we often speak in a language that doesn’t resemble us, using concepts and references that weren’t born in our contexts. Our discourse, more often than not, is imported from places and experiences that don’t belong to our environment, don’t speak to our audience, and don’t translate our pain.

But our existence predates this discourse. We’ve long been present: in the streets, in old songs, in popular proverbs, in cinema, in whispered stories, and in the names that were used as insults—names we might now be ready to reclaim as tools of resistance. Words like شاذ “shadh” (deviant) and خول “khawal” (a derogatory term for effeminate men) are not foreign to Arab culture. What’s strange is that we completely exclude these words in favor of imported terms, then expect people to recognize us while we speak in a language that doesn’t reach them.

When people hear words like “queer,” “gay,” or “non-binary,” they immediately ask: What is this? Isn’t this a foreign agenda? Why do these terms feel unfamiliar? This questioning may not always be outright rejection, and changing the discourse does not guarantee acceptance, but it remains a necessary tool to break isolation and open the door to understanding—or at least engagement. Yet the Arab queer discourse continues to borrow terms and concepts without genuine questioning.

What’s striking is that many forget that the word “queer” itself was never a neutral term. In English, it was once a slur, used to ostracize those who were different—just like “khawal” is used in our societies. But Western queer communities fought long battles to reclaim the word, redefining it and filling it with new meaning, until its silence was broken. Its offensive connotation wasn’t entirely erased, but it lost its power to harm. This transformation didn’t happen through translation, but through political, social, and cultural engagement with the word and its contexts.

We, on the other hand, often ignored this lesson. We didn’t go through the same journey; instead, we took the ready-made result. We used “queer” after it had already been cleansed elsewhere, without undergoing the experience or creating our own. Thus, our discourse remained suspended between two languages: one we’re ashamed to reclaim, and another we borrow without critical engagement—then we’re surprised when people don’t relate.

But what if Arab queer discourse started from our environment? From our dialects, from our daily pain, from our political, social, and religious struggles? What if we expressed our existence with accessible tools, in terms familiar to the people—even if painful? What if we engaged with major issues—oppression, poverty, marginalization, war, and exile—as part of this world, not strangers to it?

We need a coherent political discourse that is rooted in our land, our memory, our pain. A discourse that doesn’t apologize for existing, that doesn’t wait for external recognition, but asserts itself simply because it exists—and expresses itself in a familiar tongue.

Liberation doesn’t start with translation, but with naming. Not with imitating the world, but with naming ourselves… in our own voices.