Friday
Our revolution continues. Here is a great graphic that shows what and where things happened yesterday:
View Syrian Protest 27/05/2011 in a larger map
It comes from this website http://www.lccsyria.org/2011/05/26/mapping-the-protests/ which has been set up by the Local Coordinating Committees to support the Revolution. If you want to know who really is ‘behind’ this revolution, that’s far closer to the real deal than Mr Ponytail in DC or the Knesset’s favorite Ayrab (who can’t decide if he’s Syrian or Lebanese but can denounce his own people at will) or the butcher of Hama and his boy or any of the others who speak for no one but themselves and are opportunists who are more interested in getting rich and pleasing the foreign powers than in freeing Syria.
28 May 2011
Pinkwashing Assad?
I’ve always feared that this day would come, when I found myself dragged as evidence into an argument against freedom. But it did. A while back, I received a request from a reporter at CNN who was preparing an article on gays and the Arab Spring. I had been told to be leery as it would likely be bad but I went ahead. It’s out now:
http://www.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/meast/05/27/gay.rights.arab.spring/
Thankfully, I don’t regret what I myself am quoted as saying. But the others … well, they provide the sort of pinkwashing that the enemies of Arab freedom have come to rely on increasingly in recent years. We’ve gotten used to being used rhetorically by the advocates of war, occupation, dispossession, and apartheid as ‘evidence’ that the primitive sand-people don’t deserve anything other than killing by the enlightened children of the West; we’ve seen this story used to advocate murder of Afghan villagers, Palestinian refugees, Iraqis and so on. It’s given as justification for genocide by the ranting bleach-blond buffoon in the Dutch parliament and as reason for reviving the worst of the Third Reich by neo-fascists across Europe and America. Now, it’s being used as an argument against democracy.
Those evil primitive Moozlims and Ayrabs, see, unlike the brilliant stars of tolerance who want to indiscriminately bomb any worshipper of Allah, are ho-mo-phobes … ‘cause there aren’t San Francisco style Gay Rights parades in Teheran or Damascus … and since religious conservatives here preach against same sex marriage (and of course no one opposes that in Antrim or Alabama save for Moozlims!), the whole religion be damned, nuke’em, gas’em, it don’t matter ….
Or so one would gather from some of the rhetoric. Reality, of course, is different. Having lived in both worlds, I can tell you this in all honesty; I have never once encountered any problem here on account of my sexuality that I would not have encountered were I straight as an arrow. I have never once been attacked or beaten or even screamed at for being a lesbian in an Arab land. On the other hand, I have had dung thrown at me in America for wearing a hijab, been attacked and struck by strangers for being an Arab …
So why pinkwashing? Others have brilliantly dissected the way this rhetoric has been used to turn gay rights into a weapon of imperialism, specifically in Palestine. (For those interested, read here http://www.pinkwatchingisrael.com/ or http://www.sfbg.com/politics/2011/02/16/queer-palestinian-activists-discuss-pinkwashing-and-more There’s a lot of great work being done on this). Liberals in the West are told not to criticize imperial wars or apartheid on account of those who are suffering ain’t as gay friendly as those who do the oppressing ….
Which of course is crazy. And like any tool of oppression needs to be opposed.
And now, the rhetoric is that democracy is BAD; earlier this year, John McCain proclaimed democracy a virus that needed to be stopped, because, of course, it would be terrible if Those People ever started determining their own futures. Now, we see it being disseminated in a liberal lavender guise: the wicked evil Muslim Brotherhood and the wicked evil sheikhs of al-Islam will get elected if the people are allowed to decide! Oh my! And then … well, there won’t be any freedom for party boys in Cairo to go cruising ….
Of course, such politics show a fundamental hatred of democracy, at least when it comes to US. (As a friend once aptly put it, ‘we don’t hate you for your freedom, we hate you because you hate our freedom’). The Arabs might decide how they want to live for themselves, they might stop living on their knees … and anything, anything at all to avoid that!
These pinkwashers loved Assad just as they loved Mubarak. They didn’t love them for what they did for LGBT Egyptians or Syrians but rather for the aid they gave to states bent on apartheid and imperialism; they know that, once the government that lost the Jaulan is gone, a democratic Syria won’t look kindly at the theft of Syrian land. They know that a more democratic Egypt already means the end of their siege of Gaza.
They want to pretend that us homos and queers will all come to forget that we have fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters and so on. We’ll forget that we have been oppressed not solely or even primarily as faggots and dykes but, instead, as Arabs, as Muslims, as Middle Easterners, as Palestinians and Iraqis and Syrians and so on. They want us to shed all those aspects of ourselves and embrace the oppressor if the oppressor lets us dance in his disco or make out in her coffee house.
It isn’t like that. I cannot speak for anyone else but I can speak for me. I will not be used as an excuse for oppression. I will not be used as a propaganda piece to undermine democracy. I for one believe in my people and, rather than condemn them, I want them to be free. Some will hate me. Some will cast aspersions on me. Far more will ignore me. But they will be free. No more dictators, no more occupiers. Free.
I do not fear the Ikhwaan; I have sat and drunk tea and coffee with their sheikhs and I fear them no more than I fear anyone else in this country. If, when the dictators are gone and elections are held, they win, I will work to beat them the next time around. Or maybe not. I will work to change this society from within but I will not work to bring any so-called ‘freedom’ that must be imposed at gunpoint or surrounded by barbed wires and mines to preserve it. That is not freedom.
Nor will I let myself be used as propaganda for the enemies of democracy. I do not want personal freedom if it comes at the cost of the oppression of millions. Freedom is merely privilege extended unless enjoyed by all.
http://www.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/meast/05/27/gay.rights.arab.spring/
Thankfully, I don’t regret what I myself am quoted as saying. But the others … well, they provide the sort of pinkwashing that the enemies of Arab freedom have come to rely on increasingly in recent years. We’ve gotten used to being used rhetorically by the advocates of war, occupation, dispossession, and apartheid as ‘evidence’ that the primitive sand-people don’t deserve anything other than killing by the enlightened children of the West; we’ve seen this story used to advocate murder of Afghan villagers, Palestinian refugees, Iraqis and so on. It’s given as justification for genocide by the ranting bleach-blond buffoon in the Dutch parliament and as reason for reviving the worst of the Third Reich by neo-fascists across Europe and America. Now, it’s being used as an argument against democracy.
Those evil primitive Moozlims and Ayrabs, see, unlike the brilliant stars of tolerance who want to indiscriminately bomb any worshipper of Allah, are ho-mo-phobes … ‘cause there aren’t San Francisco style Gay Rights parades in Teheran or Damascus … and since religious conservatives here preach against same sex marriage (and of course no one opposes that in Antrim or Alabama save for Moozlims!), the whole religion be damned, nuke’em, gas’em, it don’t matter ….
Or so one would gather from some of the rhetoric. Reality, of course, is different. Having lived in both worlds, I can tell you this in all honesty; I have never once encountered any problem here on account of my sexuality that I would not have encountered were I straight as an arrow. I have never once been attacked or beaten or even screamed at for being a lesbian in an Arab land. On the other hand, I have had dung thrown at me in America for wearing a hijab, been attacked and struck by strangers for being an Arab …
So why pinkwashing? Others have brilliantly dissected the way this rhetoric has been used to turn gay rights into a weapon of imperialism, specifically in Palestine. (For those interested, read here http://www.pinkwatchingisrael.com/ or http://www.sfbg.com/politics/2011/02/16/queer-palestinian-activists-discuss-pinkwashing-and-more There’s a lot of great work being done on this). Liberals in the West are told not to criticize imperial wars or apartheid on account of those who are suffering ain’t as gay friendly as those who do the oppressing ….
Which of course is crazy. And like any tool of oppression needs to be opposed.
And now, the rhetoric is that democracy is BAD; earlier this year, John McCain proclaimed democracy a virus that needed to be stopped, because, of course, it would be terrible if Those People ever started determining their own futures. Now, we see it being disseminated in a liberal lavender guise: the wicked evil Muslim Brotherhood and the wicked evil sheikhs of al-Islam will get elected if the people are allowed to decide! Oh my! And then … well, there won’t be any freedom for party boys in Cairo to go cruising ….
Of course, such politics show a fundamental hatred of democracy, at least when it comes to US. (As a friend once aptly put it, ‘we don’t hate you for your freedom, we hate you because you hate our freedom’). The Arabs might decide how they want to live for themselves, they might stop living on their knees … and anything, anything at all to avoid that!
These pinkwashers loved Assad just as they loved Mubarak. They didn’t love them for what they did for LGBT Egyptians or Syrians but rather for the aid they gave to states bent on apartheid and imperialism; they know that, once the government that lost the Jaulan is gone, a democratic Syria won’t look kindly at the theft of Syrian land. They know that a more democratic Egypt already means the end of their siege of Gaza.
They want to pretend that us homos and queers will all come to forget that we have fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters and so on. We’ll forget that we have been oppressed not solely or even primarily as faggots and dykes but, instead, as Arabs, as Muslims, as Middle Easterners, as Palestinians and Iraqis and Syrians and so on. They want us to shed all those aspects of ourselves and embrace the oppressor if the oppressor lets us dance in his disco or make out in her coffee house.
It isn’t like that. I cannot speak for anyone else but I can speak for me. I will not be used as an excuse for oppression. I will not be used as a propaganda piece to undermine democracy. I for one believe in my people and, rather than condemn them, I want them to be free. Some will hate me. Some will cast aspersions on me. Far more will ignore me. But they will be free. No more dictators, no more occupiers. Free.
I do not fear the Ikhwaan; I have sat and drunk tea and coffee with their sheikhs and I fear them no more than I fear anyone else in this country. If, when the dictators are gone and elections are held, they win, I will work to beat them the next time around. Or maybe not. I will work to change this society from within but I will not work to bring any so-called ‘freedom’ that must be imposed at gunpoint or surrounded by barbed wires and mines to preserve it. That is not freedom.
Nor will I let myself be used as propaganda for the enemies of democracy. I do not want personal freedom if it comes at the cost of the oppression of millions. Freedom is merely privilege extended unless enjoyed by all.
Can science fiction save the Arabs?
Can science fiction save the Arabs?
That title is not meant as a joke. It’s a serious question. In our nation, from the Atlantic shore in the West to the coasts of Oman in the east, we face a significant crisis, a crisis not just of political failure but much deeper: a crisis of imagination. Formerly, we led the world in ideas, whether for good or bad. Arab scientists and thinkers thought up new ideas and new approaches for centuries, just as our ancestors had done since the dawn of recorded history. Nowadays, though, if one wants to find sparks of brilliance among the Arabs, those sparks will be looking at life overseas and in other lands.
We need to restore our lost brilliance. But how? How do we get the new generations of Arabs to think, not of what was, but of what might be? We could work to increase our level of education and many, many are doing that even now. New schools, new universities open almost daily. Illiteracy has begun to be eliminated in some parts of our nation and even in the most backwards parts, it has declined severely in this last generation. But we still have a long way to go and simple schooling won’t save us.
We need to be creative and playful. Ours is a language splendidly formed for communicating ideas and being creative; we have always loved the sound of our own words and using them inventively. Ours is a nation of poets and dreamers …
But that is not sufficient. We love our words and the power of our words so much that often times we mistake rhetoric for reality. A preacher or a demagogue who sounds wonderful will win an audience among us, even if his ideas are ludicrous if not dangerous. We take our words too seriously.
We need to learn to play with them and, while we play, sharpen our minds. And here is where my idea of how Science Fiction (and its sisters) can indeed save us begins.
What do I mean by Science Fiction? I am not simply speaking of rocket ships and robots or of adventures under the Moons of Mars but of a whole field of literature. Call it speculative fiction, call it what you will, but I am including all those books and stories and poems where the mind roams free, the stories that will carry a little girl who feels trapped in between countries to adventures beyond the farthest star or into the deepest past or the farthest future. We need those stories; we need the hard science fiction where the cutting edge of science is explored so that we inspire a new generation of scientists to discover the as yet unknown wonders of this universe or develop the technology that revolutionizes everything; we need the social science fiction that explores how different forms of life take shape with changes in a society; we need alternate history tales to explore how the past could have been different and how we might learn the lessons of the past; we need fantasy to give our dreams wings and to explore in play how society might have operated. And above all this, we need these things because they are fun and make us strive to communicate senses of wonderment and of enchantment.
We have stumbled because, for a century, our leading fantasists have tried to remake society to match the dreams in their heads and not realized the difference between dream and reality. We have all seen the ones who want to recreate a past that never was; here, they claim that they dress, eat and act just as the companions of the Prophet did and then act out on society their dreams. How much better off would we all be if they acknowledged that it was play? In other lands, people who want to dress up in ages past and live as though those days are now go off to Civil War encampments or do gladiator drills or to renaissance festivals; here, they try to impose a vision of the imagined past on everyone, rather than just having fun. Or we have had ‘leader’ who mesmerize with their tongues who fall in to monomaniacal desires, to build great dams and name lakes after themselves, who start futile wars, or build rivers in the sands. And unthinking we follow. Who among us would not say that we would all have been better served if Muammar, Saddam, Usama, or Michel had written down their dreams as tales and left us to enjoy them only?
We once led the world in tales of dreams and fantasies, adventures to the Moon and back. An Iraqi wrote of the quest for the herb of immortality; a Syrian wrote the first tale of interplanetary travel years ago, and so on down the ages. What is Alf Layla wa Layla if not the greatest collection of fantasy and science fiction of its age?
But where are the heirs of Lucian and Sin Leqi? Where are the Shahrazads of the present age? I do not know; Habibi might have written of aliens in his pessoptimistic tale but we lack a rich genre of such things.
So how do we get them to come forth? How do we get an Arabic Jules Verne, Wells, Asimov, Tolkien, Le Guin and so on to step forth?
There’s no easy answer but first, I would suggest, we begin by a massive work of translation, almost akin to that of the Bayt al Hikma in the Abbasiya, and publish all the great works of science fiction, fantasy, and so on written in English, French, Russian, Polish and so on in good Arabic editions. Not so long ago, I was amazed how little of this work has been translated; there’s a story by Asimov here, a novel by Wells there but nothing like complete. And there were editions of the Lord of the Rings (that supremely Islamic tale) available in Armenian, Faroese and Esperanto a decade before there was in our tongue.
We need translations of such works and making of our own tales. Down in Aqaba, the King is building a theme park for his favorite show (the one he himself appeared on); maybe he can lend an imprint? We need books that fire the imagination, tales that everyone can access …. And when we do, we will again amaze the world.
That title is not meant as a joke. It’s a serious question. In our nation, from the Atlantic shore in the West to the coasts of Oman in the east, we face a significant crisis, a crisis not just of political failure but much deeper: a crisis of imagination. Formerly, we led the world in ideas, whether for good or bad. Arab scientists and thinkers thought up new ideas and new approaches for centuries, just as our ancestors had done since the dawn of recorded history. Nowadays, though, if one wants to find sparks of brilliance among the Arabs, those sparks will be looking at life overseas and in other lands.
We need to restore our lost brilliance. But how? How do we get the new generations of Arabs to think, not of what was, but of what might be? We could work to increase our level of education and many, many are doing that even now. New schools, new universities open almost daily. Illiteracy has begun to be eliminated in some parts of our nation and even in the most backwards parts, it has declined severely in this last generation. But we still have a long way to go and simple schooling won’t save us.
We need to be creative and playful. Ours is a language splendidly formed for communicating ideas and being creative; we have always loved the sound of our own words and using them inventively. Ours is a nation of poets and dreamers …
But that is not sufficient. We love our words and the power of our words so much that often times we mistake rhetoric for reality. A preacher or a demagogue who sounds wonderful will win an audience among us, even if his ideas are ludicrous if not dangerous. We take our words too seriously.
We need to learn to play with them and, while we play, sharpen our minds. And here is where my idea of how Science Fiction (and its sisters) can indeed save us begins.
What do I mean by Science Fiction? I am not simply speaking of rocket ships and robots or of adventures under the Moons of Mars but of a whole field of literature. Call it speculative fiction, call it what you will, but I am including all those books and stories and poems where the mind roams free, the stories that will carry a little girl who feels trapped in between countries to adventures beyond the farthest star or into the deepest past or the farthest future. We need those stories; we need the hard science fiction where the cutting edge of science is explored so that we inspire a new generation of scientists to discover the as yet unknown wonders of this universe or develop the technology that revolutionizes everything; we need the social science fiction that explores how different forms of life take shape with changes in a society; we need alternate history tales to explore how the past could have been different and how we might learn the lessons of the past; we need fantasy to give our dreams wings and to explore in play how society might have operated. And above all this, we need these things because they are fun and make us strive to communicate senses of wonderment and of enchantment.
We have stumbled because, for a century, our leading fantasists have tried to remake society to match the dreams in their heads and not realized the difference between dream and reality. We have all seen the ones who want to recreate a past that never was; here, they claim that they dress, eat and act just as the companions of the Prophet did and then act out on society their dreams. How much better off would we all be if they acknowledged that it was play? In other lands, people who want to dress up in ages past and live as though those days are now go off to Civil War encampments or do gladiator drills or to renaissance festivals; here, they try to impose a vision of the imagined past on everyone, rather than just having fun. Or we have had ‘leader’ who mesmerize with their tongues who fall in to monomaniacal desires, to build great dams and name lakes after themselves, who start futile wars, or build rivers in the sands. And unthinking we follow. Who among us would not say that we would all have been better served if Muammar, Saddam, Usama, or Michel had written down their dreams as tales and left us to enjoy them only?
We once led the world in tales of dreams and fantasies, adventures to the Moon and back. An Iraqi wrote of the quest for the herb of immortality; a Syrian wrote the first tale of interplanetary travel years ago, and so on down the ages. What is Alf Layla wa Layla if not the greatest collection of fantasy and science fiction of its age?
But where are the heirs of Lucian and Sin Leqi? Where are the Shahrazads of the present age? I do not know; Habibi might have written of aliens in his pessoptimistic tale but we lack a rich genre of such things.
So how do we get them to come forth? How do we get an Arabic Jules Verne, Wells, Asimov, Tolkien, Le Guin and so on to step forth?
There’s no easy answer but first, I would suggest, we begin by a massive work of translation, almost akin to that of the Bayt al Hikma in the Abbasiya, and publish all the great works of science fiction, fantasy, and so on written in English, French, Russian, Polish and so on in good Arabic editions. Not so long ago, I was amazed how little of this work has been translated; there’s a story by Asimov here, a novel by Wells there but nothing like complete. And there were editions of the Lord of the Rings (that supremely Islamic tale) available in Armenian, Faroese and Esperanto a decade before there was in our tongue.
We need translations of such works and making of our own tales. Down in Aqaba, the King is building a theme park for his favorite show (the one he himself appeared on); maybe he can lend an imprint? We need books that fire the imagination, tales that everyone can access …. And when we do, we will again amaze the world.
Coming Out: Part Three
Earlier, I’ve posted two sections on how I first came out to myself and to my closest friends. Now, I’m going to move forward a bit in time and discuss how I ended up first coming out to my parents.
When I first was out, I was living in Chicago. I was newly divorced and dating Katy, as I’ve said before. We dated for about a year; she moved in with me fairly early on. We were quite close; she’s still, I’d say, my closest friend whom I’m not related to. We’d gone to Europe together on vacation, backpacked across Poland, sat up a hundred nights together …
But we woke up one day and had the conversation; we weren’t head over heels in love anymore and we both had reason for going our separate ways. Katy was going to go back to school in another state and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to spend my life just yet following someone around. I had gone straight from my father’s house to my husband’s and as fast as I was divorced, I’d fallen into Katy’s arms. And never had I had the experience of really being on my own, figuring out who I was, where I was in life and what I wanted.
Long story short, we broke up. I sold my condo and found a job in Atlanta (doing translations and paperwork for an international, sharia compliant financial group), moved back to Georgia …. And briefly stayed in my parents’ house while finding a place of my own. I reconnected myself to my family and my community; at first, I thought maybe I would go back into the closet but …
Well, I did date though I did keep things quiet. Atlanta, I discovered, was a great place to be young (ish) and queer. I met quite a few women and went on quite a few first dates and even some second ones and thirds. But nothing was ever serious enough to really have dating life intersect with either work or family or religion. I kept things in separate spheres as much as I could.
But I also got rather fed up with the office politics at work; I was essentially helping people who were rich get richer. There needed to be more to life than that. I thought about going back to school. Seminary? Graduate work in history? Or, perhaps, something else.
One day, I found myself in conversation with a woman I’d met who must have presumed I was 100% Anglo. She started complaining about how ‘those people’ up on Buford Highway came here and never, ever even tried to learn English. Why did they expect that ‘we’ should learn Spanish (though I think she called it Mexican) instead of them learning English?
I nodded. Well, I pointed out, thinking myself absurdly clever, most of ‘them’ work really hard and have little time or money to spare but I bet if you feel so strongly, they’d probably be happy to have you teach them.
I did succeed in shutting her up (and cutting short any flicker of attraction, needless to say) but I also started thinking … maybe I should do that myself. So, I looked up some ESL (English as a Second Language) programs and tried to get a job.
I didn’t right off but I did get a small part time thing as a sort of glorified volunteer at an ESL school … and one day, the guy who usually sat at the front desk had to leave for the dentist and I was asked to cover for him. And that’s when She walked in.
Gorgeous, knockout, my heart raced when she did. I offered her my hand in greeting; we shook hands for what seemed like forever and electricity went up my arm. Anna, as she introduced herself, had seen the sign outside offering accent reduction classes; she had a bit of a remnant of her Bulgarian accent and wanted to lose that … I told her I could find out more about getting her a tutor and so on and so forth and so it went … and in conversation somehow we’d agreed to meet up later to discuss things at a coffee place in Cabbagetown …
And needless to say, we ended up dating very very quickly. I moved in with her (she owned a house where she painted) and we were very much head over heels. Life was good. She met my parents though we pretended we were roommates and that the guest room was my room. They liked her well enough it seemed; she would usually come out with me to the suburbs for family dinners and holidays and such.
And we talked about having a life together … maybe a civil union or whatnot, a formal thing.
I said, you know, though, if you want that, you’ll have to ask for my hand.
Not because she legally had to; I was divorced so in theory I could make my own choices; but because that was what I’d like, even if it seemed deeply unrealistic.
And first I’d need to tell my parents that I was queer.
That was, I thought, the hardest part of the whole business. They’d be shocked, angry, disappointed. My dad would scream and yell, my mother would cry. They’d disown me. Right?
At least that was what I expected. But I also knew I couldn’t lead a double life forever. I’d come out earlier to my cousin Rania (I’ve blogged about that) without any change in our friendship and I’d also come out to my brother (I haven’t; I’d lived with him just before moving in with Anna and, when we’d agreed, I’d come out to him. He was quite cool and quite unshocked with the whole thing. I guess living with your lesbian big sister seemed a lot cooler than living with your hopelessly geeky sister).
So, I sat down with them to ask how to approach it. Should I just blurt things out, should I have Anna present, should I try to walk things through? We thought of different scenarios: dad too angry to speak, wanting to ship me to Damascus forthwith, mom asking what she’d done wrong … and they came up with ideas to soften the landing. “Point out how much easier it will be for them when they’re old to have a queer daughter,” Amr said and Rania added, “Ask them if they’d rather have you sleeping with a lot of men than a few women …”
And on and on.
So the day came when I’d tell them. Anna came with me; she’s super handy and she offered to plant a tree in their yard for them. While she was busy, I sat at the table with both my parents and, biting my lips, said, there’s something I think we need to talk about.
Yes? Says my father. MY mother looks expectant.
Well the thing is, I begin, you see, it’s like this, well …
I sometimes stutter when I’m nervous and I feel it coming on as bad as ever … and they’re both watching me, waiting for me to say my piece …
I grit down my teeth, swallow hard, try not to hyperventilate.
“I’m gay!” I blurt out.
And they are still looking at me expectantly. Like they are waiting on an announcement, not like I’ve just said something I’ve waited half a lifetime (at least) to say.
“And?” my mother says at last.
“That was it,” I say in a small voice. “You aren’t upset or shocked?”
My dad laughs. My mom shakes her head.
“We’ve known a long time,” she says.
“Really?” I wonder. “Who told you?”
“We’re not stupid,” mom explains. “Anna’s your girlfriend, right?”
“Yes,” I nod. “How did you know?”
“Let’s see,” she says, “do roommates come to family dinners and holidays? Remember, you brought her for Eid … “
“And how many roommates just drive a pickup truck with those stickers?” my dad gestures towards Anna’s truck outside. Yeah, I realize, it is the dyke-mobile and Anna is so obviously the butchier of the two of us … and only a fool wouldn’t have picked up that we were a couple and only a bigger fool would have thought we were fooling anyone.
“How long have you known?” I ask.
They look at each other. “1990?” my mom offers.
“Before that, I think,” my dad says.
“But I didn’t know!” I say. And they both laugh. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
And my mom explains that they tried but I always changed the subject. “And then when you got married, I thought maybe we were wrong. And I did overhear you and Hisham when you came to visit and was sure I was wrong.”
I’m blushing bright red at that … but the whole thing was so much bigger in my mind, I realize, than it was for anyone else. They assumed I was … so the reveal meant nothing other than for me. I was prepared for broken dishes, shouting, curses, anything … that’s why I’d brought Anna with me, in case things went crazy …
And I also realized that, even though I knew my own family and knew that my parents loved me, I’d internalized a lot of the hatred that passes for discourse in the US, all those tales of how the wicked evil Arab father is going to kill his children, how Muslims hate and nothing else …. And even though I’d known it was as much lies as anything ever printed in the pages of der Sturmer, one can’t help but take it in.
Parents are parents and people are people and I’m lucky to have a great family. That’s all there is to it.
When I first was out, I was living in Chicago. I was newly divorced and dating Katy, as I’ve said before. We dated for about a year; she moved in with me fairly early on. We were quite close; she’s still, I’d say, my closest friend whom I’m not related to. We’d gone to Europe together on vacation, backpacked across Poland, sat up a hundred nights together …
But we woke up one day and had the conversation; we weren’t head over heels in love anymore and we both had reason for going our separate ways. Katy was going to go back to school in another state and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to spend my life just yet following someone around. I had gone straight from my father’s house to my husband’s and as fast as I was divorced, I’d fallen into Katy’s arms. And never had I had the experience of really being on my own, figuring out who I was, where I was in life and what I wanted.
Long story short, we broke up. I sold my condo and found a job in Atlanta (doing translations and paperwork for an international, sharia compliant financial group), moved back to Georgia …. And briefly stayed in my parents’ house while finding a place of my own. I reconnected myself to my family and my community; at first, I thought maybe I would go back into the closet but …
Well, I did date though I did keep things quiet. Atlanta, I discovered, was a great place to be young (ish) and queer. I met quite a few women and went on quite a few first dates and even some second ones and thirds. But nothing was ever serious enough to really have dating life intersect with either work or family or religion. I kept things in separate spheres as much as I could.
But I also got rather fed up with the office politics at work; I was essentially helping people who were rich get richer. There needed to be more to life than that. I thought about going back to school. Seminary? Graduate work in history? Or, perhaps, something else.
One day, I found myself in conversation with a woman I’d met who must have presumed I was 100% Anglo. She started complaining about how ‘those people’ up on Buford Highway came here and never, ever even tried to learn English. Why did they expect that ‘we’ should learn Spanish (though I think she called it Mexican) instead of them learning English?
I nodded. Well, I pointed out, thinking myself absurdly clever, most of ‘them’ work really hard and have little time or money to spare but I bet if you feel so strongly, they’d probably be happy to have you teach them.
I did succeed in shutting her up (and cutting short any flicker of attraction, needless to say) but I also started thinking … maybe I should do that myself. So, I looked up some ESL (English as a Second Language) programs and tried to get a job.
I didn’t right off but I did get a small part time thing as a sort of glorified volunteer at an ESL school … and one day, the guy who usually sat at the front desk had to leave for the dentist and I was asked to cover for him. And that’s when She walked in.
Gorgeous, knockout, my heart raced when she did. I offered her my hand in greeting; we shook hands for what seemed like forever and electricity went up my arm. Anna, as she introduced herself, had seen the sign outside offering accent reduction classes; she had a bit of a remnant of her Bulgarian accent and wanted to lose that … I told her I could find out more about getting her a tutor and so on and so forth and so it went … and in conversation somehow we’d agreed to meet up later to discuss things at a coffee place in Cabbagetown …
And needless to say, we ended up dating very very quickly. I moved in with her (she owned a house where she painted) and we were very much head over heels. Life was good. She met my parents though we pretended we were roommates and that the guest room was my room. They liked her well enough it seemed; she would usually come out with me to the suburbs for family dinners and holidays and such.
And we talked about having a life together … maybe a civil union or whatnot, a formal thing.
I said, you know, though, if you want that, you’ll have to ask for my hand.
Not because she legally had to; I was divorced so in theory I could make my own choices; but because that was what I’d like, even if it seemed deeply unrealistic.
And first I’d need to tell my parents that I was queer.
That was, I thought, the hardest part of the whole business. They’d be shocked, angry, disappointed. My dad would scream and yell, my mother would cry. They’d disown me. Right?
At least that was what I expected. But I also knew I couldn’t lead a double life forever. I’d come out earlier to my cousin Rania (I’ve blogged about that) without any change in our friendship and I’d also come out to my brother (I haven’t; I’d lived with him just before moving in with Anna and, when we’d agreed, I’d come out to him. He was quite cool and quite unshocked with the whole thing. I guess living with your lesbian big sister seemed a lot cooler than living with your hopelessly geeky sister).
So, I sat down with them to ask how to approach it. Should I just blurt things out, should I have Anna present, should I try to walk things through? We thought of different scenarios: dad too angry to speak, wanting to ship me to Damascus forthwith, mom asking what she’d done wrong … and they came up with ideas to soften the landing. “Point out how much easier it will be for them when they’re old to have a queer daughter,” Amr said and Rania added, “Ask them if they’d rather have you sleeping with a lot of men than a few women …”
And on and on.
So the day came when I’d tell them. Anna came with me; she’s super handy and she offered to plant a tree in their yard for them. While she was busy, I sat at the table with both my parents and, biting my lips, said, there’s something I think we need to talk about.
Yes? Says my father. MY mother looks expectant.
Well the thing is, I begin, you see, it’s like this, well …
I sometimes stutter when I’m nervous and I feel it coming on as bad as ever … and they’re both watching me, waiting for me to say my piece …
I grit down my teeth, swallow hard, try not to hyperventilate.
“I’m gay!” I blurt out.
And they are still looking at me expectantly. Like they are waiting on an announcement, not like I’ve just said something I’ve waited half a lifetime (at least) to say.
“And?” my mother says at last.
“That was it,” I say in a small voice. “You aren’t upset or shocked?”
My dad laughs. My mom shakes her head.
“We’ve known a long time,” she says.
“Really?” I wonder. “Who told you?”
“We’re not stupid,” mom explains. “Anna’s your girlfriend, right?”
“Yes,” I nod. “How did you know?”
“Let’s see,” she says, “do roommates come to family dinners and holidays? Remember, you brought her for Eid … “
“And how many roommates just drive a pickup truck with those stickers?” my dad gestures towards Anna’s truck outside. Yeah, I realize, it is the dyke-mobile and Anna is so obviously the butchier of the two of us … and only a fool wouldn’t have picked up that we were a couple and only a bigger fool would have thought we were fooling anyone.
“How long have you known?” I ask.
They look at each other. “1990?” my mom offers.
“Before that, I think,” my dad says.
“But I didn’t know!” I say. And they both laugh. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
And my mom explains that they tried but I always changed the subject. “And then when you got married, I thought maybe we were wrong. And I did overhear you and Hisham when you came to visit and was sure I was wrong.”
I’m blushing bright red at that … but the whole thing was so much bigger in my mind, I realize, than it was for anyone else. They assumed I was … so the reveal meant nothing other than for me. I was prepared for broken dishes, shouting, curses, anything … that’s why I’d brought Anna with me, in case things went crazy …
And I also realized that, even though I knew my own family and knew that my parents loved me, I’d internalized a lot of the hatred that passes for discourse in the US, all those tales of how the wicked evil Arab father is going to kill his children, how Muslims hate and nothing else …. And even though I’d known it was as much lies as anything ever printed in the pages of der Sturmer, one can’t help but take it in.
Parents are parents and people are people and I’m lucky to have a great family. That’s all there is to it.
An Appreciation
An Appreciation
“We should ask Amina,” my father says, “since I think she’s slept with more women than either of us.”
He laughs, his friend laughs … and I’m more than a little mortified. But I’m mortified in a good way, I suppose. We’re sitting in the house of a friend of my father’s from multiple decades. He’s also a ‘returnee’; went to the US as a young man for education and stayed until he finally retired years later. Right now, we’re staying in this house and they’ve been conversing about how they weighed the relative merits of marrying an American or a woman from ‘back home’ when they were both much younger … and they’re looking to me as an expert, not because I’m a bit of both, but because their assumption is I’ve had more direct experience in the beds of both.
And of course it’s mortifying … just as the past few months when my father has essentially learned my entire unexpurgated sex-life. (Though I guess it pleases me to know that I have slept around more than he ever did; I’ve always been aware of the intense bond between my parents – and getting indirect confirmation of that feels good)
I’m awkward of course in answering the particular question … but that it’s even asked is a wonderful thing!
This, I suspect, is how Arab men (well, men period) talk when the women aren’t around. And they’re treating me like one of them. Two old Arab men chatting about girls with a younger one. Who happens to be a girl.
It’s part of what this whole adventure these past weeks has been like for me. My dad and I have always been close; I was a bit of a tom-boy as a child and was more interested in helping my father than my mother. Sometimes, looking back, I think he treated me more like a son than a daughter, sometimes more even than my brother.
Our other sisters did ‘girlie’ things; my brother and I went places with my father. I recall Mother’s Days back in the Shenandoah Valley where Amr and I insisted on dad taking us to watch the Civil War reinactment up at New Market or going to the Smithsonian and wanting to see skeletons and rockets, not dresses … but please don’t misunderstand; I never ever wanted to be a male! I’m a girl, thank you very much, and never had any doubts of that, even if I never particularly acted like a ‘stereotypical’ anything.
But anyhow, these past weeks have been a time when we, my father and I, have gotten much closer. Some of that has been of necessity; traveling around this great country of ours and living cheek to jowl, watching out for each other and so many other things. I’ve cut and dyed his hair, dressed him and found spaces for him; he’s done the same for me. We’ve been living in each other’s life, which has meant also knowing each other better than we ever have as adults. I need to tell him that so-and-so and I dated; he needs to tell me that such-and-such’s sister was his fiancee (I didn’t even know he was ever engaged before my mother until then).
And the white-haired Muslim patriarch and his queer daughter go place to place; we’ve pretended to be husband and wife, patient and nurse … I’ve woken up on a bus draped over him.
And just like when all this began, one thing is certain to me in a world that keeps turning upside down: my father’s unconditional love. He’s never once told me that I’m wrong or wicked or evil for desiring women, not now, not ever. His only concern was that I might be hurt. He’s never been anything but understanding … and never once tried to mke me into something I am not. He has told me when I asked him why he never was that, even had he wanted to, I always was far harsher on myself than anyone else could ever be.
And I’ve joked that, when this is all over, I’m going to nominate him for P-FLAG’s man of the year (if they have such a thing). After all, family, as he says, should always be first.
“We should ask Amina,” my father says, “since I think she’s slept with more women than either of us.”
He laughs, his friend laughs … and I’m more than a little mortified. But I’m mortified in a good way, I suppose. We’re sitting in the house of a friend of my father’s from multiple decades. He’s also a ‘returnee’; went to the US as a young man for education and stayed until he finally retired years later. Right now, we’re staying in this house and they’ve been conversing about how they weighed the relative merits of marrying an American or a woman from ‘back home’ when they were both much younger … and they’re looking to me as an expert, not because I’m a bit of both, but because their assumption is I’ve had more direct experience in the beds of both.
And of course it’s mortifying … just as the past few months when my father has essentially learned my entire unexpurgated sex-life. (Though I guess it pleases me to know that I have slept around more than he ever did; I’ve always been aware of the intense bond between my parents – and getting indirect confirmation of that feels good)
I’m awkward of course in answering the particular question … but that it’s even asked is a wonderful thing!
This, I suspect, is how Arab men (well, men period) talk when the women aren’t around. And they’re treating me like one of them. Two old Arab men chatting about girls with a younger one. Who happens to be a girl.
It’s part of what this whole adventure these past weeks has been like for me. My dad and I have always been close; I was a bit of a tom-boy as a child and was more interested in helping my father than my mother. Sometimes, looking back, I think he treated me more like a son than a daughter, sometimes more even than my brother.
Our other sisters did ‘girlie’ things; my brother and I went places with my father. I recall Mother’s Days back in the Shenandoah Valley where Amr and I insisted on dad taking us to watch the Civil War reinactment up at New Market or going to the Smithsonian and wanting to see skeletons and rockets, not dresses … but please don’t misunderstand; I never ever wanted to be a male! I’m a girl, thank you very much, and never had any doubts of that, even if I never particularly acted like a ‘stereotypical’ anything.
But anyhow, these past weeks have been a time when we, my father and I, have gotten much closer. Some of that has been of necessity; traveling around this great country of ours and living cheek to jowl, watching out for each other and so many other things. I’ve cut and dyed his hair, dressed him and found spaces for him; he’s done the same for me. We’ve been living in each other’s life, which has meant also knowing each other better than we ever have as adults. I need to tell him that so-and-so and I dated; he needs to tell me that such-and-such’s sister was his fiancee (I didn’t even know he was ever engaged before my mother until then).
And the white-haired Muslim patriarch and his queer daughter go place to place; we’ve pretended to be husband and wife, patient and nurse … I’ve woken up on a bus draped over him.
And just like when all this began, one thing is certain to me in a world that keeps turning upside down: my father’s unconditional love. He’s never once told me that I’m wrong or wicked or evil for desiring women, not now, not ever. His only concern was that I might be hurt. He’s never been anything but understanding … and never once tried to mke me into something I am not. He has told me when I asked him why he never was that, even had he wanted to, I always was far harsher on myself than anyone else could ever be.
And I’ve joked that, when this is all over, I’m going to nominate him for P-FLAG’s man of the year (if they have such a thing). After all, family, as he says, should always be first.
The Revolution Will Not Be Televised
The Revolution Will Not Be Televised
I saw that Gil Scott Heron, author of the above, has died. Some people have, I think, taken his words to task before but, certainly, viewed from here, they seem true.
Turn on the official television channels and … you’ll learn about the wonders of irrigation in the Euphrates or wildlife of the desert or ancient heroes … or anything but the revolution. That isn’t getting televised.
And the regime is trying to keep it from being televised anywhere. The most dangerous thing to do in Syria these days? Have a camera when the authorities are out and about, film a demonstration … or worse, film them repressing one. That will get you jailed fast (if you’re lucky).
Yet, somehow, we keep finding new ways to get on line and post up videos. Maybe we only have a limited amount of time to do so, but we get it done (I’m doing my blog updates all at once; this internet connection is secure but it won’t last long and there’s a bit of a queue. Others are uploading videos on to youtube or mailing them to friends outside who will …. So I wait my turn)
I saw that Gil Scott Heron, author of the above, has died. Some people have, I think, taken his words to task before but, certainly, viewed from here, they seem true.
Turn on the official television channels and … you’ll learn about the wonders of irrigation in the Euphrates or wildlife of the desert or ancient heroes … or anything but the revolution. That isn’t getting televised.
And the regime is trying to keep it from being televised anywhere. The most dangerous thing to do in Syria these days? Have a camera when the authorities are out and about, film a demonstration … or worse, film them repressing one. That will get you jailed fast (if you’re lucky).
Yet, somehow, we keep finding new ways to get on line and post up videos. Maybe we only have a limited amount of time to do so, but we get it done (I’m doing my blog updates all at once; this internet connection is secure but it won’t last long and there’s a bit of a queue. Others are uploading videos on to youtube or mailing them to friends outside who will …. So I wait my turn)
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