I use the language of my colonizer to identify myself, it is a common practice, one that is hard to avoid in a westernized world:
I am Arab.
I am Woman.
I am Queer.
It feels like some sort of joke, the kind where I am sitting at the edge of my seat begging the teller to get to the punch line, because I have a feeling it’s me and I’ve been dying for a reason to laugh.
There is no queer brown girl manifesto, my life had the audacity to not come with a handbook on navigating two worlds, each of them despising you.
When i was born I have a feeling God whispered “you don’t belong here” in my left ear and “I love you” in my right.
I exist only as a tragedy or denied reality.
When every white-queer hailing a rainbow bowtie begs to be some part of my salvation. Rattling off facts about countries I have never been to but somehow wear their faults on my skin, my clothes, my blood. They tell me this community is a safe space, as long as you look like us, understand our discourse and allow us to strip you of your browness.
When everyone who understands me when I forget my English and knows that only blaring Mashrou’ Lelia will stop your heart from breaking. Unironically will quote of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad,“We don’t have any Gays in Iran”, because this queer issue is a western problem, it has nothing to do with our morality.
I nod with them sometimes, tongue trapped between teeth and I look down at my body wondering if they can see Sinner on my breath, smell it on my thoughts or if I have ceased to exist all together, I just never noticed.
Anonymous is a writer and performer, who is currently attempting to muddle through the beginning of her post-graduate career. She exists in the world as a part of the current Syrian Diaspora. She has a co-dependent relationship with run-on sentences and often have fantasies about a world without punctation. She love jasmines, lemon pie and moleskin planners.