What’s Being Gay Got to Do With It?
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Hello. I am a 30-year-old woman who loves to read, argue, and watch movies. I love the beach, the sun, and koosa ma7shé. I am politically active in the interrelated struggles for Palestine, the resistance to imperialism, and making the earth a safer, more nurturing, and less discriminatory environment for all its inhabitants. I am a graduate student currently studying the intersections and impasses between law and citizenship in Lebanon. I also make documentary films that aim to make smaller the chasm between the Arab world, imperial desires, and capitalist penetration and hegemony. I am a feminist.
Oh, and I sleep with women. Much more often than I do with men, at least.
I am writing this piece in order to clarify my position vis-à-vis what is commonly referred to as “gay activism” or “activism for LBGTQ rights” in Lebanon. I have never adopted this cause, which surely has had great import to my life in myriad ways. I have always, in some way, known that I liked women and I came out to myself through a beautiful relationship that began when I was 18 and ended only recently. I am not closeted and I have lived the “queer life” in Lebanon for over 12 years. Perhaps these comforts are the reason why I find my queerness to be the least interesting part of me, the part that least mobilizes me to action.
You see, I have been very fortunate. I have had access to the best education that this country, and others, have to offer. I have never felt like there was something I could not do. I was nurtured from a young age and taught to be a powerful, independent woman. My family has never not supported me. I am financially independent and comfortably upper middle class. I live in my own apartment. I travel when and to where I please. I stopped having to ask for “permission” from my parents ten years ago, the year I became physically and financially independent. I have a loving, committed network of friends with whom I have navigated the difficulties and ecstasies of life. A group of these friends and I entered the Lebanese “gay scene” together, found ourselves and lost ourselves in it. Throughout those years we held on to each other for sheer life. These days, we mostly just hold on to each other and dip into the queer scene for a drink or ten. The only friend I have who could be considered a “gay activist” is a hyper critical (verging on self-hating) one.
I was first introduced to Meem through my above-mentioned best friend, the self-hating “gay” activist. I was fully prepared to be flippant, condescending, and skeptical, as I am of most activisms that are anchored in the axis of sexuality as identity. I am still skeptical, but I now recognize the worth such a place has for others, and yes, in some instances, for myself. My main criticism of Meem was that it aimed to accentuate our homo-inclinations as the mortar upon which a community could be built. That “being gay” should be enough to be bind one to the other in solidarity. I have never believed this to be true, and am generally allergic to A) conflating sexual practice with a “sexual identity” and its attendant disciplinary apparatus and B) making this “sexual identity” a ground from which to seek retribution from current power structures. I guess, in a nutshell, I believe there is a special place reserved in hell for identity politics and the masked liberal project that it endorses. I believe that as queer people, we have an opportunity to teach the world how to love differently, to do politics differently, to build community differently, how to think in what I would call “a queer manner”. In short, we have an opportunity to show that life can be practiced in non-normative fashions and still be full, happy, ethical, and healthy. We have this opportunity because, by virtue of our sexual practices and desires, we are often told that we are “not normal” and therefore aspects of the “normative” life are foreclosed to us. This foreclosure from the “normative” is precisely the condition of possibility out of which the field of the non-normative emerges. Navigating this field (and realizing that you are the field) can be exhilarating, frightening, and inspiring. For example, I personally find it liberating to be outside the confines of heteronormative relationship and kinship paradigms. I find it so liberating, actually, that I feel a responsibility to spread the Gospel of non-normativity to others, both hetero and not.
What does this mean in relation to Meem? It means that I, as a queer woman, do not consider “gay” or “queer” women who are racist, sexist, classist, sectarian, heteronormative, or anti-Palestinian to be part of my community. I cannot consider someone an ally or “family” just because we both love and fuck the same gender. Initially, I believed that Meem aimed to foster just such a feeling. That in its desire to check potentially divisive politics at the door, Meem had decided that to gain entrance into this community in the making, being a WSW[1] was enough. I have never had an interest in such groupings, and I prefer the honesty of badly lit bars, furtive glances and one night stands to the feigned aspirations to a “community” built on the lowest common denominator. I prefer arguing, laughing, shouting, challenging, and being infuriated by those that enjoy the unfettered and unfiltered exchange of ideas, thoughts, and topics of conversation. Often, this has meant that the majority of my closest friends are not queer, at least not in the normative, sexualized sense of the word.
But, and yes, there is a caveat to this story. Through Meem I have met women who I hope will continue to be in my life at the utmost level. Women who challenge me, make me laugh, inspire me, and support me. That is the beauty of Meem, it offers a platform for everyone. It can be a space for finding like-minded people. It can also be a space for finding people who are not like-minded, but with whom debate can occur in a respectful and constructive manner. It can be the pivot around which a critique is generated. It can sharpen your thoughts. It can, at the very least, be a place of empathy, a place of safety. My limited experiences at Meem have taught me that these words, “empathy” and “safety,” are at their root political and must be fought for. Personally, I still do not believe that it is possible to “check your (potentially divisive) politics at the door.” The person is political. Life is political and life is critique. In part for that reason, I walk through the door minimally these days, but I am glad that it is there, open, for the people who need it (more). I am glad that it exists, both as a statement of presence, and as the grounds from which conversations such as the one I am hoping to ignite can spring.
Contributed by M/M
[1] The acronym WSW stands for Women who have Sex with Women
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