A Queer Sobhiyeh

What my typical day looks like in Lebanon

My Breakfast

I wake up every morning, take my coffee and my prescribed antidepressant. As is the routine everyday, my mother calls her mother to discuss my celibate uncle: “Mesh 7a ya3ref yetjawaz ba2a?”. The conversation, undoubtedly, escalates to choosing baby names for my unborn children, I, a bisexual/pansexual man in a secretly very “homosexual” relationship… And no, tata wasn’t picking names for my future adoptive children. My mother, on the other hand, knowing that I am into men, goes on the explain how I will be just as celibate as my uncle. Not micro-aggressive at all. As you might’ve guessed, my family (and village), like many others in Lebanon, prefer sticking to the valuable traditions of queer-phobia, xenophobia, racism, and, everyone’s favorite, misogyny.

For the rest of the day, I mind my own business, sending “I love you-s” to my partner, scrolling through TikTok, and occasionally, finishing the work for my severely underpaid job. Then comes the “yalla 3al ghada” call.

My Lunch

What’s lovely about my family is its cohesion and support. It’s not just Sundays that the whole extended family gets together; on the contrary, I have the opportunity to get fat-shamed every other day of the week. Of course, the conversation starts with the self-proclaimed humorous cousin asking me “shuu, kif el neswen bi Beirut?”. Little did he know that, on the weeks I physically work in Beirut, I sleep at my very gay boyfriend’s apartment. Then, we move on to a discussion about my other cousin, living in France, and his Lebanese girlfriend. My family takes its time praising how proud they are of him living up to the cis-heteronormative standards of society. Most notably, they praise how many girls he had f*cked before he started settling down.

I eat my mloukhiyeh in silence as my family members vocalize how they expect me to go through the same path as my “French” cousin. My mom eats her mloukiyeh in silence.

My Dinner

I watch as the “men of my family” painfully discuss politics and conspiracies, occasionally calling out a random woman on TV they disagree with: “Lek hayde el sharmouta”. Meanwhile, the women continue to discuss the kids and gossip about village happenings. I sit here with my loneliness (and phone) thinking why the hell do I live in such an unfair & oppressive society. If any of my cousins were to bring their girlfriend to the family, they would be welcomed in open arms. If I were to share the same experience with my “male” partner, abuse would ensue.

My Story

I decided to start writing these stories to shine the light on the daily happenings of queer people in Lebanon. I acknowledge that each of us has their own experience, which may or not overlap with the other. I am confident that queer women & trans* individuals have arguably far different — and far worse — experiences. However, as I scarcely find such blogs anywhere, this is an attempt to connect the community and highlight the collective struggles we go through.

“We’re here. We’re queer. And we’re not going away.”

––––––––––––––Translations–––––––––––––

• Sobhiyeh = morning routine
• “Mesh 7a ya3ref yetjawaz ba2a?” = Can he get married already?
• tata = Grandma
• “yalla 3al ghada” = Lunch is ready
• “shuu, kif el neswen bi Beirut?” = How are the women in Beirut?
• “Lek hayde el sharmouta” = Look at this wh*re