Rony, a friend of my boyfriend who lives outside of Damascus and finds it totally alright to consider my house as his sleeping pad to return to everyday rather than traveling back to his faraway home, came back at two o’clock in the morning last week with some interesting news.
“Anas was on the Radio today to talk about homosexuality in Syria,” he says upsettingly while throwing his jacket around, “he was interviewed on Farah FM to speak about the gay scene in Syria and by God; the whole situation was a mess.”
Apparently, Anas, who is 16, uneducated and easily influenced, met the director of the Radio program in one of the many parties he goes to in Damascus, and the director invited him to appear on one of the episode of a half-assed show as a representative of the homosexual community in Syria. Anas invited his best friend, Luna, who is another underaged, uneducated and easily influenced gay guy known for his feminine attitude to appear in the program with him; and they both were an easy target for the shark-like Radio presenter.
“When asked if he feels like a man, Anas told the show host that he feels like half a woman, half a man; and that there are three types of gay people in the world; those who feel like men, those who feel like half a woman, half a man, and those who feel like women.” Rony explained, referring to the famous three types of homosexual acts; top, versatile and bottom.
That was not the end of it: “Anas also explained that if you want to know a homosexual man in the street; all you need to do is to see if he wears earings, if yes, then he is surely a homosexual person, if not, then he must be straight.”
Also, “Anas explained in details how he likes to wear women’s clothes; and how most if not all gay people are interested in appearing more on the female side of the community; as well as that he asked for the right to be publicly accepted as females-lookalike.”
And the motherload; “Anas named and shamed a lot of the people who are members of the homosexual community in Syria; as well as he pointed out the places we gather, the areas we like to hang out in and even the bars where we are most noticeable.”
A woman called and told the two boys that “you’re sick; very sick and you need to go and find a doctor to help you!” and Anas and his friend did not find words to reply to her. The radio host used words like “Lotty” and “Shaz” (which are the equivalent of faggot in Arabic) while talking to the two boys; and they accepted the insult like it did not happen.
While listening to Rony telling me the details of that interesting Radio interview; my headache starting going to new territories in my head; I felt more and more like going right now to wherever Anas is; and punch the hell out of his doctor-perfect nose or burn his well-treated hair. As he blurt out this shit on a Radio station well-known in Syria around 9PM; I could imagine families listening to the show; I could imagine their homophobic faces as they realize that their neighbour, their cousin or even their son is homosexual; I could imagine a straight teenage boy who just like earings who is going to be killed on the hands of his father who thinks that his son is gay.
A week passed; and the memory of that night was fading away; until I met Anas in the street. I was walking with my boyfriend in a well-known place where gay people hang out. Having a conversation with a friend of his, whose family is extremely traditional and he feels the pressure on him to convert to their ways of thinking, and trying to help him understand the difference accepting the society and trying to advocate new understandings in it. Suddenly, Anas appears from afar; with a proud look on his face. You see, since that interview; Anas was praised by other gay guys for his braveness and his amazing work on the Radio station. He was feeling like he accomplished the impossible; he spoke on a radio show; regardless of what exactly he said over there.
I couldn’t help myself and I went there and started talking to him. I tried, firstly, to explain to him calmly what effect his action might have; I tried to explain to him that his words can hurt the homosexual community in Syria in many ways. Yet, he wasn’t ready to listen.
“I was speaking only about myself,” he says, “I was the one interviewed; I was the one on the radio; so I was speaking about myself.” I told him that he outed half of the country; not to mention that he ruinned the semi-safety of the places where the gays hang out. “Really?” he says, “I did not do that, everyone knows that this is not a secret; and even if it’s a secret! it’s my secret to share!” I started losing my senses and wanted to kill him, yet I told him that this secret “is not yours to give away; it’s the right of these people to have a place where they can hang out! Yes! A lot of people get the idea that these people are gay; yet they still doubt it in their minds and can’t speak it out in the open! You gave them the truth that goes beyond any reasonable doubt that they people in that street are gay!”
“Also!” I said, “who are you to be the one interviewed? You were interviewed as a person speaking on the behave of the homosexual community! You’re not an actor, a singer, a dance, you did not get a Nobel prize or an Oscar; you were there for one reason and one reason only: to speak about on behave of the gay people; and you blow it!”
He started to back off and spoke of the radio host who was “extremely nasty; and did not ask the questions pre-agreed on” and my answer was that he simply could “tell him that these questions are not agreed upon and I don’t want to answer them.”
Anas, at that point, reserved to the best way he knows to handle such situations: He started doing the act of “Shakhr” (bad mouthing). He started speaking in a feminine voice; picking on me and trying to get out of the situation by turn it into a game of insults between the two of us. I took a side and understood that the case is hopeless. I pulled my boyfriend and we started walking.
The next day; almost a 100 gay guys were attending a gay party on the outskirts of Damascus when people from the police crashed the party. Some of the boys were in drag; and others had to escape from a small kitchen window in the back of the villa where the party took place. I wasn’t there, but I heard that the people (who might or might not be police; no body bothered to ask them for IDs) took pictures of everyone there; took a huge sum of money; took everyone’s mobiles; slapped the boys around for a while and left the place laughing.
I, for some reason, connected the two incidents together in my head and decided that my decision to never attend a gay party in Syria was indeed a wise one.
Danny Ramadan 