In many ways, Ahmad is the classic immigrant story.
He came to the United States three years ago, looking for opportunity, and, yes, freedom. A big part of the freedom he was searching for was the freedom to be gay.
But his story doesn't end in the classic immigrant triumph. Instead, it ends in anxiety and confusion and a loss of where to go or what to do next. Ahmad, who like the other men interviewed for this column asked not to be identified by his real name, is a gay Arab living in America in a time when Muslims and Arabs—all Muslims, all Arabs, it seems to him—are 'the enemy.'
He never imagined that here he'd feel in many ways as frightened and intimidated and isolated as he did in Egypt, where he is from. He is especially disappointed that he feels so detached from the gay community itself, the one place he thought would be his home.
Gay Arabs and Muslims in America right now are, more than ever, caught between two worlds, feeling uncomfortable in both of them. Many came here to escape oppressive governments that jailed gay people, intolerant societies that made homosexuals outcasts, or pushy families that tried to force their closeted gay sons into marriage.
But now, since Sept. 11 and in the wake of the war on Iraq—with the accompanying surge in 'patriotism' and propaganda that inevitably comes with war—Ahmad and other gay Muslims and Arabs are feeling frightened and secluded in new ways both strangely new and sadly familiar.
Ahmad says that, 'once again, my greatest fear is government.' At home, Ahmad feared a government that seemed to have an agenda against gay men. He lived in fear of being arrested and jailed.
Here, he says he lives in fear of a government that has an agenda against Arabs and Muslims. Since Sept. 11, immigrants from a list of specified countries—all either Arab or Muslim—have been required to 'register' with the government in a move that civil-rights and immigration advocates have criticized as little more than a veiled attempt to deport Arabs and Muslims already here, and discourage others from coming. Many have been detained, and even more have had deportation proceedings started against them. The vast majority of them caught in this political web are guilty of nothing more than minor visa infractions. Many are fleeing to Canada to seek asylum there.
Ahmad, whose papers are all in order, at least for now, says that registering with the government 'was scary and humiliating.' It included being fingerprinted, having his mug shot taken and filling out forms about where he will be at all times. 'It is designed to make you feel like a criminal,' he says.
Even after you pass the test of registering with the government, however, you still face the daily tests of suspicion from neighbors and colleagues, says Ahmad, who has classic Middle Eastern looks and speaks with an accent. 'Sometimes, I can just feel the eyes of people staring at me, and I can almost hear them calling me 'terrorist.''
Ahmad is amazed at the image Americans seem to have of Arabs and Muslims, one that he says is highly misinformed. He points to American television and newspaper stories and sees phrases like 'terrorist' or 'extremist' or 'fanatic' inevitably tied to them. 'I think those are the only descriptions news people know to describe us,' he says. In a way, it reminds him of how the media in Egypt describe gay people. 'They use words like perverts or devil worshippers or sex freaks when they talk about us there. The way I hear Arabs and Muslims talked about here feels equally ridiculous.'
Equally ridiculous, but in some ways more frightening, he says. In Egypt, people understand that the media is at least partly government-controlled, and so they learn to read between the lines, or look to other sources for information. 'But in America, everyone believes this is the freest country in the world so if they hear it on TV, they accept it must be true.'
Stories of discrimination and violence are rampant among Arabs and Muslims. 'People are really afraid,' says Mirwan, who is from Morocco and also came to America 'to be gay.' But, he says, 'now there is a lot more tension around being Arab and Muslim here than there was around me being gay in Morocco.' He pauses thoughtfully. 'I can hear some Americans saying if I feel that way, I should just go home. The problem is—where is home now? I don't really feel comfortable anywhere anymore.'
Even here, gay Arabs and Muslims feel torn between communities. With the atmosphere thick with anti-Arab and anti-Muslim sentiment, many have turned to their local ethnic or religious communities for support. Those communities are generally socially conservative, however, are often hostile to gay and lesbian members.
'I go to the Arab community, and I have to hide being gay,' says Ahmad, who is not out. 'But I came to America to escape that.'
Even more painful, however, is when he goes to gay bars and feels he has to hide being Arab. He often overhears other gay men saying demeaning things about Arabs and Muslims, even threatening ones. He never tells strangers he meets in a gay bar he is Arab. In fact, he and Mirwan both have come up with Americanized nicknames they use to introduce themselves in gay bars—a ritual that is a pervasive safety tool among gay Arabs.
'Sometimes I try to say I have a nickname because it is easier for Americans to understand,' says Ahmad. 'But the truth is, if I tell people my real name, they will know I am Muslim, and that just scares me right now.'
