A column of international perspectives on queer Berlin

Spots and cracks cover the building I just stepped out of. It’s hard to determine its original color before the years marked its exterior. A sentence echoes in my head, uttered by the doctor who just examined my skin: These are scars. Just scars.

My journey with skin doctors goes way back. Around the age of 15, my body started changing at a frightening pace. Hair sprung up in my armpits, chest, and groin. My voice got deeper. Acne covered my face in red spots. Nobody prepared me for this. No one advised me that the body was an ever-changing vessel. I was an introverted teen, acutely aware of the distance my sexuality created from my peers. I felt awkward in my body and withdrew further from the social sphere.

I tried several treatments but none of them seemed to work. Things got much better in my twenties, but the breakouts never stopped. My skin continued to rebel as if it was a perennial teen. In the months following my arrival in Berlin, my skin relapsed. The spots also began to creep onto my back. The first time I went to a public pool in Berlin was startling. I was struck by the silent and disciplined swimming practice, nothing compared to the upbeat playfulness of those in Egypt. Then, I noticed the skin of other bathers, largely hairless and flawless. For a period, I avoided going to queer spaces where I had to show skin. It felt like a second adolescence. I could never figure out the cause. Too many variables: the difference between German and Egyptian climates, changes in eating habits, or the chemical composition of tap water. I forgot to account for the body’s emotional life. The rift in relationships across continents. Ongoing friction with loss. The weight of making it alone in a new city. Injuries incurred by the white gaze.

Beauty standards are intimately linked to power. Diversity might be cool these days, but take a brief look at the media to see what bodies are recurringly privileged. Author Toni Morrison believed physical beauty to be one of the most destructive ideas in the history of human thought, “originated in envy, thrived in insecurity and ended in disillusion”. The world shapes how we feel about our bodies. The negative inner voice, saying we are unpretty, mirrors words from bullies, chastising parents, or the normative mainstream. Body dissatisfaction remains largely queer. In Berlin, I went to a few doctors and tried several medicines. The doctor pointing out my scars jolted me into reality. I believe in our right to modify our bodies, but I realized I was waging a war against my own skin. It was time to stop, to give it care, to notice that the same skin makes me look much younger. For that, I’d better say thanks.