A column of international perspectives on queer Berlin

Eight years ago, I took a plane from Cairo, not knowing if I would ever return. I left my community, my work and my roots, in hopes of finding safety in Berlin. Fast forward to 2022, and history repeats itself. The prodigal son returns to Egypt, only to find myself forced to escape again. In a time where queer visibility is glorified, where queer identities are commodified, it is important to remember the high stakes of living authentically. Telling a story can be so costly.

I need to return to Egypt. Not in a strictly physical sense, but to reflect on the experiences that made me who I am. The times of prosperity as well as the countless adversities. Yes, the situation in Egypt is bad. Going to a demonstration, a political Facebook status or dressing non-conformingly could land a person in jail. Queer people became the target of authorities in highly publicized media spectacles, in an attempt to suppress dissidence and maintain an image of a moral state. I intervened in these attacks, connecting victims to legal and psychological support. I feared I would become one of them.

In Berlin, I often encounter strangers who inquire about my reasons for leaving and the situation of queers back home. I wonder about this mindless desire to consume traumatic stories. But I like Berlin because it’s a city of exiles.

People flock to this city with diverse grounds to rebuild their lives. Berlin’s promises of freedom and rebirth are not equally accessible. Yet exile opens up new doors. Creativity flows in the city’s liminal spaces. I began to expand my art practice here, exploring new forms of writing, drag, performance and film. I was excited to be cast for a part in Shall I Compare You to A Summer Day?, an innovative, experimental film that explores the nature of gay love, relationships and eroticism. It lays a queer eye on how love stories are told through playful references to both classical and pop culture in the Arabic-speaking world. Queers from the region told me the film gave them a voice.

Coming from oppressive backgrounds can limit our narratives to violence and trauma. As if we were helpless victims waiting for a savior on a mighty horse. Our capacities for joy, love and resistance are sidelined.

The film subverts that by focusing on the internal life of queer intimacies. I was in Egypt when the film was screened at the Berlinale. I was sad to miss my red carpet moment. But the real drama started as the media in Egypt caught a whiff of the film. The story went viral. I escaped, avoiding the mounting threats. Indeed, history repeats itself, but sometimes we must make the same choices repeatedly. Certain stories have to be told.