Though music has always been big in the Middle East, traditional Arab music has been the most accepted. With the growing integration of the world, Arab music is receiving a shot of internationalism. Arab rap grows in popularity every year and, unlike many of the most popular American rap songs, is often a fusion of entertainment and politics. Last year, the LA Times featured an article highlighting the growing importance of rap in the Middle East:

Another day, another hardship, another inspiration for the young men and occasional woman who turn out the lyrics and rhythms that are rapidly becoming the soundtrack for Middle East youths.

From the 021 to the 961 to the 962, the telephone codes for Tehran, Lebanon and Jordan, the vernacular of American rap music and street culture has infiltrated the lives of young people. These kids of the Middle East have adopted the beats and hyperbolic boasts of hip-hop, but they’ve also reshaped rap to fit their own purposes, tapping into its spirit of defiance to voice heartfelt outrage about their societies.

Iranians rhyme about stifled lives and street-level viciousness born of economic hardship. Lebanese rap subtly about sectarian blood feuds. Palestinians sling verses about misery in refugee camps and humiliation at Israeli checkpoints. Egyptians lament the fragmentation of the Arab world.

Of course, the article notes, rhymes are not limited to politics and often include references to drugs and women. But the stage has become an important means to deliver political messages to the people in the region. Ranging from women’s rights to independence anthems, Middle Eastern rap seems to have found a political niche that is often avoided in the West. Sings Malikah, a Lebanese-woman rapper:

I am talking to you woman to woman./ It’s time to face up / It’s time to plan. / Cry out for freedom . . . / Men have decided to manage your life and destiny. / Don’t live in despair. / Go out and work and earn your dime. / Walk with me along this path.

Even overseas, Middle Eastern political rap has hit the big-time. In an article on the Middle East Channel, Joshua Asen writes about Arab Rap and the political enthusiasm he witnessed at a concert in Brooklyn, New York:

…that’s when it hit me that this new Arab League of Hip Hop all-stars has a very clear objective in mind and it’s not just to endorse or reject negotiations with Israelis, nor to criticize or valorize the actions of the U.S. government in their own backyards. Rather, their mission is to rally their own troops, the footsoldiers of their Hip Hop revolution, the millions (yes, I said millions) of young fans, Arab and otherwise, across the globe, who follow not only their music but the messages contained within.

But, unlike in the US, Middle Eastern rappers do not have complete freedom in their lyrics. The artists are often stifled by authorities who either view rap as a regenerative, corrupting force or want to suppress the messages that often urge political activism. The rap duo I-Voice is incredibly popular in the Middle East and in Europe, yet have a difficult time touring because of their status as Palestinians. The duo – originally from the Palestinian refugee camp Bourj al-Bourajni in Beirut – is welcomed in Europe, but has a difficult time traveling and performing in the Middle East because of the political status of Palestinians in Lebanon. Malikah – the Lebanese rapper – has decided not to record a political song out of fear of censorship; the Arabian Knightz (from Egypt) must be careful to avoid the censorship pen; and Fadi Abu Ghazallah, a Jordanian of Palestinian descent, had a recording destroyed by authorities because it was deemed too political.

(Although rap is not the only kind of music that is facing a tough time in the region. In Egypt, a musicians group is calling for the state to cancel a performance by Elton John because his views on homosexuality are seen as an affront to Islam. From Babylon and Beyond:

“How do we allow a gay who wants to ban religions, claimed that prophet Eissa Jesus was gay, and calls for Middle Eastern countries to allow gays to have sexual freedom,” Mounir El Wassimi, the head of the union, said Sunday.

…The 63-year-old performer recently sparked controversy when he spoke to Parade magazine in February of his belief that Jesus was gay and that all religions should be banned, adding that if a woman tries to be gay in the Middle East, she will be “as good as dead.”

Homosexuality is one of the biggest sins in Islam, which is practiced by nearly 90% of Egyptians. Despite human rights activists’ claims that homosexuality is spreading across the country, the issue remains a social and religious taboo. In 2001, 20 people received prison sentences for debauchery and obscene behavior after police raided what was described by authorities as a “gay disco” on a boat floating on the Nile in Cairo.)

Interestingly, the US has realized the political potential of rap, as the State Department sent a group of rappers on a tour of North Africa and the Middle East last year. The groups preformed in Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria, Jordan, Lebanon and Syria (though it failed to appear in Palestine).

As I walked through Washington Square park an oddly familiar smell filled
my nostrils. It was a mix of smells – warm fresh food, roasting meats,
distinctly savory herbs – not exactly curry, not really Asian, but
specific. Then it occurred to me – it smells like the bazaars in
Turkey. Had my memory manifested itself outwardly? I continued across the
park when the smell became stronger and I happened upon a few small shops
with Turkish names, and was mesmerized. I had forgotten about the market
only a few blocks from my own apartment. Next to the grocery was another
door I hadn’t ever taken much note of, but it, as well, was Turkish in its
distinction. I peered through the window and saw jars of herbs and
medicinals, incense and oils. I went inside and enveloped in the warm,
savory smells of my memory.

“Hello.” The shopkeeper greeted me in accented, but clear English. I said
hello and just turned in slow amazement at the twelve-foot high shelves
that banked every wall.

“You are here for hamam?” the shopkeeper asked me. “No, just browsing.” I
replied with my reflex response.

Hamam? A bathhouse? Did he just ask if I was here for the bathhouse? I
turned back to the old man and asked quizzically, “Excuse me, there is a
hamam here?”

I was intrigued. In Turkey I had taken the advice of an American who had
traveled many times to Turkey and told me of a number of hamams to visit
while there. Never being a “spa” person, I avoided them, but in my last
days I visited a couple and was glad of the experience. It was a relaxing,
and refreshing experience, and mercifully void of the sexual expectations
of the so-called bathhouses in the U.S.

“Yes. You would like to come to bathe?” he asked. I talked with the
shopkeeper for a while about the hamam. I was surprised that there would be
such a place in New York. We talked about my recent trip to Turkey, and I
told him how much I enjoyed the hamams I had visited there.

“Oh, I am sorry. This is much smaller. One person only. City does not allow
traditional hamam here. You make appointment for bath?” he asked.

“Yes.” I answered immediately. Perhaps my eagerness to recapture some of my
recent memories overcame me.

I followed the old man to the counter, and he opened a large tapestry
book. “Today?” he asked.

“Sure.” My eagerness was jumping in my throat. “What time?”

The old man looked across the page of the book studiously, then looked
disappointed. “Today only at 8:30 p.m. Last time of the day, though!”
expressing that last point as a bonus.

“Sounds great.” I replied and bounded out of the store.

Around 8:20 I entered the store again as a man in his 40’s swept the
store. “We close in 10 minutes.” He announced to me.

Slightly confused, I told him I had made an appointment for 8:30 for the
hamam.

“Oh yes! Of course. Please come in.” he waved me in. “We close the shop at
8:30, but during the last appointment of the day, I am able to clean and be
home by 9.” He smiled his crooked smile at me and nodded.

“This way please.” He smiled, ushered me into a small, but beautifully
appointed room, and handed me a pair of thin-soled rubber slippers. “Please
hang clothes there, towels are on the table.” I nodded and thanked him,
and left me.

The room was as luxurious as anything I’d ever seen in Turkey. Perhaps a
little overdone for the Americans, but still it was nice to sit on such
amazing silk cushions. I removed my clothes, wrapped the small linen towel
around my waist, and put on the slippers. I stood up and caught sight of
myself in the mirror. My time in Turkey had done wonders for my physique,
and broke me of the habit of shaving my body hair. I ran my hands over my
now hairy chest and absently stroked a nipple. I liked my body as it
was. Now much more muscular, having walked all over Istanbul for a couple
months and regular trips to the gym, I actually had the flat stomach and
tight rear end that I had at 22, even though I would celebrate my 40th
birthday in less than a month. Just then a tall, thin, younger man in a
breezy white cotton tunic came to my door. “Hello, I am Amir. Time for
steam!” he announced.

I followed him down the corridor to a white tiled steam room approximately
the size of a New York kitchen. A pale golden light filled the room and I
could make out two other figures among the curls of steam. The dark, olive
skin and hairy bodies gave testament to their Turkish roots. They sat on
opposite sides of the room, so I attempted to sit an equal distance from
each in the middle. As they had forsaken their towels, I did as well,
folding mine up and sitting on it like a mat.

I began to give myself to the swirling steam. It was gently scented of
sandalwood gave the room a distinctly male scent – both relaxing and
invigorating at the same time. The man on the right stood up, stretched and
lay out on the warm tile, with his arms folded behind this head. I admired
his thick, muscled body, and the opportunity that he provided me to admire
him. Realizing my own nakedness, I decided it would be best for me not to
ogle him, as my arousal would be much too visible, and I wouldn’t want to
offend anyone.

I opened my eyes again as my young guide Amir entered the room. He handed
me a large white, terry robe that seemed to be fresh from the oven. “Put
this on, so you won’t be cold.” He said, as he helped me into the layers of
warm cotton. “Come with me please.” He instructed, and I followed. As I
passed the man on the right who I’d been admiring, I noticed a very large
erection protruding from between his legs, with no attempt to cover
himself. Perhaps, I had been too hasty in assuming they were easily
offended.

Amir walked me into a very heated, lowly lit room, with the familiar stone
table in the middle – the rotundas of the hamams in Turkey, but obviously
much smaller. The room was beautiful – richly detailed cobalt and ivory
mosaics filled the walls, granite fountains on all sides – perfect in it’s
beautiful symmetry and detail.

“Bathing and massage?” Amir inquired.

“Yes, I suppose so.” I responded. I didn’t recall what I asked for before,
but I didn’t care. I was enthralled with my new discovery, and wouldn’t let
costs worry me.

“Please, on the table.” Amir directed me. He lifted the robe off of my
shoulders, and I realized I left my towel in the steam room. I hoped he
would offer me a new one, but he simply gestured me onto the table. I
approached the stone table, and he spread out a towel on the stone, and I
crawled naked atop the table and lay on my stomach. The stone was perfectly
heated. Amir walked around toward my head, and slipped a thick, round piece
of plastic coated soft foam under my head. I turned my head to the left,
and laid my arms at my sides. On the other side of the room, Amir lifted
his long white tunic revealing his beautiful hairy young body, wearing
nothing underneath. He took a linen towel from the shelf by his workstation
and wrapped it deftly around his waist. He reached up and turned on soft
Turkish music in the background.

“You have been to hamam in Turkey, yes?” he asked. “Yes, I really enjoyed
it.” I answered.

“You have special Turkish massage and bath today.” He smiled at me and
turned to the faucet near the side of the stone. He began to pour hot water
on the stone around me, then across my body – not scalding, but perfectly
heated. Again, somehow relaxing and invigorating.

“You don’t have a towel!” he exclaimed. “I get one for you.” “No,” I
protested, “It isn’t necessary.” I didn’t want him to have to do anything
special for me. “Oh, is okay for you then?” he asked. “Really, it’s
fine. Not to worry.” I assured him. I had to admit, I never really
understood the illusion of modesty presented by the thin, Turkish linen
towels. The bather and the bathee wore these thin cotton towels that hung
no more than a few inches past the edge of your butt cheeks, and ended up
soaking in the end, but it was somehow part of the modest custom. Amir
smiled and returned to soaking the table and me in steaming water.

We walked over to his workstation and unwrapped a cake of sandalwood
soap. He ran dipped it in the basin of hot water and began to lather it in
his hands. He began soaping my feet, massaging the weary soles and ankles
with his strong hands, working the soap in perfect circles around my
skin. He bent my knees up and massaged my calf and shins. First the right,
then the left. I could hear him hum quietly as he systematically worked the
tension out of every pore of my body. He moved his way above my knees to my
thighs, and slid his hand between then, gently pushing them apart. I
obliged and opened my legs to his command, and he began soaping and
massaging my now tensing thighs.

As he reached under my thighs, I worried that he would touch, or catch
sight of my growing erection. The movement of his hands was swift, and he
never managed to touch it, but as he lowered each thigh I winced slightly
as my weight forced my increasingly aroused cock was forced into the marble
below.

His work on, and between my asscheeks nearly sent me through the roof. I
don’t believe that he was aware of the effect he was having, but his hands
gave a slow, and delicious torture. By the time he worked his way to my
shoulders, my throbbing erection had managed to subside enough that could
enjoy the view of his cock swinging clearly under the thin, now soaked
linen towel. As he leaned over me to scrub my shoulders his weighty cock
and balls swung loosely below his towel. It was all I could do to keep my
hands to myself.

He then climbed onto the table with me and began to scrub my soaped body
with the familiar coarse brush used in every hamam. Usually the rough
scouring would be enough to end any sort of sexual appetite I had, but his
hot wet body next to mine, the hard scrubbing and rhythmic sway of our
bodies, kept my libido throbbing like a bass drum. I could hear him
panting softly as he scrubbed away at my back and ass. I knew then that he
was getting into the heat of the moment as much as I, as he straddled my
waist facing toward my feet as he scrubbed my legs. With every lurch he
made forward to scour my thighs, I raised my ass slightly to make contact
with his dangling balls. He moved down slightly to scrub my feet and
ankles, and left his monstrous ballsac sliding between my thighs, making
contact with my own aching balls, and throbbing cock beneath me. His wet,
hairy ass rubbed in tandem with mine, I was being teased into near sexual
ecstasy.

Swiftly, he jumped from the table and began to pour the warm water across
me to rinse me off. He put his washing cup back on the table and turned to
me and said only “Turn.”

I could see his excitement beginning to swell beneath his wet, disheveled
towel, as I turned onto my back, my own cock slapping my hairy belly with a
loud, wet “thwack.” If he were to be embarrassed or angered at my flagrant
sexual overture, aggressively forbidden in a traditional Turkish hamam,
this would be the time. But I didn’t care, I wanted him, and I was sure
that he wanted me too.

He turned back, and saw my throbbing manhood. He said nothing, but smiled
at me. He grabbed the soap again, and began to wash my chest and shoulders
down. He worked his way down my chest and body to my pubic region. He
skillfully began to massage around the base of my cock, and softly kneaded
my dangling nuts. He began to wash my cock slowly – sliding the foreskin up
and down the pulsing shaft. With one hand the pulled down firmly on my
ample foreskin, and wrapped the other around the bulbous purple head and
stroked it with this soap-lubed hand.

He backed off of my cock in the nick of time, and reached for the
scrubbing brush. He climbed back onto the table and straddled my thighs. He
lifted his wet towel, and draped it like a tent over my own aching
cock. His own cock landed like a weight on mine, and he began to grind my
crotch as he scrubbed my chest and arms. His monstrous cock was hardening
with every stroke. Slid my hands up to his thighs in a daring move toward
his supple ass. He reached back and rinsed off my clean scrubbed chest and
reached for a bottle of sesame oil. He raised off of me, and began to pour
warm, sweet scented oil over my body. His strong, playful fingers danced
across my tingling flesh. He then straddled me again, leaned forward and
plunged his forceful tongue into my hot mouth. We sucked each other’s
tongues while our cocks seemed to wrestle beneath us. He let forth a
muffled moan and my hand reached under his towel and grasped his enormous
cock. At least 10 inches long, and so thick I could barely close my hand
around it, it was on of the finest pieces of man meat I had ever had the
pleasure to behold. He raised up, and began to pour more warm oil on my
waiting cock. He wrapped his glistening hands around his and seemed to take
great delight in the play of my foreskin.

After several moments of torturous handwork, he raised himself over me, and
then lowered his tight ass down onto my dick. Skillfully, and patiently, he
accepted every inch of my pulsing prick. Slowly, I began to reciprocate
with inward strokes of my own. Eventually he was taking all 8 inches of my
meat without any effort. With every down stroke his own cock would slide
across my oil slicked belly and he would pant an appreciative note. We were
in perfect rhythm. We rolled among the steam, and oil and wetness. As the
tempo began to accelerate, he ripped off his linen towel and I grasped his
gargantuan cock in both my hands and pumped him in tandem with my every
stroke. Soon the familiar change in breath signaled that we were both ready
for much deserved release.

“The army practices an inclusionary policy,” said Yagil Levy, an expert on the army and society and a professor at the Open University. “It doesn’t have any options to exclude any Jewish group that wishes to join.”

Once Kaplan was accepted into the Israeli navy, he faced a further interview to determine his security clearance level. “The interviewer started asking me a lot of questions about whether I had come out to my family and friends,” he said. “He basically wanted to know if my being gay was something that could be used to blackmail me. But it really wasn’t such a big deal.”
Israeli soldiers near the West Bank town of Burin on Jan. 29, 2010

Kaplan ended up in one of the navy’s most elite units, where he served as a drill sergeant for incoming mechanics. He said that while he was a little less open about his sexual orientation with recruits than he was with his commanders, he never encountered homophobia during his three years in the Israeli military .

In light of that experience, Kaplan, who now works in theater design in New York, finds the current U.S. policy of “don’t ask, don’t tell” ridiculous.

“It’s a reminder of how America still has so many racial and other issues going on,” he said in a phone interview. “It makes me really proud of Israel. I think Israeli society is much less homophobic than other countries.”

The right to be openly gay has been acknowledged in the Israeli military since 1993, and there is little evidence that policy has caused any problems. Even beyond the army, Israeli law is generally progressive on issues of sexual orientation. Even though marriage is controlled by the ultra-Orthodox rabbinic establishment, Israeli authorities recognize same-sex marriages performed abroad, and same-sex partners receive the same economic benefits as married couples.

“Out” magazine has named Tel Aviv the gay capital of the Middle East in acknowledgment of its thriving gay culture.

Military expert Levy said the editor of the primary army newspaper, Bamachane, is openly gay. He estimates the percentage of gay soldiers at 10 percent in general and somewhat less in field units.

Former soldier Kaplan said certain intelligence and naval units were known for having a large proportion of gay soldiers.

‘Haram Iran’,  written by Chicago attorney and human rights advocate Jay Paul Deratany, made its debut in the Chicago theater district in 2008.  Now it moves to the west coast,  making its premier there this March 2010 at the Celebration Theater in Los Angeles.

The play,  based on the true story of two youths arrested for the ‘crimes’ of homosexuality and sodomy in Tehran, Iran, in 2005,  not only illuminates the bigotry which still exists in such horrific form in 21st century Iran,  but serves as a warning that we must remain vigilant always against the eruption of the residual darkness which lay slumbering in the human heart.

Deratany,  a personal injury attorney in Chicago, specializing in the rights of birth injured children and their families , is currently representing the Duckett family in the high-profile pending suit against CNN’s Nancy Grace.  He has also taken on –  pro bono –  the case of a New York mother and her gay teen son  (Rhonda and Michael Mangus of North Tonawanda,  Niagara County, New York)  involving anti-gay school bullying and death threats,  which has moved to the Appellate Division of the Supreme Court of New York.

Haram Iran depicts beautifully just how the anti-gay bias –  in particular, the deadly and irrational hatred of the gay male sexual act  -  still maintains its harbor in the Islamic middle East,  and sits enthroned there,  ready to give the clarion call to those in postmodern democratic nations such as the Untied States who maintain this pernicious and secret malevolence in the subsoil of the culture,  ever ready to spring to new action.

Jay Paul Deratany has written poignantly,  and his play is a call to vigilance.  His work was lauded by the Campaign for Human Rights in Washington , DC, and should be hailed as a symbolic piece of global import for the new century dawning.

From Chicago,  to Los Angeles and New York,  and with luck,  eventually up to Provincetown and Boston ,  ’Haram Iran’ is a beacon of light against much of our current political and cultural darkness.

Watch ‘Haram Iran’ preview on YouTube:

Part of the fascination surrounding transsexuals in Turkey is undoubtedly related to the sense of unease they generate in the morally and existentially loaded realms of sexuality and gender identity. In a society that prizes masculinity and places severe taboos on the expression of female sexuality, they parade an aggressively overblown feminine style and generally inhabit a shadowy underworld of entertainers and prostitutes. They inevitably raise questions about the sexual inclinations of their clientele since they tend to command considerably higher prices than their genetically female counterparts. They are also the unsettling harbingers of a new urban scene; the mega-metropolis where everything is on display and for sale, a new arena where the landscapes and, especially, the nightscapes of Istanbul, Rio, New York and Bangkok may become indistinct and shade into one another. Indeed, transsexuals appear to inhabit a social space where the influences of the local and the global meet and merge in varied and unpredictable ways. They are, on the one hand, subject to the legal regulations of the Turkish state and are monitored and often harassed by the forces of order. They are members of a self-conscious local subculture that has evolved its own coded vocabulary.3 On the other hand, they participate in a broader circulation of people, fashions and ideas–in an international market for sex-change surgery, for jobs in European clubs and in the international gay movement’s networks of political solidarity.

Recent legislation that made sex change surgery lawful in Turkey was based on the precedent of B&uumllent Ersoy, a popular singer who applied to the courts for legal recognition of his identity as a woman following a sex-change operation in London. The new article–added to the 29th clause of the Turkish Civil Code in 1988–stated that “In cases where there has been a change of sex after birth documented by a report from a committee of medical experts, the necessary amendments are made to the birth certificate.”4 This outcome ended a lengthy legal battle dating from 1981 when the military regime adopted a particularly uncompromising stance on any form of what it regarded as social deviance.5 There is now an established medical-legal procedure that culminates in the award of a pink identity card (to replace the blue identity card held by men) which confers on its holder the full legal status of a woman. Despite these changes, the fact that medical and legal preconditions for sex-change surgery have not been fully worked out creates areas of uncertainty and the potential for medical malpractice. Sahika Yuksel, a psychiatrist with extensive experience in psychotherapy with transsexuals, has made a strong plea for the full legalization of sex-change surgery, because illegality encourages unscrupulous forms of medical intervention for profit, compounding the difficulties of an already stigmatized group.6

The foothold of transsexuals in urban space is precarious. They are subject to frequent clamp downs by the police. In the summer of 1995, the back streets behind Taksim Square presented the appearance of a fairly settled community. Police raids had an almost ritualistic feel suggesting a well-established routine of protection and payoffs. A year later, when Istanbul hosted the United Nations Habitat II conference in the luxury hotels surrounding Taksim, transsexuals bore the brunt of the massive “cleanup” operation that preceded the event. Transsexuals–evicted en masse from the back streets of Taksim and dispersed throughout the city–kept in touch through the clubs, hairdressers and cafes they frequent. Few are politicized and prepared to fight for their rights. Militants like Demet Demir, a member of the Human Rights Association, have been struggling to find a voice through the Association of Sexual Rights and Liberties, a fragile coalition of gay and feminist activists. Many male gays accuse the transsexuals of riding the sexual liberties bandwagon only as a means of gaining more freedom as prostitutes. Some transsexual activists, on the other hand, consider themselves to be feminists and progressives.

The transnational nature of transsexual networks is apparent on many levels. The search for sex-change surgery takes transsexuals from the Philippines to Istanbul, where operations are cheaper, while more affluent Turkish transsexuals travel to London as their preferred destination. Those who are able to find jobs in European clubs are thoroughly cosmopolitan. News about new clubs, better surgeons, television programs and magazines travels fast.7 Role models for fame and achievement include local idols like B&uumllent Ersoy but also extend to the West as in the case of the fashion model Tula, who is held up as the epitome of success. There is a sense in which the dreams and materialistic aspirations of some for a fast-track to fame and fortune capture the cultural mood of post-1980s Turkey to an uncanny degree, while others include themselves in a broader search for identity and legitimacy that reaches beyond Turkey. The fact that Demet Demir was recently offered an award by the International Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Commission confirms this latter tendency. There will undoubtedly be many more troubled chapters in the history of Turkish transsexuals and these will be narrated by the members of this increasingly articulate community themselves.

Endnotes

1 Tim Kelsey, Dervish: The Invention of Modern Turkey, (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1996).

2 &Oumlzdilek, “Muazzam bir escinsel k&uumllt&uumlr, sanat ve ge&ccedilmis,” Kim 47 (February, 1996), pp. 98-101.

3 This vocabulary is claimed to be based on gypsy dialect with traces of Spanish, Latin and possibly Armenian. The word lubinya is used as a self designation by transsexuals but they are more commonly referred to by others as travesti or d&oumlnme.

4 Amendment to the 29th Clause of Law no. 743, Turkish Civil Code, May 12, 1988.

5 Ilmi ve Kazai I&ccediltihatlar Dergisi 22/253 (January, 1982), pp. 911-13 provides the details of a ruling stating that the decision of whether the complainant, who merely has the appearance of a woman, really is a woman is a medical matter. The complainant’s appeal was therefore rejected on the grounds that further medical examinations were necessary. Two dissenting opinions to this ruling were recorded noting that there could be no question of a sex change for someone who had lived as a male beyond puberty. Interestingly, a June 1988 fatwa issued in Egypt by the Mufti of the Republic on the question of Sayid ‘Abd Allah, alias Sally, who had also undergone a sex-change operation concluded that the operation could only be justified on medical grounds, although the debate that followed condemned such deviations in gender identity as abominations. Jakob Skovgaard-Petersen, “Never Change Your Sex in Cairo,” paper presented at the workshop on “Cases and Contexts in Islamic Law,” December 3-4, 1994, Ann Arbor, Michigan.

6 Sakiha Y&uumlksel, Cumhuriyet, February 13, 1988, p. 2. An article titled “Butcher of Travestis” in the popular weekly Akt&uumlel 202 (1995) revealed that some transsexuals were subjected to castration rather than vaginal reconstruction and that operations were performed under local anaesthesia in hurried and unhygienic conditions. The victims refer to themselves as duvar (literally meaning walls) and consider their sexuality as irreversibly blighted.

7 I was surprised, for instance, to be asked for back copies of Roses, a Manchester-based transsexual magazine, even though few could read or speak English.

For “security reasons,” New York police ordered the crowd of 30 or so demonstrators to move away from the steps in front of the gray, concrete building where the Egyptian consulate is housed. On that early May weekend the New York demonstrators in Washington, London, Toronto, Montreal, Paris, and Berlin were marching in front of Egyptian consulates and embassies. The protests, organized by Amnesty International and Al Fatiha, a gay and lesbian Muslim organization, marked the second anniversary of an Egyptian police raid on a floating disco on the Nile, the Queen Boat, frequented by gay men. The May 11, 2001 early morning raid resulted in the arrest and subsequent trial of 52 men suspected of being gay.

The Queen Boat incident won international attention, thanks to outside pressure, including that of Amnesty International activists. Even Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak took note.

Less well known, however, is that ever since the Queen Boat affair, Egyptian authorities have mounted a sustained attack against gay men and what was once an emerging gay community. “The raid marked the beginning of a two-year public campaign of harassment, intimidation, and detention of those perceived to be gay,” said Michael Heflin, director of AIUSA’s OUTfront Program. “Beyond those originally arrested, scores have faced police surveillance, entrapment, drawn out trials, and long periods of detention. Some were rejected by their friends and family, lost their jobs, or were tortured. All were subjected to profound public humiliation, often in the Egyptian media.”

Just back from Egypt, where he spent three months documenting the abuse of gay men, Scott Long of Human Rights Watch took the megaphone and told a chilling story of how the police tortured and killed one young gay man and then, in a transparent attempt to make the death look like a suicide, threw his body off a building.

There are no hard figures, but Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch estimate that in the past two years, police have arrested up to 200 men for “debauchery,” the official codeword for homosexuality. Not all meet such a horrible ending as torture and death, but it is fair to say that most of their lives are shredded by the stigma of being gay in Egypt.

At the rally, I picked up a sign in red, hand-drawn letters, saying “Stop Torture.” The group walked in a circle as a woman with a pink triangle on her black T-shirt led us in chants she shouted through a megaphone. I used both hands to direct my sign toward the men in suits and women in head scarves who peered from the consulate offices on the second and third floors of the consulate.

As I walked, I thought of “Ahmad,” one of many young gay Egyptian men I met while on assignment in Egypt for three weeks last December.

Ahmad worked at his family business on the outskirts of Cairo, hauling and selling coal. He came from a very conservative family. His mother and three sisters cover their heads with the traditional Muslim scarves. His brother studied at Cairo’s premier Muslim university. Ahmad himself prays five times a day.

And yet he was not torn between his religion and his sexuality. He had found a way, as many spiritual people of any faith do, to bridge the gap between the teachings of his religion and his sexual identity. What Ahmad struggled with was not religion, but loneliness and fear.

There was a time, he told me, when he had been able to escape the strict bounds of his family life and go into Cairo to be in the company of men like himself. He recalled visiting the Queen Boat, before it was raided. It was “incredible” he said, as was the sense of community. There were private parties so large “you would have thought all of Cairo was gay.”

These were havens for Ahmad not because, as Egyptian authorities have said, they featured public sex and devil-worshiping. These were havens because gay men could come together and meet and socialize and even talk about building their own movement, making their own place in Egyptian society—something that the government might well have found more threatening than devil-worship.

But in the past two years, all of that has essentially vanished.

Today, Ahmad lives in near-isolation from other gay men, fearing that if he is found out, he will be arrested, his family shamed, and his life ruined. He is lonely enough that he risks the occasional walk along segments of the Nile where gay men still dare to venture in hope of finding one another.

But, he told me, he feels gay life is over in Egypt. He has no hopes of ever finding anyone to love. He dreams of leaving the country, but cannot afford it. And so he is stuck in Egypt and trapped by fear and loneliness.

That is why I went to the New York rally, and that is why it is so important that we tell the Egyptian government that what it is doing is intolerable. It is especially important for Americans to speak out because Cairo receives Washington’s second largest foreign aid package. We need to tell our own representatives that it is unacceptable to continue to support a government that practices such blatant human rights violations against gay men. But there is more we as Americans, and as gay people, can and must do. Many of my fellow gay Arabs come to this country specifically for the freedom to be gay, something they would never have at home. Yet I know that many of my fellow gay Arabs have been made unwelcome by gay Americans since September 11 cast suspicion on all Arabs. That must stop.

I know also that this is a difficult time for every Arab in the United States. We’ve all lived in fear and under suspicion since Sept. 11. But my fellow Arabs must stop trying to tell gay and lesbian members of our community that this is not the time for gay issues. Now more than ever is the time for fair-minded Arabs in America to embrace their gay and lesbian members and to stop forcing us into a lie of invisibility.

And we in America who are gay and who are Arab have a responsibility to speak up and to counter the worst of all lies spread by our enemies both here and abroad: that we as gay Arabs do not exist.

It’s Saturday night, and Sami is feeling the Middle Eastern dance tracks of DJ I.Z.’s set at Habibi. Upstairs at the Stonewall Inn for the monthly roaming party, he pushes through a thicket of men and hits the makeshift dance floor, where he and an Egyptian friend break into freestyle belly dancing. A gay Muslim Moroccan, Sami loves Arabic pop music but rarely gets to dance to it.

But Sami (like most of the people in this article, he requested that his real name be withheld) does go dancing often. Sure, he frequents Splash, Therapy, and other homo hot spots, where the Habibi devotees blend into the city’s multicultural stew pot. Yes, they arrive from diverse—and sometimes harrowing—backgrounds. And yes, they’ve experienced various degrees of anti-Arab fallout from September 11—but most remain closeted to some degree, and once in a while, they just want to hang with their homies.

Finding other gay Arabs wasn’t always so easy. In the early ’90s, Jennifer Camper, a first-generation Lebanese-American, sought out other lesbian Arabs. The first she met ominously whispered: “I have a list of seven names.” At that time, few Arab immigrants self-identified as gay; finding them in the pre-Internet age posed a challenge, since there was no official lesbian social group, like Assal for women, or places like Habibi.

What did exist was a local branch of the national Gay & Lesbian Arab Society (GLAS). The group met twice monthly at the LGBT Community Center. Immigrants were terrified to attend their first GLAS meetings, lest someone see them and tell their family. Even today, Arab families—the primary, all-important social unit—place immense pressure on their children to marry. It’s still common for gay Arabs to do so, then take an out-of-town job while sending money back home. Those who are able to attend college abroad enjoy a reprieve—but once back home, they face an arranged marriage.

Politics and religion exert more pressure to stay in the closet. In most Arab countries, homosexuality is not only illegal, but the penalties for it are also harsh—including torture and death. The infamous “Cairo 52″ were arrested by police who broke up a boat party on the Nile River in 2001; the men were beaten, exposed, publicly humiliated, and imprisoned for up to five years. In Islamic-fundamentalist nations like Iran, gay men are allegedly hanged.

Although Islam remains the dominant religion in the Middle East, it accounts for only half of our Arab immigrants. Most others are Christian, with a smattering of Jews. “A lot of people not from the Arab community don’t understand the large role religion and ethnicity play in the typical Middle Easterner,” says current GLAS president Nadeem, himself an Iraqi immigrant. That’s why the group employs a rule: No religious or political discussions. For GLAS members struggling to reconcile their religion and sexuality and requiring additional guidance from their peers, the organization directs them to specialized support networks like the gay Muslim group Al-Fatiha and the gay Catholic group Dignity.

Even within those very strict boundaries, the meetings could become unexpectedly emotional and therapeutic. Nadeem recounts leading a gay discussion group a few years back. Thinking it’d be a neat icebreaker, he asked the guys to describe—without going into graphic detail—their first same-sex encounter and what made it special. “About 10 people were in the discussion,” he recalls, “and for three of them, their first experience was being raped. I was like: ‘Whoa, OK—I guess we’ll have to talk about this.’ ”

In 2005, GLAS discontinued its meetings. By then, the women had splintered into Assal, and most men socialized at Habibi. But another demographic was making itself known in the gay Arab-American world: “hummus queens”— gay men attracted to Arabs. Not that all hummus queens were on the make: One attended to seek advice on how to help his closeted Arab partners come out.

The real death knell for GLAS meetings was the Internet, which offered anonymity, safety, and thousands of friends. A local LGBT Arab online forum thrives on Yahoo (subscribers can join at glas.org); discussions range from the struggles of coming out and the newbies in town to relevant entertainment—such as the first gay Arab film, Toul Omri (All My Life).

Even in the Internet age, a savvier new breed of immigrants must deal with violence from the old country and family pressures.

Kamar, a Lebanese immigrant from a liberal family, effortlessly assimilated into American culture. When he settled in New York, he didn’t care to cultivate friendships with other Arabs—yet he recalls being afraid to come out to his parents because of a childhood incident in his native Beirut. He, a brother, and his mom were walking outside when gunfire erupted: “She threw us into a corner and shielded us with her body, so if a bullet came it would hit her instead of us,” he recalls. “I can remember every detail of that day—her dress, everything. My mom was willing to die for me. I couldn’t come out to her. I didn’t want to upset her. How could I?”

He monopolizes me.

I gave him control of my daily life. We live in monotony. The monotony of love. The monotony
of him and me at his place: a Parisian apartment.

I am with him, I love him, I have no choice. I exist in France only because of him, only because
he cares for me. I am his boy, his love, his lover. He is my master.

I adore his name: Marlon! Like Marlon Brando. I love calling out: “Marlon, Marlon, Marlon,
come to me… Marlon Marlon Marlon take me with you… in you…”

He is American. From New York.

I am Moroccan, from Rabat, the capital. I don’t speak English very well, I make mistakes all the
time. In my country I have learnt French as a foreign language. I came to Paris to finish my
Doctorat in French literature at the Sorbonne. But then I met Marlon. Everything changed. I am
not me.

Now I learn English, alone, everyday. I want to tell Marlon everything about me, my feelings, my
country, my home town, my body, my skin… I want to be capable to understand all his words. He
is from another world- a world far away. I was prepared to live only in the Arab and French
worlds. I have never dreamt of myself in America. America came to me, two weeks before I left
Morocco.

I was at the Oudaya Castle in Rabat. Alone. Sad. I was drinking tea with mint at the famous Café
Maure. I was thinking of my mother M’Barka: she didn’t want me to leave Morocco. She had her
plans about my future life, about my job, my house, and even about my wife and my children. I
love M’Barka. I read somewhere that to be an adult one must be far as possible from one’s
mother. I always thought of myself as a child. Somebody else’s child. First M’Barka’s. And now
Marlon’s.

I am Marlon’s child. I like to repeat this to convince myself that it’s true. The repetition keeps me
feeling secure. Marlon loves me and protects me. He swore that he would never leave me. He
took the first step in my direction. He simply asked me: “At what time will the café Maure
close?” I looked at him: a man, a real man, big, so big, giant, white, bleu eyes, black hair, no
moustache. I looked at him for a long moment. He asked me again: “At what time will this café
close? Do you speak English?” I understood the second part of his question. I had the answer, a
little one. “No!”

“Et le francais? Tu parles le francais?”

Thank God! He could speak French, not fluently but with a charming and virile accent.

“I am American. I have lived in Paris since last year. It’s my first time in Morocco, in Rabat. I
like this town. Can I join you?”

Little sentences told with a big and warm voice. I was completely fascinated with him. He spoke
to me naturally. He expressed what he wanted easily. He liked me, but he didn’t say it with
words. His eyes, his hands, his head approaching mine did.

“ – Yes, you can join me… with pleasure!
- Are you from Rabat?
- Yes, I am… Do you want mint tea like me?
- Yes. Why don’t you speak English?
- Oh! I have learnt it at the Lycee, but I have forgotten everything… everything. Now I am
concentrating my whole energy only on French… because I am going to Paris.
- Good! In Paris you should start learning English again… seriously… you’ll need it, I’m
sure!
- With who?
- With me… only with me!”

He seemed serious. Somehow I was already in love with him.

He liked the Moroccan tea.

“ – You know, I suppose, how to prepare this kind of tea?
- No.
- You should ask your mother how to make it, because I really like it and I want you to
prepare it for me… in Paris.
- I will ask her before my coming to Paris… I promise…
- Good boy! A great future is waiting for you in Paris.
- With you?
- Yes, with me! Only…
- … with you!”

Two years later, here I am in Paris, la Ville des Lumieres. The apartment of Marlon is typically
bourgeois-parisien. It is at Saint-Germain, near a lot of well-known publishing houses, le Seuil,
Actes Sud, Stock… Every time he enters this apartment, he finds me waiting for him, my heart
and my head pounding as the first time I saw him. I run to him, saying always, like Nina
Simone, the same phrase: “ Hi you! I’m here for you… I’m completely yours!’

I do all I have to do before his return at 7:00 pm. I prepare his favorite tagines and arrange
everything in the apartment. Everything clean, in its place. He is happier that way. So we can
eat Moroccan food, drink mint tea and make love for a long time in peace. No clouds on the
horizon. I don’t like him angry: I’m scared when he gives me a bad look sometimes, I don’t
know what to do, what to say, I forget even the few English words I could use to defend myself.
But I won’t. I want him happy, satisfied, in love with me all the time.

Yes, Nina Simone, I am completely his thing. You are the only person with whom I can speak
clearly about my love, without shame, without regrets. I am his slave in the name of love. Your
songs, Nina, talk about this, you understand me, that’s why I love you. One day, when I can
read English easily, I will buy your autobiography, I PUT A SPELL ON YOU. I don’t want to
read it n French. I prefer to meet your life with your own words, own rhythm, inspiration and
voice. Marlon offered me your records soon after I moved in. He said, I still remember his
words exactly: “This Grande Dame is for you, one day you’ll understand why…” He was right.
He gave me his love and a confident, you, in the same time. Very generous, wasn’t it? “Tell me
more, and more and then some” was the first song of yours we heard together, in the bedroom,
our bodies joined, inseparable, after lovemaking.

“ – Tell me… you… your life in America!
- Me?
- Yes, you, like Nina Simone singing her days, her story, her History.
- It will take much more time than you think…
- I have all my life just to hear you, to discover your American Life.”

It’s always like this: romantic! I want it to stay romantic. No war between us, no disagreements,
just love. Just him and me in Paris.

He told me about his life. It was brief. I didn’t understand all his words.

Born in Boston. A Political Science Major from NYU. Job in The United Nations, in NYC too.
No brothers, no sisters. Mother and father dead. Alone in the world, as he says when he is sad.
One big love affair with… a woman: he was 26 years old, they have lived together for 10 years.
Now he is 40 and I am his first gay love. He has always liked sport, jazz and cinema. He didn’t
have a lot of friends in New York (same situation in Paris!). He could live anywhere, no
problem for him, even, one day, in Morocco. He is not gay. He is in love with a boy. There is a
difference, of course.

That’s all I know about Marlon. He is very mysterious. Maybe he is a spy, a dangerous double
agent. He laughed at me when I told him about these bad ideas. He laughed from the bottom of
his heart. He is irresistible… Big… So present in my eyes… He filled a void inside me. I met
him in Rabat. In my mind we are still there drinking our first Moroccan tea, discovering each
other and looking for a cheap hotel in the old city, the Medina, where we could make love
intensely, a place where to offer myself to him, my body, my soul and to go completely naked
inside him.

Yesterday he surprised me again.

“I want you to teach me Arabic… I want to hear your voice in Arabic…”

A great proof of his love! I accepted, I will be his professor.

We start today September 11. The first lesson.

ABDELLAH TAIA

Bahati, during an interview today in Kampala said that he tabled the bill in good faith but the bad elements who are misinforming the world about it are making him look like someone who enjoys seeing people killed “over small issues”.

“Pro-gays comments about the anti gay bill which I tabled in parliament is confusing donors and the whole world at large. They use media houses like CNN, BBC, and New York times to distort facts,” said Bahati.

He also said that in order to make the bill look very bad they are concentrating on negatively commenting on proposed death penalty.

“The pro-gays have made the world believe that whoever will be found guilty of getting involved in homosexuality will be sentenced to death. No. Only when an adult forces a child or someone under the age of 18 into homosexuality, that is where death penalty should apply,” he continued.

According to him, he has the support of most Members of Parliament and they are collectively pushing on the bill. He said he can not withdraw the bill as some government officials are considering to request him to do.

Ever since the anti-gay bill was tabled in Uganda parliament towards the end of last year, there has been international outcry over its brutality especially the proposed death penalty in it.

That has led government officials considering the option of having the bill withdrawn.

“Steam The Turkish Bath” is the first in a trilogy of films by Director Ferzan Ozpetek in which he brilliantly explores the sub-rosa aspect of the lives of his characters. “Steam The Turkish Bath” is followed by “His Secret Life” and finally “Saturn In Opposition”. All three films are highly recommended.

Synopsis:

An Italian designer journeys to Istanbul in order to sell off a hamam (a traditional men’s steam bath) he has inherited from a deceased aunt, but he soon falls under the establishment’s exotic, and erotic, spell. Ferzan Ozpetek’s elegant direction embraces the situation’s inherent sensuality yet steers clear of sensationalism. His meticulous attention to the details of Turkish daily life-especially the preparation and serving of food-and to the nonverbal interaction of people from disparate cultures enriches an unusual story of spiritual transformation.
~ James M Keller The New Yorker (New York, NY, United States)

Independent Review:

“One of the finest love stories”

This movie is one of the most eloquent, elegant love stories to come along in years. I cannot reccomend this film highly enough, not only to gay viewers,especially younger people who should see that there is more to life than cheap sex and dancemusic, but to straight people as well. The film is as much the tale of Marta’s awakeing as it is about Francesco’s. He is healed and transformed by Mehmet’s love and his adoption of his Aunt’s vision of life. Marta in fact is really almost the central character as she is almost transformed into the reincarnation of Francesco’s dead Aunt (whose letters set the whole plot in motion and transform both her nephew’s life and the lives of all around him: Marta, Mehmet)The soundtrack is one of the most sensual and evocative to come round in ages and is a must have! Buy or at least rent this hopeful, sad, subtle little knife of a film and you’ll find yourself wanting to see Istanbul itself next….
~ David G. Cercone (Washington, DC, United States)

Independent Review:

” A great film about happiness!,”

This is a wonderful film about happiness and love. Finding your true place in life physically as well as emotionally is the theme. Everything is beautiful about this movie, the people, the love between the two men and the between the family and Francesco. Great performances by the cast, especially Alessandro Gassman. Beautiful scenes of Istanbul, which I am sure is not seen by the usual tourist. I loved this movie and highly recommend it.
~ Anonymous (Canada)

Independent Review:

” A movie for the higher mind”

If you’re “lower chakra”, this movie will disappoint you. This movie beautifully portrays the many forms that love can take, including the possibility that a place can also fall in love with a person. (I like this idea a lot.) The character Mehmet talks about the ‘way of the hamam – where you learn the love for all things’.

This movie also shows a way of life in Turkey that is perhaps disappearing; an old style of architecture that is perhaps endangered there, as in the whole world, by developers. And this movie shows the wonderful ways of the Turkish people -they wrote the book on hospitality, and so many of them are totally psychic – if you travel to Turkey, someone somewhere will read your palm or your coffee grounds and will be amazingly accurate. They seem to be able to see right into your soul.
This is a wonderful movie.
~ L. Czerepkowski (Chicago, IL, United States)

Independent Review:

” A Beautiful Movie”

“Steam”, also known as “Hamam” or “Il Bagno Turco” is one of the best movies I have ever seen! After repeat viewing you will notice the beauty of the story, characters and the city of Istanbul! Francesco is the sole heir of his aunt, the sister of his mother, whom he has never known! Being single, after a life of love and tragedy, she was living the last years of her life with a Turkish family in an old original part of Istanbul. Due to the downfall of tradition, the Hamam lost its appeal and had to be closed. Francesco, an architect/interior designer, living in Italy, in a wealthy part of Rome with his girlfriend goes to Istanbul to take care of the estate of his aunt. From his arrival he is drawn into the mysterious world of Hamam! Great is his surprise that his inheritance is a Hamam! After getting to know the family, Francesco is engulfed in this new old world of Turkey and Istanbul. Going from very wealthy in Rome to being a guest of a very poor Turkish family, Francesco’s life and the Hamam become “one”. Francesco has decided to rebuild his life without his girlfriend and Rome and starts rebuilding the Haman in Istanbul to its former glory with the help of Mehmet, son of the Turkish family, who, during the course of the restauration, becomes his lover. From then on things start to develop very quickly in a storm of old against new, east against west, money against poverty, greed against tradition, love against hate and finally gay against straight untill the very end! The conclusion is as shocking as unexpected! A movie to be viewed and reviewed again and again! Highly recommended!
~ Altea (Antwerp, Belgium)

This edited collection of stories by gay Muslim and non-Muslim men were set to make a very public appearance at the Beirut Book Fair – the first time a gay book would be presented at a Middle Eastern book fair. The two week expo and the largest book event in the Middle East, is held in BIEL, an expo center on a peninsula jutting into the Mediterranean. The misty smell of the sea was in the air as I sauntered cautiously through the building’s lobby.

The place reflected the region – beautiful Lebanese women in tight, fashionable clothing, their swarthy young male counterparts in low rise jeans, shirts stretched on body-built shoulders, contrasted with those from the gulf region, where the real money is here, men dressed like sheiks in pressed pure white robes, their wives with them, fully covered from head to toe, only a slit for their eyes. Everywhere around all of them were children, something we should have more of at Western book expos, and then the frumpily dressed intellectuals of Egypt, in suits a size too big, a few years too old.

There was little to guide the Westerner here though. None of the pamphlets or maps were in English, or even in French, the historical second language of this former colonial outpost. Offhand, there seemed to be no Americans, and just a scattering of blonde Europeans here, part of Frankfurt Book Expo contingent. I had to ask for help. A friendly young man, of course named Mohammed, came to my rescue, telling me where I would find my publisher, Arab Diffusion, known in phonetic Arabic as Al Intishar.

I had already been told by Georges Azzi of HELEM, Lebanon’s gay rights group, that the publisher had given the book prominence, a large poster of its cover on the wall. I found the poster was next to one on a book about the CIA, making me a little skittish in what kinds of conspiracies my own book might be considered a part of. The book was also everywhere in the stand, piled in a corner and on the aisle as everyone walked around. I introduced myself to Nabil Mroue, the owner of Arab Diffusion, and the father of Ali Mroue, who was my initial contact in selling the book to them. He was a quiet, intellectual man, speaking softly to me in English, one of several languages he knows, and introducing me to his staff, and his other son Nadim. I wandered around to get a feel for the Fair, looking also for people at the various Middle Eastern publishing houses I had met at other fairs around the world. In contrast to New York or London, the Beirut Book Fair is rather calm, but plenty of Arabic writers were around, surrounded by fans and cameras.

While I was gone, Mr. Mroue had looked for people he wanted to introduce me to, and I saw he was helping one man purchasing many books, mine included. This man, who worked for the Saudi government, put the book into my hand, asking me to sign it, the first of several times I would do so today. We chatted for a few minutes and we even talked about having me speak on the book in Saudi Arabia. (This was the third time someone from the Saudi government had asked me this at a book fair.)

Soon others came to congratulate me for the Arabic version of the book. One was an Egyptian book seller who had heard of the controversy of the initial problems with some of the language of the translation. A dissident who had been arrested three times by Mubarek’s government, he asked me to come to speak in his bookstore in Cairo, where I plan to pass through in January. Others who came were fellow writers, others publishers who had long wanted to carry such a book and others ordinary people who had come to the book fair. One of these was a gay high school teacher, delighted to see such a book in Arabic. He told me some of his students, seeking advice on sexuality, would ask him for things to read and there was little he could recommend. Now he would have a resource.

In all, having entered the book fair with such trepidation, I feel my first day here was successful, and Mr. Mroue had sold quite a few books, and Mohammed, the friendly greeter I met on the way in, even made sure to say goodbye. The real test comes with the official signing event for the book, Tuesday December 22 at 6pm Beirut time. I don’t know how many are likely to come, but word is certainly getting around. HELEM will do a blast for the book to their mailing list, and Bertho Makso, who runs LebTour, a gay travel and event company in Beirut, will also send out invites. That should be an interesting, and very visible day for the book, and my report on it will be the next time I check into the Huffington Post from this six week long Middle Eastern tour for Gay Travels in the Muslim World.

Yet despite the quarter century of country-wide conflict, Lebanon is at the forefront of gay rights in the Middle East. No other country even comes close. Like most Middle Eastern countries, homosexuality is technically considered illegal, but barely enforced. What sets Lebanon apart from the rest is the organization Helem, the first and only Middle East LGBT organization. Meaning “dream,” Helem was founded in the capital city of Beirut in order to further the rights of Lebanese homosexuals, as well as gay communities in other Arab countries. As stated on its website, it is an official, legal organization under Lebanese law, a feat almost unheard of in other Middle Eastern countries. With a regular publication, “Barra,” and various programs that aim to help and protect gays in Lebanon and the Middle East, Helem is making leaps and bounds in raising awareness of LGBT rights and issues in Beirut and elsewhere, including publishing guidebooks for parents with LGBT children translated into Arabic and psychological counseling and HIV testing at their community center in Beirut. This is quite shocking in a region where to even speak about homosexuality is completely taboo.

In general, Lebanon is the exception when it comes to openness in society. Walking down a street in downtown Beirut, you will find young women in spaghetti strap tops and designer jeans, passing robed Shiia clerics, passing blonde European tourists, passing groups of men clad in Hezbollah T-shirts. Lebanon recognizes seventeen religions in a country smaller than California. There are Maronite Christians, Sunni Muslims, Shiia Muslims, Druze, Greek Orthodox, Baha’is, and even some Jews, Buddhists, and Hindus. There are mosques built next to malls built next to churches built next to dance clubs.

Lebanon is one of the most diverse countries in the Middle East, and I think that it is because of this diversity that opportunities for sexual openness came about. The number of bars and clubs in Beirut match, if not exceed, the number of similar establishments in big European and American cities. Not only are most bars and clubs gay friendly (ambiguous, almost), but there are more and more gay-oriented clubs and spots becoming available to gays in Lebanon. A recent New York Times article specifically highlights Beirut as a gay traveler’s destination. The article mentions one club in particular, Acid, located in the hilly Beirut district of Sin el-Fil, as the one, true gay bar of the Middle East. Having traveled to Beirut and experienced Acid myself, I completely agree.

Like most clubs in Beirut, Acid doesn’t really start to fill up until, at the earliest, 2 am. As an avid morning person, the prospect of a night out at Acid would require every ounce of strength I could muster. Located on a bend of a tall hill overlooking the twinkling city and still waters of the Mediterranean, one feels like they are reaching the top of a biblical mountain in order to receive a divine commandment. And that commandment is to have the most fun night of your life.  Entering the enormous club, you think you have stepped into the hottest dance party in New York or Paris. Leaving religion at the door, LGBT’s from every corner of the country come to this one spot to mix, meet, and dance until late into the morning, long past sunrise. An open bar and some of the best dj’s in the region make Acid one of the most popular spots for both gay and straight Lebanese.

As Beirut throbs to the cacophony of inter-faith gay mixing at Acid and other bars, along with the chants from Helem’s gay rights advocates, rural Lebanon is a much different place. While the city is generally open to those with different beliefs and lifestyles, drive two hours northwest into the Bekaa Valley, near the border with Syria, and you will find broad highways and country roads littered with billboards and posters of Hezbollah martyrs and prominent Lebanese and Iranian clerics. Once through the vinyards and mountains that act a sort of geographic barrier between urban and rural Lebanon, one discovers a completely different country led by conservatives and grappling with life in areas affected by years of war with neighboring Syria and Lebanon. While Lebanon’s cities may be becoming the answer for the country’s gays, it’s countryside, like most other parts of the world, still lags in terms of proper education and opportunities for community and diversity. Many extremist organizations, like Hezbollah, are feeding off this backwardness and while they may not be able to stop Acid or it’s never-ending flow of mixed drinks, it can most certainly influence those who have no access to the opportunities provided to the urban elite on Lebanon’s coast. This growing rift between urban and rural Lebanon could result in a change of politics in both the cities and countryside, as Hezbollah and other conservative political organizations vie for more and more prominent posts in Lebanon’s confusing coalition government, and for more rights in its fragile constitution. The growing influence of such institutions could very well determine Lebanon’s long-term future, whether that be the continued refuge for many gays across the Arab world or a mini Arab Iran, bound by Islamic law (sharia) and strict social laws.

I left Lebanon over a year ago and I still cannot get it out of my mind. It is the exception in the Middle East. I think it is safe to say that Beirut, if anything, can almost definitely be called an oasis for gays in the mostly closeted Levant. But will this openness, thanks to Lebanon’s diverse society and plethora of religions, last? With the growing influence of Syria and Iran, both countries where homosexuality is not just outlawed, but strictly and many times violently repressed,  Lebanon is at a crossroads. Will it continue to be the beacon of hope for those sexually repressed in their own countries, or will it fall, it’s urban liberal joie de vivre a thing of the past, a geopolitical Abu Nuwas?

Allahu ‘alem (God only knows).

Note that we avoid to cause another misunderstanding with above explanation, because in the west there is already a very big misunderstanding about Turkish culture. Surprisingly, some people in the west still think of Turkey as a very typical and traditional Middle-Eastern country and some of them even think Turkey is just like other Arabic countries and the religion is dominating everything. In reality, Turkey has got a special culture of her own, much closer to the Western culture than most other Middle Eastern countries, except her incorrigible economy maybe.

To understand the gay life in Turkey, let’s analyze two Turkish words: “ibne” and “oglan”. Actually, both words literally mean “boy” although they are now being used as expression of insult. “Ibne” is originally exported from Arabic and it is being used with a meaning very close to “faggot” in today’s Turkish. Although “oglan” means exactly “boy” in formal Turkish, it is often being used to mean “gay” in slang language. Their present meanings’ got a historical background:

As we all know, a boy is not a man, not hairy, without beard, with a voice more like a woman, he’s got a softer skin etc….As you can easily notice, these are all descriptions of a woman. Especially at times when religion was stronger, a boy could probably be the substitution of a woman. This might be a key to understand the remains of the history in modern Turkish gay culture. Today, the dominating gay-life style for the gay people living in Turkey is between two groups; the “active” ones who would NOT mostly accept to be called “gay” and who are mostly bisexuals, and the “passive” ones who pretend to be women in bed, and who act and sometimes dress themselves up more effeminately. So the first question after meeting a gay-related person might very possibly be “Are you passive or active (bottom or top) ?”

Spreading use of the English word “gay” also is an indication of changing gay culture in recent years. Other people are also getting more conscious about gay people and accepting their different sexual identity more. But still there’s a long way to go, and maybe it’s questionable which life style is better.

Maybe, these different cultures might be considered as an advantage for gay people in Turkey in a way, since they have at least the two alternatives to choose as their life styles.

TURKEY

Knocking at Europe’s door yet on the threshold of Asia, Turkey is truly a land of contrasts. Here you can scale the icy heights of remote Mount Ararat in search of Noah’s Ark, cross the historic Euphrates and Tigris rivers, follow in the footsteps of St Paul or simply relax on the golden Mediterranean sands of Patara beach. Vibrant Istanbul, straddling the blue waters of the Bosphorus separating Europe from Asia, beckons with its skyline pierced by countless minarets, chaotic bazaars and a history redolent with harem intrigue and despotic Sultans.

In Turkey, you can also cruise along more than a thousand kilometres of Mediterranean coastline, past secluded coves, rocky headlands and pretty fishing villages, or explore a hinterland rich in the wonderfully preserved remains of Graeco-Roman cities such as Ephesus. For the adventurous, the austere beauty of the Anatolian plateau, the surreal rock-chimney landscape of Cappadocia and the atmospheric ruins of the enigmatic Hittites await discovery. Here, too, is the unique experience of watching the dervishes whirl in pious Konya.

With a code of hospitality nurtured by their Islamic beliefs yet with a remarkable tolerance of other customs, the Turks offer a warm welcome wherever you travel – be it sipping sweet black tea or thick coffee with friendly villagers or sharing a bottle of raki over mezes (hors d’oeuvres) with cosmopolitan Istanbul ‘city slickers’.

Travel – International

AIR: Turkey’s national airline is Turkish Airlines (THY).

Approximate flight times: From Frankfurt/M to Istanbul is 2 hours 45 minutes, from London is 3 hours 30 minutes and from New York is 11 hours.

International airports:

Ankara (ESB) (Esenboga) is 35km (22 miles) northeast of the city. THY buses go from the city 90 minutes before domestic flights and 135 minutes before international flights. There is a taxi service available into the city. Airport facilities include incoming and outgoing duty-free shops; bank/bureau de change; restaurant and bar.
Istanbul (IST) (Ataturk, formerly Yesilkoy) is 24km (15 miles) west of the city (travel time – 30-50 minutes). A coach (THY bus) goes every 15 minutes to the THY terminal. There are taxi services to the city. Airport facilities include incoming and outgoing 24-hour duty-free shop; bank/bureau de change; restaurant; bar and car hire (Avis, Budget, Hertz and Europcar). Sabiha Gokcen (SAW) is 40km (25 miles) from the city, on the Asian side. It is Turkey’s newest international airport, and opened on January 8 2001. There are shuttle bus services to the city (journey time – 30-45 minutes) and to Atatürk International Airport (journey time – 60-70 minutes). Taxis are available 24 hours a day. Facilities include duty-free shops, bank, cash dispensers, business centre and restaurants/cafés.
Izmir (IZM) (Adnan Menderes). A THY bus leaves from the city 75 minutes before departure. Airport facilities include bank/bureau de change; restaurant and bar.

There are other international airports at Gaziantep, Adana, Trabzon, Dalaman and Antalya.

SEA: Major ports are Istanbul, Izmir, Marmaris, Mersin, Antalya and Bandirma. Turkish Maritime Lines (TML), the national shipping organisation, and a number of cruise lines run services to Turkey, including: Golden Sun Cruises, Epirotiki, Linblad Expeditions, Costa, CTC, Norwegian, ‘K’ Lines and Sun Line. Several ferry routes are available: To/from Italy: Ferries operate between Venice-Izmir, Venice-Antalya/Marmaris, Venice-Istanbul via Pireaus and Brindisi-Cesme. To/from Cyprus: Three routes exist on which sea buses, together with car and passenger ferries, operate: Alanya-Girne and Tasucu-Girne and Gazimagosa-Mersin. To/from Greece: There are privately operated ferry lines between Turkey and the Greek islands: Lesbos (Midilli)-Ayvalik, Chios (Sakiz)-Cesme, Samos (Sisam)-Kusadasi, Cos (Istanköy)-Bodrum, Rhodes (Rodos)-Marmaris, Sömbeki (Symi)-Datça.

Note: All ships, including private yachts, arriving in Turkish waters must go to one of the following ports of entry: Canakkale, Bandirma, Istanbul, Akcay, Ayvalik, Dikili, Izmir, Cesme, Kusadasi, Güllük, Bodrum, Datca, Marmaris, Fethiye, Kas, Finike, Kemer, Antalya, Alanya, Anamur, Söke, Tasucu (Silifke), Mersin, Iskenderun, Samsun, Trabzon, Botas (Adana), Didim, Derince, Tekirdag, Giresun, Rize, Sinop, Ordu, Zonguldak or Hopa (Artvin).

RAIL: There are connections from London (Liverpool Street) via Hook of Holland and Cologne to Istanbul on the Istanbul Express, which also carries cars from several other European cities. There is a weekly sleeper from Moscow. InterRail tickets are available in the European part of Turkey as far as Istanbul. Other international rail routes go to Germany, Greece, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia and Georgia. For more information contact Turkish Railways (TCDD) in Istanbul (tel: (212) 527 00 50/51; reservations: (212) 520 65 75).

ROAD: There are roads from the CIS, Greece, Bulgaria and Iran. Drivers may either choose the northern route of Belgium, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Romania, and then Bulgaria, or the southern route through Belgium, Austria and Italy with a car-ferry connection to Turkey. Coach: There are regular services between Turkey and Austria, France, Germany and Switzerland as well as Jordan, Iran, Saudi Arabia and Syria.

Saudi authorities arrested 20 young men after raiding a suspected gay wedding in the southern town of Jizan, a newspaper reported on Wednesday.

The detainees, who were among some 400 men attending "the wedding party of two men" on Tuesday, had been "emulating women," the Al-Watan paper said.

In all, some 250 people were detained in the police raid on the party but the rest were later released.

Police had "arrested the wanted people and released those who have nothing to do with the matter," the paper quoted a police commander as saying.

Some guests were also seen chewing qat, an illegal narcotic widely used in neighbouring Yemen, on a hill above the square where the party was being held, Al-Watan said.

In one day of many days, Juha decided to take his donkey into town and sell it. It was a strong, sturdy donkey, and Juha thought he could get a nice price for it. Besides, he needed the money. So he put his young son on the donkey and started the long journey into town, with Juha walking alongside the donkey.

On the way into town, they passed a shepard, who scolded the young boy. "How can you sit there so comfortably while your poor old father has to walk the whole way behind you? You are young and have strong legs, it should be you who is walking! Have you no respect for your father?" So the boy got down and Juha climbed on the back of the donkey, and they contined on their way.

A little while later, they passed some women hanging clothes to dry. "Shame one you," they called to Juha, "making your poor little boy walk next to you. He is so young!" So Juha picked the boy up, placing him in front of him, and they continued on together.

The donkey was sturdy and strong, but not strong enough to carry two people easily, and the donkey began to sweat, showing his strain. As they continued on their journey, they passed another traveller. "You know, you shouldn't both be on the back of such a poor creature. How is such a poor animal supposed to carry two people? A donkey is Allah's creation as well; have some pity!" Juha thought the man was right, so he and his son got off the donkey.

"What shall we do?" Juha asked his son. "When you were on the donkey, we were scolded because I am too old to walk. When I was on the donkey, we were scolded because you are too young to walk. When we both were on the donkey, we were scolded because the donkey is too weak. What is there to do?"

Juha thought for a while, then came up with a solution. He and his son picked up the donkey, and carried it all the way into town. The people of the town had never seen such a thing, and many an eye stared at Juha as though he were crazy.