In September of 2014, I was one of the first Syrian refugees to make it to Canada. Upon my arrival, I became a newcomer. Then, a couple of years later, I became Canadian. It is awkward to call myself a refugee. I used to be one, but I am not anymore. How can I introduce myself, then, in a simple, succinct way? Should I call myself a Syrian Canadian with refugee experience? That's a mouthful. When someone lives a life complicated by civil wars, revolutions, homophobia and borders, is there really a way to simply identify? How do I encompass the years of refuge, diaspora and community-building into one noun? Does a refugee ever stop being a refugee?
I was displaced long before I left Syria. I was a queer man born in Damascus to a conservative Muslim family. I knew my father's religion rejected me, condemning me to a death sentence. Syria's civil laws were more lenient: suspected homosexuals were punished with a mere three years' imprisonment and public shaming in local newspapers. When I came out in my late teens, my parents kicked me out to live in the streets. Long before the city became a war zone, I hid in the nooks and corners of the underground queer community and found solace and companionship there.
During the day, I worked as a journalist, writing under pseudonyms for Western news outlets. I reported on anti-regime protests, sneaking information from under the iron-fenced borders to journalists in Beirut and Cairo. At night, my home was a meeting hub for members of the queer and trans community in Syria. Many of us had nowhere to go other than these little gathering places, where we could be ourselves truthfully and authentically. We needed that secrecy: local journalists and community builders were routinely rounded up by the Syrian regime.
This story is from the July 2024 edition of Maclean's.
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This story is from the July 2024 edition of Maclean's.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
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