»How do you say »homosexual« in Arabic?«
This question, posed by Gabriel Semerene in an essay on the politics of language and sexuality in the Arab world, is more complicated than it first seems, and for LGBT activists in the Arab world, the question of language remains a central battleground in the fight for recognition.
But why is language such a fierce arena in the fight around LGBT recognition in the Arab world? As Edward Said wrote in his collection of essays, ›Reflections on Exile‹, language is centrally important to human experience; it is a core realm in which we understand not just our identities, but also how we fit into the world and relate to one another. Of course, there are other realms of experience, such as the physical, the visual and the spiritual; but language remains a central tool in understanding how we live in our own bodies.
Language is not just a method of communication. It is also a strategy. The appearance and adoption of words is a tactic employed to create identities and meanings. Words have the power to render invisible not just identities, but the contexts within which these identities operate. For example, to describe those journeying to Europe across the Mediterranean as »migrants« renders invisible the environment within which this »migrant« operates. The word »migrant« de-politicises the journey these individuals make, raising more questions than answers. Why are they »migrating«? For what reasons have they made the decision to exile themselves from their homes. What exactly is it that they are leaving behind? Using the phrase »economic refugee«, rather than »migrant«, may provide more insight. Not only does the term »economic refugee« reframe the identity of the individual, illuminating further the complex interplay between agency and structure that drives these travellers to make the perilous trip across the Mediterranean, perhaps more importantly the phrase makes visible the global social and economic structures that compel an individual to leave, allowing us to examine in a clearer light the wider environment in which this person makes his or her decision to get on that boat.
To return to the initial question: »How do you say »homosexual« in Arabic?«, it is worth running through some common words used to refer to LGBT individuals. From the word »liwat/looti« (used to refer to male homosexuals and which suggests the act of sodomy), to the female »sihaqah« (which can be roughly translated to »grinder«), as well as the word »khanith/mukhannath« (popular in the Gulf and drawing on memories of eunuchs), and finally the word »shaath« (which means queer or deviant), there is no shortage of words to describe homosexual acts in Arabic, though none are positive.
In fact, for many queer Arabs, frank discussions of sex often happen in English or French. Perhaps those languages offer a more comfortable distance, a protective barrier between an individual and their sexual practices. Arabic: serious, complex, and closely associated with the Quran, can sometimes appear too heavy, too loaded with social and cultural baggage. Perhaps this reason may explain why many Arab writers choose to write about their homosexuality in English or French, myself included. English provides us with a safe distance: from our communities, and perhaps in some way from ourselves.
But language is not something that is just thrust on us, rigid and unchangeable. If the words we have are not sufficient, how do we go about creating new words that capture our experiences?
Over the last twenty years of LGBTQ activism in the Arab world, some activists have made a concerted, and somewhat successful, effort to re-appropriate and re-shape the language around queer identities. The word »mithli«, for example, which is derived from the translation of the phrase »homo«, and which reframes the language from a focus on same-sex practices towards describing same-sex identities, is now seen as a more respectful way to refer to gay and lesbian individuals. However, while the word mithli has caught on in media and intellectual circles, the word for »hetero«, ghayiriyi, remains unused—thereby rendering the heterosexual identity invisible, signifying it’s ordinariness, while in turn differentiating the »homosexual« with their own unique word: mithli. Perhaps in recognition of this, some movements, in turn, have sought to move beyond the hetero/homo binaries altogether, by Arab-izing the word »queer« into »kweerieh«.
When before, queer Arabs had no choice but to live in this uneasy space between languages—between Arabic and English, Arabic and French, struggling to find the perfect word that could encapsulate their thoughts, feelings and identities, more and more, these new Arabic words are finding themselves into mainstream public discourse—even if the source of these words may be Western (usually English) in origin.
Such attempts at appropriating European words and phrases are not without their tensions, indicating once again that the politics of language does not operate in isolation from wider political and historical forces. Some critics, most notably the Arab-American academic Joseph Massad, has critiqued Arab LGBTQ activists for adopting Western identity categories where they did not exist before. Such critiques, while ignoring centuries of shared histories, begin from the assumption that cultures and languages exist in isolation from one another. In reality, now more than ever, individuals live and navigate their identities in the spaces between various languages and cultures, drawing on different languages when the words in one may not be sufficient. Embracing words such as »mithli« and »kweerieh« is not to absolve the colonial history of European engagements with the Arab world; rather it is to be wary of the blanket rejection of languages in our search for emancipation.
The final point worth reflecting on is around the re-appropriation of slurs. Most notably, the word shaath, deviant, has—according to some Arab activists—the potential to be reclaimed from its negative connotations into a powerful form of self-identification. For example, in 2010, the Lebanese campaign for International Day Against Homophobia utilised the slogan »Ana Shaath« (I am deviant/queer). This was not without controversy, as some activists felt that the word continued to carry too much baggage and stigma. But is it the word itself that carries the stigma, or are the connotations placed on it by society still too powerful to be reclaimed? After all, language is nothing without context: a word used one way can demonise and employed in another way can celebrate.
While this discussion is ongoing, it is worth noting that to speak of sex and sexuality in Arabic, and coin terminology and reclaim old words, can be an empowering act in itself. Reclaiming words and finding spaces for our identities in them allows us to take ownership over language. After all, what purpose does language serve if we are unable to modernise it, to mould it, shape it, and, ultimately, find a space for ourselves in its words?
This question, posed by Gabriel Semerene in an essay on the politics of language and sexuality in the Arab world, is more complicated than it first seems, and for LGBT activists in the Arab world, the question of language remains a central battleground in the fight for recognition.
But why is language such a fierce arena in the fight around LGBT recognition in the Arab world? As Edward Said wrote in his collection of essays, ›Reflections on Exile‹, language is centrally important to human experience; it is a core realm in which we understand not just our identities, but also how we fit into the world and relate to one another. Of course, there are other realms of experience, such as the physical, the visual and the spiritual; but language remains a central tool in understanding how we live in our own bodies.
Language is not just a method of communication. It is also a strategy. The appearance and adoption of words is a tactic employed to create identities and meanings. Words have the power to render invisible not just identities, but the contexts within which these identities operate. For example, to describe those journeying to Europe across the Mediterranean as »migrants« renders invisible the environment within which this »migrant« operates. The word »migrant« de-politicises the journey these individuals make, raising more questions than answers. Why are they »migrating«? For what reasons have they made the decision to exile themselves from their homes. What exactly is it that they are leaving behind? Using the phrase »economic refugee«, rather than »migrant«, may provide more insight. Not only does the term »economic refugee« reframe the identity of the individual, illuminating further the complex interplay between agency and structure that drives these travellers to make the perilous trip across the Mediterranean, perhaps more importantly the phrase makes visible the global social and economic structures that compel an individual to leave, allowing us to examine in a clearer light the wider environment in which this person makes his or her decision to get on that boat.
To return to the initial question: »How do you say »homosexual« in Arabic?«, it is worth running through some common words used to refer to LGBT individuals. From the word »liwat/looti« (used to refer to male homosexuals and which suggests the act of sodomy), to the female »sihaqah« (which can be roughly translated to »grinder«), as well as the word »khanith/mukhannath« (popular in the Gulf and drawing on memories of eunuchs), and finally the word »shaath« (which means queer or deviant), there is no shortage of words to describe homosexual acts in Arabic, though none are positive.
In fact, for many queer Arabs, frank discussions of sex often happen in English or French. Perhaps those languages offer a more comfortable distance, a protective barrier between an individual and their sexual practices. Arabic: serious, complex, and closely associated with the Quran, can sometimes appear too heavy, too loaded with social and cultural baggage. Perhaps this reason may explain why many Arab writers choose to write about their homosexuality in English or French, myself included. English provides us with a safe distance: from our communities, and perhaps in some way from ourselves.
But language is not something that is just thrust on us, rigid and unchangeable. If the words we have are not sufficient, how do we go about creating new words that capture our experiences?
Over the last twenty years of LGBTQ activism in the Arab world, some activists have made a concerted, and somewhat successful, effort to re-appropriate and re-shape the language around queer identities. The word »mithli«, for example, which is derived from the translation of the phrase »homo«, and which reframes the language from a focus on same-sex practices towards describing same-sex identities, is now seen as a more respectful way to refer to gay and lesbian individuals. However, while the word mithli has caught on in media and intellectual circles, the word for »hetero«, ghayiriyi, remains unused—thereby rendering the heterosexual identity invisible, signifying it’s ordinariness, while in turn differentiating the »homosexual« with their own unique word: mithli. Perhaps in recognition of this, some movements, in turn, have sought to move beyond the hetero/homo binaries altogether, by Arab-izing the word »queer« into »kweerieh«.
When before, queer Arabs had no choice but to live in this uneasy space between languages—between Arabic and English, Arabic and French, struggling to find the perfect word that could encapsulate their thoughts, feelings and identities, more and more, these new Arabic words are finding themselves into mainstream public discourse—even if the source of these words may be Western (usually English) in origin.
Such attempts at appropriating European words and phrases are not without their tensions, indicating once again that the politics of language does not operate in isolation from wider political and historical forces. Some critics, most notably the Arab-American academic Joseph Massad, has critiqued Arab LGBTQ activists for adopting Western identity categories where they did not exist before. Such critiques, while ignoring centuries of shared histories, begin from the assumption that cultures and languages exist in isolation from one another. In reality, now more than ever, individuals live and navigate their identities in the spaces between various languages and cultures, drawing on different languages when the words in one may not be sufficient. Embracing words such as »mithli« and »kweerieh« is not to absolve the colonial history of European engagements with the Arab world; rather it is to be wary of the blanket rejection of languages in our search for emancipation.
The final point worth reflecting on is around the re-appropriation of slurs. Most notably, the word shaath, deviant, has—according to some Arab activists—the potential to be reclaimed from its negative connotations into a powerful form of self-identification. For example, in 2010, the Lebanese campaign for International Day Against Homophobia utilised the slogan »Ana Shaath« (I am deviant/queer). This was not without controversy, as some activists felt that the word continued to carry too much baggage and stigma. But is it the word itself that carries the stigma, or are the connotations placed on it by society still too powerful to be reclaimed? After all, language is nothing without context: a word used one way can demonise and employed in another way can celebrate.
While this discussion is ongoing, it is worth noting that to speak of sex and sexuality in Arabic, and coin terminology and reclaim old words, can be an empowering act in itself. Reclaiming words and finding spaces for our identities in them allows us to take ownership over language. After all, what purpose does language serve if we are unable to modernise it, to mould it, shape it, and, ultimately, find a space for ourselves in its words?
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