Simon and I sat down. “Guys, meet my friend Jesse,” he said. The three looked at me and nodded. “Hi, I'm Ahmed,” said one, who then introduced his two friends, Gamel and Farouk. They inhaled the hookah smoke slowly, eyeing me suspiciously. I was immediately drawn to Ahmed. He had shoulder-length brown hair, sharp brown eyes, and hazel skin. He was tall and had a wide chest. In a physical sense, compared to Simon, Ahmed was all the rage.
“So, what brings you to Cairo?” Ahmed asked.
“I'm here working with refugee—”
“Just like me,” Simon said, interrupting. “Remember? I told you that, Ahmed.”
“Ohh. I forgot, there are so many foreign boys here.” Ahmed laughed together with his friends.
Ahmed might be a player, I thought; I should be wary. I asked him what he did. He told me he was a graphic designer, and lived in Heliopolis, an upscale suburb of Cairo. As Simon and Ahmed hadn't seen each other for a while, Simon asked Ahmed if he had met anyone. Ahmed responded: “Yes, I met someone. But it didn't work out. He was too small, and you know, I like them big.” With this, Ahmed shot an impish glance in my direction, tilted back his head, and started to humbly chuckle. As the conversation continued, Ahmed continued to stare at me now and then, seeming to have a twinkle in his eye that said “fuck me.” Or perhaps the hookah smoke was just obscuring my vision; I couldn't really tell what was going on. I took a couple drags on the hookah and began to feel at ease—a feeling I wished I could hold on to.
Ahmed and his friends had to leave; one of them had to catch a train to Alexandria. We shook hands, wished each other well, and said that we would see one another soon. Simon suggested we all go to hear a band playing at the Cairo Jazz Club in a couple days. Ahmed nodded and grinned with approval, and then took off. I eyed his figure desirously as he walked away; I guess it had been a while.
Simon and I were left alone—we spoke of work, refugees, the time he had spent in Uganda, and my time in South Africa. Although Simon interested me, he used phrases that were all too common with those who decide asylum claims, such as refugees “asylum-shopping” of “them” and “us.” His strategy, and the strategy of most government immigration offices, was one of weeding through the masses of refugees to see which refugees were really genuine. For me, refugees were people, and regardless of their official legal title they all needed help. I was not impressed with Simon. In fact, I was disheartened by his views, though happy he had introduced me to Ahmed. My fantasy had busted, though another was brimming on the horizon.
Two days later, another gay friend, Richard, invited me to a party. Richard is a British diplomat, notorious amongst gay Egyptians as queen of the gay expats. He lived in a swanky British embassy apartment, which had heated tile floors, three bedrooms, and even included a live-in cleaning woman. He had organized many parties— making the best of a British salary in a third-world country.
I arrived at Richard's with some colleagues from work. As most of my colleagues had been in Cairo for much longer than I, they all knew Richard—everyone knew Richard. His parties were not to be missed, I was told. Walking in, I heard techno music. The lights were dimmed, and Richard's living room had been turned into a dance floor. In their Diesel and Armani jeans, two dozen or so olive- and white-skinned men moved in rhythmic motion as one, romping and rubbing their bodies together as if they were at a gay disco in London or New York. Richard's apartment was one of the only places in Cairo where gay men could really let loose. One of my friends from work who had been in Cairo for quite some time told me that this scene was similar to a famous incident that had occurred in May 2001. Egyptian police raided the Queen Boat, a gay nightclub on the Nile, and arrested fifty-two gay men, most of whom are still languishing in prison. Since these arrests, gay hangouts closed or mysteriously vanished. In Richard's apartment, the sexually charged atmosphere was a privilege to be a part of. I was lucky to have found these people, as well as the place. I was happy, and began to dance. I saw Simon and asked when Ahmed would be arriving. Ahmed was too fashionable to miss a gathering such as this.
Simon looked worried, wrinkles on his forehead rumpled together. “You didn't hear what happened?” Before I even answered, his stare dropped to the ground.
“No, what happened?” I responded.
Simon told me that the preceding night Ahmed had met someone off of Gaydar. But the person turned out to be a spy for the Egyptian secret police. Ahmed was arrested and put in jail.
“What? I don't understand. We used Gaydar to meet each other and we were fine.”
“Don't be so ignorant, Jesse. This is Egypt; they don't tolerate anything. Ahmed is in jail, and he isn't the first.”
My heart sank, my throat swelled. Ahmed, beautiful Ahmed— how could he be in jail? A million thoughts raced through my mind—I didn't know what to think. Madonna had come on—the gay boys screamed, rejoicing, and sang along as their romping intensified. Why weren't they doing anything to help Ahmed? I wondered. Their brother was in jail and all they did was dance. Didn't they know what was going on? What if they were in danger? Wait a second. I was in danger, I realized. I had a profile on Gaydar. What if Simon was a spy? If I was arrested, would the embassy save me? I had to get out, I had to leave. I felt like I was going to pass out.
The balcony. Air. I breathed in deep. I tried to feel the air circulate through my body. I saw dirty brown buildings, soldiers in the distance, guarding some embassy. I heard honking, yelling. Simon soon joined me. He told me that the next morning some people were going to Ahmed's trial. I could go too, if I wanted, to show support. I told him I would go. I took in another deep breath. Simon brought me a vodka and cranberry juice. I downed it in what seemed like two seconds. My friend and colleague Jackie had come looking for me. I told her what had happened—the whole situation. “Jesse, this is the norm here,” she said. “This is what happens every day. Not only to gay men, but to political dissidents, refugees. Egypt is paranoid about everyone who might be the slightest bit different.”
Three nights before Richard's party, Ahmed had arranged to meet a man in front of the McDonald's in Heliopolis, the area of Cairo where he lived. Ahmed arrived and waited. Two black sedans with tinted windows pulled up. Two men in black suits got out. They approached him. Before he knew it, he had been thrown in the car, which then zoomed off to central security headquarters.
Ahmed was interrogated for five hours. The officers accused him of whispering to men on the street, of walking like a girl, and prostituting himself. After five hours of being cursed at, of being told that he was evil, that he had a disease, Ahmed signed a confession saying that the security officers' accusations were true. Ahmed was officially charged with public debauchery, the usual charge issued against prostitutes.
A week before this incident, Ahmed's mother had confronted him, asking him if he was gay. She had screamed hysterically, saying that if he was gay, she would jump off the balcony. Ahmed had no choice other than to deny his true sexuality. At the time of the trial, Ahmed's mother was sure he had had been set up, that this was a big mistake. She even brought a friend along whose son had recently been arrested for smoking marijuana. Ahmed's mother thought this friend could help her through the court process as both of their sons were being charged with similar crimes. She didn't understand that Ahmed was seen as a social evil, a cancer that could spread.
Ahmed's boyfriend, Jim, an American, had organized Ahmed's supporters and brought us all together at the court. Jim worked for an American development organization, and he too had a profile on Gaydar. He and Ahmed must've had an open relationship, as they both had active online profiles. And, after all, Ahmed was planning on meeting another gay man on that fateful day in Heliopolis. The two didn't seem that compatible. Perhaps I was just jealous of Jim, although this was beside the point now. Ahmed was lucky to have Jim, who had contacted the only NGO in Cairo that helps people in Ahmed's situation. And that NGO provided a pro bono lawyer to defend Ahmed for committing the crime of being gay.
It was a brisk day; a little bit of blue sky could be seen through the brown smog that crowded the horizon. The courthouse resembled those in the U.S., with pillars and steps that people sat on. People were rushing in and out, in and out. Policemen were everywhere. Groups of huddled and fully covered women were also on the steps, holding their babies with gloved hands.
The pillars reminded me of the scales of justice—this was justice? I thought. A gay man being sentenced for being gay? Isn't that the same as a black being charged with being black, as a female being charged with being female? What was about to go on was wrong. Sadly, Egypt hadn't always been this repressive. It had been known as the gay capital of the Middle East, up until the Queen Boat incident. Since then, entrapments of gay men were regular occurrences. The Marriott Hotel, the hotel where I had met Ahmed, was a common place of arrest and entrapment. Egyptian undercover agents would plant themselves at the bar and try to pick up men. Or they would wait in the locker-room sauna, masturbating, and arrest anyone who joined in. Later that month, a friend of mine was lured into a conversation at the Marriott, and then led up to a room with waiting Egyptian police investigators. While he was questioned, the “entrapper” smoked a cigarette on the balcony. My friend was lucky. He was with a monitor from a major U.S. humanrights organization. The Egyptian police became scared by the United Nations identity document the monitor waved in front of them. Though my friend was freed, I decided I would stop going to the Marriott. Although the Marriott is an American franchise, it is still at the mercy of Egyptian despotism. If the police need a room, they get a room—questions are simply not asked.
Jim told us that it was time. As we walked into the courthouse, we entered chaos. People brushed by us, nudging us, as if our presence was undetectable. Guards were everywhere. The hallways were lined with covered bodies; all that could be seen were glimmering pupils. There didn't seem to be a central information point, just people screaming at each other, prisoners in chains being led from here to there.
In the actual courtroom, people were sleeping on benches. A stench of urine rose from the floor, and the ceiling was crumbling. Jim directed us to sit on a row of benches toward the back. Nearby there was a black metal cage that would hold the prisoners on trial. I felt a heaviness inside of me, my stomach tightening. In front of us was the judge's bench—though there was no judge to be found. Instead, the guards in the room had decided to have playtime. They were wrestling, tumbling over each other, like playing and scratching cats. Vendors came in selling tea and chips.
For about ten minutes we waited for the trial to begin, watching the soldiers roughhouse with each other. Then a man from the back rushed forward, shouting in Arabic. He was short, fat, balding, and dressed in a worn-out brown leather jacket and brown pants. Then another man appeared at the main entrance holding a chain to which three prisoners were handcuffed. The guards got off one another; the man who had shouted earlier from the rear was now screaming like a madman. In an instant, the prisoners were led into the cage, unhandcuffed, and locked in. There was so much tussle involved, I didn't get a good glimpse of Ahmed until he was in the cage. Two women rushed over, extending their hands and forearms into the cage in a feeble attempt to hug their imprisoned relative. The prisoner held their hands through the iron bars, trying to embrace them the best he could. A guard soon noticed and shooed the women away.
Ahmed looked like a different person. His beautiful hazel skin was pale. His hair was messy, but still attractive. He looked lost. His mother began to cry. We were nervous, not knowing what to do or what not to do. Two guards stood between us and him. At first we were afraid to talk, but when one of Ahmed's British friends spoke to him, the guards said nothing. They were stone-cold, and became surprisingly well behaved. Ahmed's stare went down our row. When his eyes reached mine, we nodded at each other, and I pointed to his hair. He raised his shoulders, as if to ask what was wrong. I whispered, “Your hair, it looks good.” A slight smile emerged; he laughed. At least I could do something.
The man who had brought the prisoners entered the cage, recuffed them to the chain, and led them out. More shouting ensued. The prisoners were led to a room behind the bench. The first prisoner went in; the doors slammed shut, and five minutes later he was led out of the room. Then the second prisoner went in and came out, and then Ahmed went in. What was going on? Where was the judge? What were they doing with Ahmed back there? When Ahmed exited this mysterious room, all three prisoners were rushed out of the courtroom. Ahmed managed to turn to us and say, “Tell me.” We were left clueless, as he was, it appeared. The courtroom became somewhat quiet again, and the guards resumed their game.
Our group left the courtroom, most of us wondering if our attendance had been worth anything. Jim went to go find the lawyer to find out what had happened. It turned out that Ahmed's case had been deemed a matter of state security. Thus his trial was held in the judge's chambers, behind closed doors. The judge's decision would be made public later in the day. Jim would wait. I had to go back to work. Jim told me and the others that he would let us know the outcome.
Later that day, Jim sent out an e-mail. Apparently, the judge had listened to the argument of Ahmed's lawyer and, without asking any questions, waved Ahmed and his lawyer out of the room. Ahmed was found guilty and sentenced to one and a half years in prison. After what I witnessed at the courtroom, I wasn't surprised. It had all seemed like a performance—like a skit that was acted for someone. I canceled my dinner plans for that evening, went home, ate, drank, and tried to forget. The language barrier, the distance—I felt I was in a place that defined helplessness. I tried to make sense of what had happened that day, though my logical thoughts lost strength as my emotions took over. In Cairo I felt as if I was in the heart of the dragon; I felt the breathing beast against my own skin. I saw what it destroyed, what it left in its wake. I tried to have hope, but it was hard.
The Short Version
by Grover Wehman
Part 1: Swanton, Ohio
Junior high felt like a constant bad day out at the tetherball court. You know, a ring of dirt with a pole and a string with a ball on it. The kids bigger than me would whip the ball around and it would smack me in the face, and then on the way back the cord would rope-burn the back of my neck. Most days felt like that. I walked up the stairs, the jock guys yelled, “Wehman's a MAN” and then laughed and pushed me against the wall as they ran past. The locker room was a whole lot of lotion application and gossip about bras; I had neither. At basketball games when the girls' team was forced to sit and watch the boys, some cool kid would come up to me and ask me to go out with his friend. “He REALLY likes you,” he'd say. I'd ignore him until he finally bounded the bleachers away, laughing. When not being harassed at school, I took care of my brothers, read every book in the library, kicked the soccer ball against the garage, ran laps around the field. Overachiever is what my older brother said. He called me a resumé builder. Could you really blame me?
Jump forward to fifteen. Born-again Christian. Rural working-class farming and industrial community outside of Toledo, Ohio, the heartland of America. Spending my weekends praising Jesus and preventing adolescent drug use. I wore a button-down men's shirt and a sweater-vest to school every day. Men's carpenter pants. I was a threat, apparently. Backed into lockers. Threatened to be shot. Backed into corners by teachers, asking if I thought I was some kind of feminist man-hater. I would tug on my What Would Jesus Do bracelet, wait for the bell, and dash out. At homecoming while the rest of the girls were worrying about whether their nails were an even coat, I was
trying and retrying on the same dress every year, hoping it would be just enough to get through the night without a whole lot of attention. Eventually the stress got overwhelming and I'd throw on a baseball hat as an accessory to the dress. My friends' boyfriends would squeeze my biceps and ask me to flex. There was no winning, and certainly no passing as that kind of a girl, even when I tried.
It all started to settle in and make sense when an older daughter of my drug-prevention group leader told me she was a lesbian. My friend and I stayed up late asking her questions. The next morning I woke up, looked at her, and thought, My God, she's beautiful. I prayed for three hours straight on the plane ride home for a sign that the boner I had for this girl wasn't real. I woke up the next morning and knew it was. I made my amends with God and busted out of the closet with flying rainbow wallet colors.
At sixteen, I found a program that allowed “bright” kids from underperforming public schools to take all their high school classes in college, paid by the state. My first semester, I walked into my freshman writing class, themed “Women in Writing,” and who stood up front but a version of myself, only twenty years older. Carpenter pants. Men's shirt. Suit jacket. Long brown hair. A trace of a mustache. The pieces came tumbling down into place. I read the books, took a swan dive into women's studies. I cried and did extra homework every night.
I started telling my parents I was staying at a friend's house when I was going instead to the only gay dance club in town, Bretz. I'd stroll in with my college ID and a group of older sporty dykes that took me in. They'd all get quite drunk and dance and play out their dyke drama. Sober me would just lean up against the bar and smile and smile and make small talk and smile. They all knew I was really young, and kind of took care of me. It was the only time I really lied to my parents. I needed this sanctuary so badly, this place where I could just stand and be.
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