In the hours and days after her death, I kept returning to that picture of Sarah Hegazy which first surfaced in 2017 after she was arrested: A young woman beaming against the backdrop of Cairo’s polluted skies and bright concert lights. She was raised above the crowds, possibly on someone’s shoulders, her arms held high. The rainbow flag she was clutching fell across her back, like a cape.

The look of joy on her face haunted me. Her lightness. Apparently unburdened by the weight of her being. Carelessly draping the flag around her shoulders. The picture was not one of defiance, but of easy presence. In a single, flippant moment, she had let her guard down, and allowed herself to be peaceful in her own skin. Maybe even proud. Against the backdrop of an endless crowd, there was only her, and a moment of intimacy with the camera. She looked free. That is why the photograph was so threatening to her tormentors. Because it captured a fleeting suggestion that happiness and freedom at home might be possible for people like us.

“Any one of us could have been Sarah, with her carefree gesture on a fun night out, drunk on delusions of hope. Celebrating camaraderie and the bliss of being surrounded by people who see and accept. Her happiness was rewarded with imprisonment, electrocution, sexual assault and exile. A reminder, as if any more are needed, that we, queer Arabs, must always keep our masks within reach. ”

As queer Arabs, members of the LGBTQ+ community, we learn how to survive before we even know what it is that we are surviving. We learn the socially acceptable way to walk and talk. How to wear our masculinity or femininity and how to perform each in ways that don’t land us in trouble. How to concoct intricate realities, how to live plausible lies. We snap our wrists when they are too loose, control our hips when they sway too far and force ourselves into pink dresses when we long for jeans. We soften or deepen our voices. We mimic the gestures around us instead of finding our own.

We sculpt masks and, for the most part, we keep them on. Even as we prosper in cities around the region, find friends and lovers, create safe spaces and cultivate communities, build homes and work, we exist on the peripheries. We are all trying, in our own ways, to live in a world that, at best, legally erases us and at worst, condemns us to death. Social circles that at best, tolerate us and at worst, ostracize and banish us. Read more via Mada