“I was shocked that racism is openly practiced even in the queer community”

I didn’t want to live in fear anymore – that was my greatest hope when I moved to Germany in 2021. In part, that hope has come true. Here I see women holding hands openly on the street and I think about how often I was almost arrested for something that seems so small. At the same time, like so many other queer refugees, I also experience structural discrimination. As part of the asylum process, for instance, we have to prove that we really are queer – something that would never happen to heteronormative refugees or queer Germans. I, however, had to endure a long and exhausting interview on the subject, while trans people report degrading procedures whereby they have sometimes been asked to show their genitals.

Once in asylum shelters or refugee accommodation, we also receive very little information on our rights. In the whole of Brandenburg, the area in which I lived at the time, there was no accommodation designed to meet the needs of queer refugees. That needs to change. Fortunately, after some time I got in touch with the International Women Space initiative and was able to build my community from there. Now, we are working with the Resilient Voices working group to make queer voices heard. For example, we actively visit shelters and accommodation to counter the isolation there and act as a demonstrable point of connection. We also offer workshops for queer refugees tailored to their needs. This is a place for people to climb out of the box the system has made for them, a place for creativity and self-expression.

Even at school, I was treated differently from my classmates because of my migrant background. I was punished more harshly for minor mistakes and at first was not even recommended for the more academic Gymnasium high-school system. In fifth grade, I was asked to give presentations on Islam – as if I, an Alevi, were an expert on the subject. Back then, I didn’t understand that what I was experiencing was racism. On top of that, I also learned queerphobia at school, with the result that I was never able to foster a healthy relationship with myself. I behaved as cis-heteronormatively as possible to fit in better. Similarly, we never talked openly about sexuality in my family either. All these experiences led me to deny my homosexuality until I was 20, and I didn’t come out until the age of 25. 

But life was far from simple even in the white queer community: Like many queer people with a migrant or refugee background, I have faced discrimination on multiple occasions. At first, I was shocked that racism is openly practiced even in this community, by people who are themselves affected by discrimination. One example of this is paternalism, where some members of the community see refugees as a kind of ‘aid project’ rather than as equal human beings. Similarly, time and again queer people with a migrant or refugee background are exoticized, fetishized, and typecast with specific sexual attributes. 

Through my anti-discrimination work with the association Queeraspora, I try to offer people opportunities with safer conditions. For example, we try to provide a kind of think tank space where they can share ideas with each other and with wider society about the issues they face. I don’t see all this as social engagement, necessarily, but rather as something, most of all work, that needs doing. I ended up in this sphere because I was affected so deeply by structural exclusion. Unfortunately, this work is absolutely necessary, our task complete only when its idealistic goal is achieved. After all, it’s impossible to create a democratic environment where discrimination persists. 

I came to Germany hoping to live a truly free life. When I would meet other queer people in Palestine, we lived in constant fear of being found out, of violence, or arrest. The state didn’t accept us – and me as a trans woman more than most. In Palestine, homosexuality is regarded as something truly terrible, with transsexuality yet worse in the eyes of society. If, for example, I ever tried to buy clothes, the sales assistants would bully me and ultimately throw me out of the shop. It was an awful way to live, and in 2018 I made the decision to leave my country. 

I wanted to live in a place where my body could look the way my soul feels – and I wanted people to accept me for who I am. So far, however, this hope has not exactly materialized. In Germany, people say I’m ‘normal’, but that actually isn’t true. My situation is unique, and I need a different kind of support than other people do. For example, although I’ve been here for 18 months now, I can’t continue my hormone treatment because the insurance refuses to pay for it. I don’t understand that. 

The refugee accommodation where I live also doesn’t meet the needs of queer people. I live with eight men, my room is tiny, and I share a bathroom with the others. I don’t feel comfortable, or that my needs are considered. The Türkische Gemeinde in Baden-Württemberg has become a safe space for me. The people have taken me under their wing; they help with doctor’s appointments and help me fight to get my hormone treatment approved. I’m so grateful for them. I hope that other queer refugees will find it easier to settle here – but also that they understand that things aren’t clearcut in Germany either and there are still many hurdles to overcome. I wish the system would pay closer attention to people’s needs.