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I could have been Omar Mateen

Pulse Nightclub gunman reportedly used gay hook-up apps

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Nemat Sadat, gay news, Washington Blade

Nemat Sadat, gay news, Washington Blade

Nemat Sadat (Photo courtesy of Nemat Sadat)

I resent comparing myself to the deadliest mass shooter in U.S. history. Yet, I can’t escape the fact that the life of the ISIS-sympathizing militant so closely paralleled mine.

Like Omar Mateen, I grew up Afghan, American, Muslim, and (if he truly was gay) a repressed homosexual. Although I grew up in a household that didn’t support the Taliban, I was still socialized in the same cultural milieu that had a zero tolerance for gays.

In my teens; while living in Irvine, Calif., I was cursed by my father, who repeatedly called me a kuni, a derogatory word equivalent to “fag,” because I loved to dance and acted effeminate. At the mosque, I heard sermons preach homosexuality as an illness and sin and justify the death penalty for gays and lesbians. My entire youth was tainted with fear, guilt, intimidation, shame and untold repression stemming from my same-gender attraction and the psychological violence I was subjected to because of my Afghan roots and Muslim faith.

When I reached adulthood; I was pressured by my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and family acquaintances to act manly and marry a woman. I spent years dodging the issue and pursued higher education as a stalling tactic until I found myself on the fringes and realized there was no escape. Fretting that I drifted too far away from our tribe and traditions, my parents colluded with relatives to reign me in and forced me to marry a woman even after they knew I was gay. Thankfully, I refused.

So it could very well be that long before Mateen turned his internal rage into a violent rampage at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando last week, that he, too, was a victim of honor violence. Since families give themselves the right to kill anyone who brings dishonor and shame to the family, Mateen had no option of ever coming out if he actually was a closeted gay man. As someone who has averted honor violence and religious bigotry, I know firsthand the struggle of the tens of millions of L.G.B.T.Q. (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer/questioning) persons within Muslim communities who continue to suffer in silence from the ongoing persecution and the inability to reconcile their homosexuality with Islam.

After I came out to my immediate family in December 2009, my parents believed I was going through a phase and that being gay was a lifestyle choice. My father, a well-known Afghan intellectual of his generation and a former ambassador of Afghanistan to West Germany, believed that homosexuality was a western invention, used by the United States, to subvert Islam. My father, like Mateen’s father, are byproducts of the ferociously homophobic society they grew up in.

A 2013 study conducted by the Pew Research Center showed that 99 percent of Afghans favor sharia law in Afghanistan. Under sharia, is it is permissible to kill homosexuals since it is considered the worst sin in Islam. In fact, LGBTQ people are criminalized three times in Islam. The first, for the act of liwat, or sodomy; the second, by doing zina, or having unlawful sexual relations outside of heterosexual marriage; and the third time for assuming an LGBTQ identity which threatens the predominance of cisgender Muslim men over women and minorities. In other words, in the eyes of devout Muslims, LGBTQ people are regarded as enemy combatants and an affront to the Islamic way of life.

To protect their Muslim faith and the image of Islam, pro-Islamist activists and scholars argue that the roots of homophobia in the Muslim World stems from western colonialism (such as the British buggery laws) and suggest that Islamic societies have historically been tolerant towards homosexuality. This deceptive obfuscation isn’t helpful or true. In fact, Islam has been the main source of LGBTQ persecution in Muslim communities for a millennium before European imperialism and since Muslim-majority countries achieved their independence in the 20th century. The only historical example of homosexuality of having been decriminalized in the Islamic past was during the Tanzimat reforms of 1858 in the Ottoman Empire. The Tanzimat reforms, heavily influenced by European ideas, were based on secular thinking and nothing to do with Islamic teachings.

Therefore, the one constant in the criminalization of LGBTQ people imposed by Muslim purists and Islamic theocracies like Iran and Saudi Arabia are the passages within the Quran and Hadith that legitimate violence against homosexuals. So the tactic of blaming the West while turning a blind eye to the plight of LGBTQ people in the Muslim world is nothing but a pure distraction from the underlying issue.

If Mateen was gay, he succumbed to the social pressures of conforming to a militantly patriarchal culture, which caused him to live a double life and fail to properly integrate into American society. I, on the other hand, took a detour from the norm but have also suffered incredibly for the post-conventional position I have taken.

In 2012, I returned to my birthplace, Kabul, after living three decades in exile, to work as a professor of political science at the American University of Afghanistan. While I tried to remain discreet, I was still persecuted for being gay. Instead of caving into demands of orthodox Muslims, I fought back by meeting queers in the Afghan capital, mobilizing a gay movement and using social media to promote LGBTQ rights. A year later I was forced to resign from my post and threatened by the Afghan government that I would be arrested, drawn into court, and handed down a life sentence or the death penalty, even though I am a naturalized U.S. citizen, on allegations that my presence and self-expression was destabilizing the social order of Islam. I fled to New York City and in August 2013, I came out publicly to the whole world. Since then I’ve been disowned by much of my family and relatives, deserted by many of my friends and ostracized by most Afghan Americans and Muslim Americans.

While I opted for freedom, it has come at a huge cost. I’ve endured poverty, ending up on the streets and living in homeless shelters. After receiving numerous death threats and a formal fatwa, I continue to live in hiding. Yet, I remain steadfast in advocating for gay liberation in my homeland and across the Muslim world so that future generations of LGBTQ people don’t have to endure the hardships and trauma I’ve encountered.

In Muslim-majority countries, LGBTQ people suffer from mob squads and state-sanctioned terror on top of the honor violence imposed by their families. The suffering LGBTQ people endure in the chaotic underworld of Muslim communities is the hidden war, which we are now beginning to understand with my testimony and scrutinizing the life of Omar Mateen.

LGBTQ victims of honor violence, even here in the United States, are too embarrassed and scared to come forward since homosexuality is still a taboo among Muslims and there’s a culture of stigma about seeking help in the community. Most LGBTQ Muslims would rather die or suffer in silence instead of taking the uncharted path I’ve taken.

If we want to have an honest discussion about why Mateen killed 49 people and injured 53 others, then we have to end the denial and address the root cause.

Last week’s Orlando massacre proves that preventing Islamic indoctrination in the United States is a first step in ensuring the well-being of our society, and safeguarding our national security. Those who’ve experienced honor violence and radicalization have two choices: They can fall deeper into the trap of extremism as Mateen did by embarking on the path to martyrdom by expunging his sins and seeking entry into paradise by murdering other sinners or they can break out of the mold as I did by coming out gay and speaking up even if it means offending Muslims who hold parochial views about gender identity and sexual orientation.

Once we accept the bitter truth that religious indoctrination played a big role in brainwashing and weaponizing an American-born citizen to become an armed Jihadi, we will be able to prevent future terrorist attacks and help LGBTQ Muslims trapped in unending turmoil. Leaving Islam’s punitive line towards homosexuality out of the conversation will ensure that Muslim communities continue to incubate more Omar Mateens.

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Sexting with younger guy has me asking: How queer am I?

Reflections on LGBTQ life in 2024

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Jake Stewart is a recovering Hill staffer based in D.C. In addition to writing, he barbacks at the Little Gay Pub."

Once upon a time, not all that long ago, a man sexted another man. 

There were words. There were pictures. There were filthy questions and even filthier responses. You know, the way a good sexting convo ought to be, for those who dabble. 

One man was 33. The other, 24. And while it comes as no shock that I was the 33-year-old, it may be more surprising to learn it was the 24-year-old who grabbed the reins. 

What kinks you into? he asked. 

Shit – I didn’t know. I barely even bottomed before the pandemic, and now I had to know my kinks? 

I’m open, I replied, evasively. You? 

His response left me coughing: “Love musk sweat ws public group rough bb verbal bate edge roleplay and very open-minded.” 

Now I’m no prude (in fact, many would call me a downright whore) but this young man articulating his kinks and fetishes in such detail blew my mind. When did he learn what he liked? At 24, all I wanted was to top a guy and leave with as little communication or attachment as possible. At 33, I wasn’t sure what a few of the items he listed even meant.  

Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised when young men — and the younger generation across the LGBTQ spectrum in general — have already figured out their sexual interests. I arrived in D.C. from Idaho in 2008 as a fresh-faced 18-year-old; I came out three years later in 2011. Attitudes toward queerness have shifted substantially since then, and these days it is undeniably easier for younger people to explore their sexual and gender identities (which, by the way, is fantastic). 

But this conversation left me wondering: What do I like? I haven’t sought out that many new sexual experiences, and while fetishes, kinks, and sexual desires can seem trivial, they’re inextricably intertwined with gender and relationships. If I can’t articulate what I like in the sack (or in public, if I dare), then how do I know what I’m seeking from a long-term partner, or if that’s even what I want? 

As soon as I came out, I thought my job was done. All I needed after that was to snatch up a cutie and settle down. Instead, my identity centered on building my career in politics, where sexual openness isn’t as appreciated. I, like many D.C. queers around me, moved here bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to change the world for good. 

Then came a tough lesson: Just because I wanted to improve the world didn’t mean people wanted me to. I was inexplicably fired from not one job but two, and suddenly the do-gooder in me grew jaded. The career I dedicated years to was suddenly ripped from my hands, and I became so disillusioned I didn’t even want it back. Oh, and the cherry on top: My boyfriend dumped me two days later. 

Once everything unraveled, I wondered: Was the me of the past the me I truly wanted? Or was I reflecting back what I thought everyone wanted me to be? 

Well, a few major meltdowns and an extended slut phase later, my life couldn’t be more different. I now work at a new gay bar in town to support myself, and I’ve given myself space to pursue the arts. This former straight-laced, type-A, tightly wound gay abandoned the safe track and he couldn’t be more terrified. He also couldn’t be more excited. 

But losing my old career also left an existential-sized hole in my identity. So, as I sexted this 24-year-old with newfound awareness of my limitations, I decided this must change. 

How? As I said, I work at a gay bar in one of the queerest cities in America. Now more than ever I’m surrounded by those who are LGBTQ and every shade in between. Why not learn from those around me, whether younger, older, or around the same age, but whose experiences are no less queer? Why not carve out time to have in-depth discussions and discover what the possibilities are? 

If being queer means to go against the established norms of gender and sexuality, then there’s still plenty of territory for me to explore. No longer can ‘bottom’ or ‘top’ be my only options. 

So, the purpose of this column – aptly titled Queer Quest – is to capture my exploration of queer identity. It’s not to teach you as much as it is to teach myself, and you can either learn alongside me or simply be entertained. At the very least, I’ll have a series of portraits on what it’s like to be queer in the mid 2020s. At most, I’ll have a better understanding of who I am as a queer person. 

Then maybe, just maybe, I’ll become a better sexter. 

Jake Stewart is a D.C.-based writer.

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What will you do to make Pride safe this year?

Anxiety reigns among American Jews after Oct. 7

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(Washington Blade photo by Michael Key)

Each year, hundreds of thousands of Jews and supporters of Israel attend Pride marches. With a few exceptions, these spaces have always been safe and welcoming for the broader Pride community. 

But this year is different. 

For American Jews, anxiety reigns as we head into this Pride season. The appalling rise of antisemitism since Oct. 7 forces us to ask difficult questions. As many Jews increasingly feel alienated and excluded from progressive spaces, we’re left to wonder: If I wear a Jewish symbol, march with a Jewish group, or wave a rainbow flag adorned with the Star of David, will I be safe at Pride?

Even before Oct. 7, LGBTQ Jews had plenty of reason to feel trepidation about their safety at Pride. From blanket bans on Stars of David at past Pride gatherings to antisemitism on display at the recent Sydney Pride, too often Jews feel forced to choose between their LGBTQ and Jewish identities and hide their connection to Israel.

Since Oct. 7, terms like “apartheid,” “genocide” and “Zionism equals racism” are increasingly thrown around casually, often without a nuanced understanding of their impact or the realities they oversimplify. This rhetoric not only alienates but also endangers Jewish queer people. It makes us feel emotionally unsafe. It increases the chances that we will be physically unsafe as well. 

We must not allow the Israel-Palestine conflict to be imported into Pride.

I will always remember the euphoria of the first Pride rally I attended. I was barely 18 years old, in a crowd of people of all ages, races, genders and gender orientations — and they were like me. Queer. It felt safe. It was the first time I experienced that feeling of safety, and it will always stay with me. 

Like Pride events everywhere, it was a vibrant, colorful space for LGBTQ people to celebrate our true authentic selves, without fear or reservation.

But that feeling of safety wasn’t shared by everyone in my small New England town. I soon noticed a few people scattered throughout the crowd wearing paper bags over their heads, with eye holes so they could see but not be seen. I later learned that those faceless people were teachers who, in those days before civil rights protections, needed to protect their identities and their careers. 

They did not feel safe. Will Jews and those who are connected to Israel feel safe this year?

The history of Pride is a testament to courage in the face of adversity. It wasn’t long ago when attending Pride events was a defiant act against societal norms, where participants like those teachers faced tangible threats of discrimination, ridicule and even violence. Even today in some places, our queer community still navigates a gauntlet of hatred as we try to celebrate who we are.

It’s crucial to recognize that within the Jewish community, there is a wide spectrum of views on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, including many who are deeply committed to advocating for Palestinian rights. In fact, many of the 1,200 innocent Israelis murdered on Oct. 7 were Zionists who devoted their lives to reconciliation and peace with their Arab neighbors.

We are at a pivotal moment, one that demands action: What can we do to ensure Pride remains a safe space for everyone, including Jewish participants?

It’s imperative that Pride committees around the country proactively address these concerns. They must implement training programs focused on de-escalation and fostering an environment of understanding and respect.

As individuals who stand in solidarity with the values of Pride, each of us must consider our role in this effort. Will you march alongside those of us who feel vulnerable, offering your presence as a shield against intolerance? Will you engage in dialogues that challenge the importation of external conflicts into Pride, advocating instead for a celebration that unites rather than divides?

The true test of inclusivity at Pride lies not merely in welcoming a diverse crowd, but in ensuring that every participant feels safe and valued. If we remain indifferent to the vulnerabilities faced by Jewish queer people this Pride season, we will fall short of the very ideals of inclusivity and solidarity that Pride stands for.

Just as we expect schools to protect trans and nonbinary students like Nex Benedict, we have a responsibility in the LGBTQ community to ensure that people can carry an Israeli flag or a Palestinian flag, wear a yarmulke or a hijab and be safe.

As we look forward to this year’s Pride, let us commit to making it a space where safety is not a privilege afforded to some but a right enjoyed by all. Let’s engage with our local Pride committees, advocate for comprehensive safety measures and stand in solidarity with those who feel at risk. 

Only then can we celebrate the true spirit of Pride, rooted in love, acceptance and the unwavering belief in equality for all.

Ethan Felson is the executive director of A Wider Bridge.

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A hero has fallen: A tribute to Mike Berman

Former HRC board co-chair was a sophisticated political adviser

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(Blade file photo by Michael Key)

A great hero has fallen. He was a gift to many but all should know that he was one of the greatest gifts ever to the LGBTQ community. Mike Berman was among the most sophisticated political advisers in the history of this country. For the past three generations he has advised presidents, and an army of elected officials, strategists, and operatives. Mike was among a handful of straight people elected to the board of the Human Rights Campaign, the nation’s largest civil rights organization working to advance gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender equality. He was so trusted, he was then elected to co-chair the board of that institution. 

Like so many, I feel so blessed and grateful to have had the benefit of Mike’s wisdom and insight throughout my tenure as president of the Human Rights Campaign. He went on to be a key adviser to each and every HRC leader and a true champion of equality. 

He told us that to know us was to love us and how to slay political dragons in a new way.  A life-long Democrat, his political acumen was brilliant and rooted in finding practical solutions across political lines. He understood back in 1995 (when my tenure began) that over time, most Americans would shed their bias and come to see LGBTQ Americans as worthy of dignity and equality. 

In many ways, Mike was one of the key architects of how HRC was able to forge relationships and garner support from unlikely parts of the political spectrum. I learned so much from Michael about the way social change actually takes place. He more than anyone understood that progress cannot be made and this nation will not be healed unless both parties come together around shared values. In our time, that feels like an impossible formula. Yet the majority of this ruthlessly divided Congress voted to uphold marriage equality last year. 

In addition to the LGBTQ community, Mike was a true believer in female leadership. He helped a legion of women rise to positions of power in Washington and beyond. He did so for the sheer joy of watching women rise in politics and as captains of industry. He grew up in an Orthodox Jewish family in Duluth, Minn. His father was Bob Dylan’s godfather. (You have to love a state that can produce Bob Dylan, Prince and, of course, Mike Berman!) He was also a beloved gentleman. There was nothing more special than a lunch and a rose at I Ricchi, one of his favorite D.C. restaurants.  

Each year, Mike would host a special Valentine’s Lunch for a wide variety of women, all dear friends and colleagues. Even in the face of medical challenges, he soldiered on. The invitations to this year’s Valentine’s lunch went out last week. 

I am a direct beneficiary of Mike’s love and counsel. The Human Rights Campaign family will forever cherish him. Our love and support goes out to Mike’s family, friends and his wonderful wife, Debbie Cowan. 

Elizabeth Birch is former president of HRC.

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