Many gays and lesbians in Tunisia hide their sexual orientation for fear of disappointing their families. Those who do live openly are often vulnerable to assault.
“I like the rain,” Khalil says, and takes a drag from his cigarette. His gaze wanders over the café patrons and out into the street. People are hurrying from taxis into the bakery, others run out of the Internet café and to the bus stop, where they huddle for shelter. It doesn’t rain often in Tunis, but when it does, within minutes everything is underwater. There’s no functional stormwater system in Tunis.
Khalil smokes heavily, taking a sip now and then from his coffee, and talks: about social norms in Tunisia, the education system and, again and again, about marriage. “Sometimes my father even has tears in his eyes when he talks about it. He says, ‘I want to see your children before I die! I want to live to be at your wedding!’” Khalil’s father has cancer. Khalil is worried, family is important to him.
I post endless photos on Facebook – me arm in arm with pretty girls, me laughing with my supposed new sweetheart.Still, he says: “They want something from me that I just can’t give them.” He’s muscular, with a three-day beard, and soft-spoken. When he explains why he doesn’t want to get married, he whispers it. “I’m gay.”
His eyes start to wander again, and he looks out at the street. “I’m 31. Since I finished my degree, it’s all been about who I’m going to marry, and when.” For many Tunisians in their mid-twenties, marriage is their main goal in life. The wedding stands for the moment the child becomes an adult – moving out of home, starting a family.
“Having family means security and safety. And it also means carrying a big burden of responsibility. With your family, you can count on it that some- one will always be there to help you – no matter what,” Khalil says. At the same time, though, there’s a corresponding obligation to be there for the family.
“Not just your wife and children. Also your parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and so on. The domestic ideal is to always stick together.”
Khalil often longs for more personal freedom, of the kind he’s experienced on holidays in Paris and London. He gets angry at the controlling environment in Tunisia. At the same time, he cherishes the togetherness, the generosity, the compassion that characterise his homeland.
“Here, you’re never alone – not physically, and not in your head. I’m just a small part of the greater whole. I’m not only Khalil, the young engineer who works a lot, loves to travel and happens to be gay. I’m my father’s son, my sister’s brother, I’m a grandchild, a cousin, a neighbour, the colleague of so and so.”
In everything he does, says or thinks, he’s always representing others as well, his family above all. If he makes the wrong move, it won’t just be him who is judged, but his whole community. He always has to think about the consequences any action of his could have for another member of his family.
I had the feeling that I wasn’t safe anywhere anymore.They don’t know that he’s gay, and he has asked that his real name not be published. “One of my ex-boyfriends talked too much, and his cousin found out that he was gay. His mother didn’t stop crying. She was afraid to go out in public. Everyone was gossiping about his parents, saying they hadn’t brought him up properly, that they’d failed.”
Khalil explains that a lot of people in Tunisia think that being gay is a choice, a sudden idea, a conscious rebellion against society. This certainly has a lot to do with education; there are no sex ed classes at school, for example. So people just ended up believing hearsay and traditional prejudices: gays are mentally ill, or want to transgress social norms. “I’m gay, I’ve known it for more than half my life now. But I could never be open about it. My family’s reputation, even my sister’s in Canada, would be destroyed.”
Being gay is a taboo subject in Tunisia. “No one talks about it. It’s considered shameful. Dirty, disgusting, sick, blasphemous.” Khalil sighs. He always uses the English word ‘gay’ when talking about homosexuality, whether he’s speaking English, French or Arabic. All the Arabic words to do with homosexuality are swear words or insults. “Most people here justify their homophobia through religion. They say that Muslims can’t be gay because it goes against the divine order of the world,” Khalil explains.
He describes himself as a believer. He’s read the Quran numerous times, but he’s never found a passage where homosexuality is proscribed: “These are societal traditions and ways of thinking that have solidified over centuries. It’s really complicated.”
At home and at school, children and young people are taught not to contradict their elders and not to ask questions. Obedience is inculcated in the youth. This is how the old values and moral standards are able to endure for generations, Khalil says ruefully.
He diagnoses Tunisian society as having a schizophrenic relationship to modernity: “Everyone has a smartphone, everyone has Facebook, and the middle class are rich enough to travel to Europe from time to time. But on the other hand, these crazy traditions still persist.” For example, women are supposed to be virgins when they get married: “If women aren’t allowed to decide when and with whom they have sex, maybe it’s too much to expect that society will accept me wanting to sleep with another man.”
Khalil stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and immediately lights the next one, the last in the pack. While he smokes, he searches for a fresh pack in his bag. Like most homosexuals in Tunisia, Khalil leads a double life. To conform, he has to deny his sexual orientation, and thus a part of his identity. “I’m constantly having to come up with new lies to explain why I don’t want to get married, even though I fulfill all the criteria.”
I’m constantly having to come up with new lies to explain why I don’t want to get married, even though I fulfill all the criteria. Khalil’s mother, meanwhile, is busily trying to pave the way to a happy marriage for her son. Her current goals: find a potential daughter-in-law, then get her phone number or Facebook name. Khalil meets with men in secret. “I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment, but I’m seeing an architecture student,” he says. He met him at the gym. “Luckily, he has his own apartment,” Khalil smirks.
At home with his parents he can receive visits from men, but he’s afraid that this will rouse suspicion sooner or later. Still, behind closed doors he can be with a man without disturbance. Because of the traditional separation of the sexes, mixed share-houses are impossible. “Men-only flatshares and having male visitors, though, are totally normal. The neighbours are much more likely to eavesdrop if a single man has a female guest.”
In various respects, then, it’s easier to carry on an illicit relationship with a man than with a woman. “Before they’re married, women are much more strictly policed by their parents than men.”
Khalil goes to the gym three times a week, and on the weekend he goes out clubbing. “Then I post endless photos on Facebook – me arm in arm with pretty girls, me laughing with my supposed new sweetheart.” Everyone thinks he’s a ladykiller, having one affair after another, preferring to party rather than get married. He scrambles from one lie to the next. “Only my foreign friends know the truth. Thankfully I have enough money to travel and get out of here sometimes, for a bit of distraction.”
He’s also on the lookout for young women in a similar situation, so that he might eventually be able to satisfy his parents. “Maybe I can find a lesbian woman,” he says. He regularly visits a secret Facebook group with well over 2,000 members, where gay and lesbian Tunisians can find and meet each ot er, and potentially make arrangements for a marriage of convenience.
“It’s not an ideal solution at all. You’re living a lie and that can lead to all sorts of new problems.” Sometimes, though, it’s the only option, Khalil explains. Marriage for freedom? But after the wedding, the questions will continue: “When are you going to have children?”
Khalil tries to hide his sexual orientation as far as is possible. But in Tunis, there’s also a small but very committed group of activists who campaign for gay and lesbian rights. Under the guise of general human rights organisations, they can get official registration. Despite nominal freedoms of expression and the press written into the new Tunisian Constitution, these activists live dangerously.
Not everything can be said in Tunisia, by a long way; media censorship remains as much of a problem as ever. What these activists do is still criminalised. Homosexual acts are forbidden, and punishable with up to three years in prison. The criminal code derives from before the 2010 uprising, and one of the main demands of many human rights groups is that it be revised.
An activist for change
Ramy Ajari has been active for five years with various groups, and set up an organisation called Without Restrictions with some friends. Their logo shows six human silhouettes in the colours of the rainbow, around a black Khamsa symbol – the hand of Fatima, an Islamic talisman.
A 22-year-old activist, Ajari meets almost daily with friends in a café, and some- times he goes alone as well. He always has his laptop with him. He does research on the Internet, forwards messages and posts updates in various Facebook groups. The Internet is the most important means of networking and information exchange. Many of his friends are gay, lesbian or bi-sexual. “Women come out less often, though. I think it’s simply more dangerous and difficult for them.”
Ajari is convinced that the situation of gays and lesbians will only improve once the position of women in society changes. “We live in a traditional, patriarchal society, which means that men decide everything. Men are seen as strong and superior. Women have to be considered equals, the old stereotypical roles have to be replaced.”
Ajari has come out to his close friends, including some heterosexual friends. Many of them have accepted his sexuality, but some broke o contact. “I’m an out gay man – anyone who looks at my Facebook profile can see that.” Ajari comes across as somewhat nervous. His gaze jumps around the room, and he speaks so quickly that he keeps stumbling over his words. His voice is quiet. Sometimes he’ll go abruptly silent for a while, and then begin the next sentence in a flood of words. His slim hands grip the coffee cup so hard that his knuckles turn white.
His hair is combed back into a wave. “Only gays do their hair like this in Tunis,” he says, and laughs. “It’s a bit conspicuous, but so what. I can’t cover up who I am anyway.” The haircut, like his outfit, is more or less ‘typically gay’; many people can guess his orientation, but in Tunisia these kinds of things are usually not addressed. “Most people mind their own business. Talking about it makes them feel uncomfortable. My parents, for example. They definitely know what’s up, but they don’t ask, because they just don’t want to know the truth.”
It’s a different matter with homophobes, who are more likely to make trouble. “I never take the metro or the bus,” Ajari says. Public transport is where sexual harassment happens. Plenty of his friends have been attacked, and so has he. “I do get scared sometimes,” he says, and tells me about a 22-year-old student in Hammam Sousse who, the week before, was sentenced to a year in prison.
Ajari is currently working on a petition for the student’s release. Various human rights groups are going to sign it. Ajari’s laptop is multiply secured, with a special password to access all the sensitive material and another for the harmless files.
I’m an out gay man – anyone who looks at my Facebook profile can see that.The student in Hammam Sousse was arrested in early September. Investigating a homicide case, the police found the student’s number on the call list of the victim’s mobile phone. He was interrogated, but seemed to have no connection to the murder. Then the police determined that the victim had been gay. “They figured it out from SMS and chat conversations. The prosecutor who was working on the case dropped everything and began to investigate the student. Because of the suspicion of homosexuality.”
The student was subjected to an ‘anal test’ – an invasive examination that authorities in a number of MENA countries believe can prove homosexuality – and was sentenced on the evidence of the doctor, who declared that he was probably gay. “This violates the constitution,” Ajari says. “Physical and moral integrity are enshrined in Articles 23 and 24, as is the protection of privacy.”
Tunisia adopted a new constitution in January 2014. It is widely seen as democratic, and is meant to ensure the protection of human rights and dignity. It enshrines the equality of men and women, and fundamental rights such as privacy and freedom of expression. In actuality, however, the Tunisian Constitution is not much more than a piece of paper and has no real validity, unless applied by the powers that be.
The constitution clashes at various points with the criminal code, a remnant of the French colonial era. Since the case of the 22-year-old student in Hammam Sousse, the issue has been discussed in the media, in a debate initiated by organisations working for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, transsexual, intersex and queer (LGBTIQ) people’s rights.
After a few weeks, some politicians also began to weigh in on the debate. At the end of September 2015, several political parties were calling for the abolition of Section 230, which prescribes punishment for homosexuality, as well as for a revision of the criminal code.
These were controversial opinions, but nevertheless, for once a public debate was taking place. Moncef Marzouki, interim president for three years, posted a link on his Facebook page criticising the practice of anal testing.
On September 28, Minister of Justice Mohamed Salah Aissia demanded the decriminalisation of homosexuality, arguing that Section 230 of the criminal code is inconsistent with the constitution. Shortly thereafter, however, the president, Beji Caid Essebsi, explained that the minister’s position was not supported by the government, which would not be considering a revision of the criminal code.
So it’s a hopeless struggle? Ajari says he often sinks into utter despair. “So much seems really bleak. We have an unbelievably long way to go.” Giving up, however, is not an option. “I had the opportunity to go to Canada for a year, but how can I work for change here if I’m in Canada?”
A friend of Ajari’s left Tunisia in June 2015, applying for asylum in Belgium. For Sourour Chaloiti, her country had become too dangerous. Chaloiti is openly lesbian and has been physically assaulted on numerous occasions. Until the autumn of 2013, she lived in downtown Tunis, near the Al-Fateh Mosque, a meeting place for radical Salaffists.
The situation has only gotten really bad since the revolution, says Chaloiti: “Suddenly there were no more rules, and people began to take the law into their own hands. No one was afraid of the consequences. They already had enough other problems.”
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She was more and more frequently attacked in public because of her appearance. The 25-year-old has multiple facial piercings, and large, colourful tattoos on her right leg and both arms. “People started asking me, ‘Are you a man or a woman?’ I’ve always gone to the men’s cafés, smoked and watched football. That didn’t use to bother anyone. Suddenly I was being bombarded with comments – ‘Put on a headscarf! God doesn’t like women who act as if they were men!’”
At first she was only verbally attacked. Mostly she was reviled as an atheist. Everything changed after she received a visit from an imam wanting to talk to her about faith. “Of course I let him into my apartment. I explained to him that I’m not an atheist. I don’t pray at the moment, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not a believer.”
Many young people in Tunisia describe themselves as Muslim, but not practising – which means something like “Right now I am still young and free, but soon I’ll be a responsible adult.” Women often start wearing a headscarf, so as to say, “Now I have become reasonable, I’m an honest woman, I’ll find myself a husband.”
Three days after the visit from the imam, a man grabbed Chaloiti in the street and threatened her. “He pushed me against a wall and said, ‘We know everything! The imam saw the homosexual symbol in your apartment!’ I didn’t realise that the imam would know the symbolism of the rainbow flag. If I’d known that, I might have taken it down.”
From then on, Chaloiti was verbally abused on a daily basis. “Wherever I went, someone followed me.” For eight months, she was stalked by a young Salaffist from the Fateh Mosque who had fallen in love with her girlfriend and blamed Chaloiti for “having turned her lesbian”.
Chaloiti stopped leaving the house alone. “Except for one time, during Ramadan in 2012. I’d had a fight with my girlfriend, I was upset and I wanted to go out for cigarettes.” Her stalker was waiting outside her apartment building, and ambushed her. He was drunk and hurled abuse at her, threatening to kill her if she didn’t “become normal”. He hit her and then attacked her with a broken bottle, wounding her in the stomach. Chaloiti still has a ten centimetre-long scar from the assault.
She lost a lot of blood and was in hospital for days. “Back then I believed in the system. I made a statement to the police and everything. But there were no witnesses.” The police weren’t interested in pursuing the case, and there was no investigation.
In summer 2013 she was assaulted again. “I’m out at night and four guys come up to me. They yell, ‘We’ve got the lesbian bitch! Come on, let’s have some fun!’ In five minutes they’d knocked me unconscious. They stomped on my hands, on my back, on my head.” She had multiple broken ribs and severe head injuries. Her knee was shattered, her nose broken. Chaloiti shows her hands, which are covered in countless scars. She shows photos of herself with her hair shaved; there are large scars on her head.
She woke up after two weeks in a coma, blind. She had detached retinas, and needed a second operation. “Then I had to grow my hair back, so I couldn’t leave the house anymore,” she says, sighing. She tried to make a complaint, but the police told her it was impossible to find the perpetrators among the thousands of bearded men in the Lafayette district.
Chaloiti suffers from her injuries to this day; her knee is stiff, and it hurts when she walks. She also underwent psychological treatment, but she wasn’t able to speak openly. “Where in Tunis can you find a psychologist able to treat a lesbian?”
In the autumn of 2013, Chaloiti moved to Carthage, to one of the fancier neighbourhoods, and began working as a sound technician. She had to overcome a lot in order to take this step. “I was depressed, I was just sitting around at home, constantly afraid of further persecution.” She tried to only go out during the day, and never unaccompanied if possible. She tried to become inconspicuous: no shorts or t-shirts that would expose her tattoos, and she grew her hair long, of course. She tried to rebuild her life.
But in the spring of 2015 she was violently assaulted again, multiple times. On the 9th of March she was in downtown Tunis, not far from the lively shopping strip on Avenue Habib Bourguiba. A group of men dragged her into a corner. As they rained punches on her, they said: “We know exactly who you are, you bitch! We’re going to exterminate you all, you disgusting pack of blasphemers!”
Nobody stepped in to help, although there were numerous police offcers in the area. “The police knew. No one helped me. For them, I’m not Tunisian. I have no rights in their eyes.”
Chaloiti, who is active in Without Restrictions and a member of the feminist group Chouf (Tunisian for ‘Look!’), decided to stay in Carthage from then on. But there, too, she was attacked, threatened with knives and beaten up. She can list the dates from memory: on the 19th of April, she was beaten by three men; on the 6th of May, a group of men threatened her with a knife; on the 20th of May, two men slammed her head against the door of a car, directly outside her apartment building. “I had the feeling that I wasn’t safe anywhere anymore.”
She always went to the police to le a complaint. No one was ever interested in making an investigation. Instead of looking for the perpetrators, the police informed her parents, who live in Béja in Tunisia’s north, that their daughter was a lesbian. “That was when it was over for me. I had to leave.”
Sourour Chaloiti left Tunisia in June 2015. At present she is living in Belgium, waiting for her asylum application to be processed. She never wanted to emigrate. “I’m Tunisian. I can’t just live somewhere else!”
This article as first published in the 2016/1 edition of zenith.
