From Experience to Analysis

An analytical article based on the writer’s community and institutional experiences around the social bubbles formed among gender and sexually diverse individuals (referred to in this article as people from Al-Jaw) in Arabic-speaking regions, exploring how their relationships take shape, how their identities intersect, and how these dynamics impact attempts at unity among them.

Oppression and violence have been a shared experience for many of the people around me, which led to the emergence of various social bubbles among individuals with diverse gender identities and sexual orientations. In this article, I will use the term “people from Al-Jaw” to describe this group. This “bubble” resembles a spiderweb—wide, yet fragile; most members know each other personally or have at least heard of one another. Over time, internal violence became part of the prevailing culture within these networks, to the point that it began to be perceived as normal.

Through my presence in multiple Arabic-speaking regions, I noticed that these dynamics repeat almost everywhere—though they differ in form depending on factors such as economic class, migration status, citizenship, gender, and language. It may seem natural to imagine that all people from Al-Jaw come together in one unified bubble, but reality reveals the existence of smaller, separate, or intersecting bubbles formed along lines of gender, economic status, type of migration, citizenship, religious and linguistic background, and even skin color.

For example, in Arabic-speaking areas where I lived as a refugee and spoke the local language, I noticed two primary bubbles: one comprised of people from Al-Jaw who were citizens, and another of those who were refugees. Sometimes they intersected, sometimes they remained separate—but gender was the strongest factor in determining the form of these relationships. Men attracted to men had the highest degree of intersection between the two bubbles, despite the clear presence of social and economic hierarchies. And although there was visible social separation, there was a significant amount of sexual interaction between the two bubbles—interaction which did not necessarily reflect deep social connection.

As for trans individuals, particularly trans women, social and class hierarchies within their relationships were less rigid. This is because the harsh realities they face tend to minimize the disparities between them. In this context, trans men who were citizens often remained separate from trans men who were refugees, while refugee trans men tended to intersect more with trans women—whether citizens or refugees—forming a closer-knit bubble.

Meanwhile, women who are attracted to women tend to cluster within a bubble closely connected to each other, sometimes intersecting with trans men who are citizens due to social and psychological proximity. Some refugee men attracted to men gravitate toward a bubble closer to trans women, primarily because both groups may engage in sex work—which itself becomes a social and economic link.

In every Arabic-speaking region, the nature of these bubbles changes according to local politics and social dynamics. This article, for instance, does not explore the situation of people from Al-Jaw in Morocco who come from non-Arabic-speaking nationalities (like Cameroon), as the dynamics of interaction with them differ fundamentally due to factors of language, skin color, refugee status, and historical and social context.

Likewise, this article does not examine people from Al-Jaw who speak Arabic and have migrated or sought asylum in East Asian countries such as Indonesia, India, or Thailand—despite their growing numbers, especially in Indonesia. Many have avoided applying for asylum from Lebanon, Turkey, or Jordan due to prolonged waiting periods, uncertainty around resettlement, and overcrowded asylum systems. Additionally, some Lebanese people from Al-Jaw have avoided seeking asylum in certain countries due to political instability and the rise of discrimination—particularly against those from Shiite backgrounds.

The situation varies from one country to another based on the political and social context. People from Al-Jaw navigate their asylum journeys by trying to understand how each place might treat them—not only as gender/sexually diverse individuals but also as carriers of social, religious, and sectarian backgrounds whose treatment may change depending on regional political shifts. This was evident, for example, in Syria, in how treatment differed for Alawites or Druze—factors that directly impact the mobility and choices of people from Al-Jaw.

With the increase in Arabic-speaking trans women in Thailand—due to access to clinics and hospitals specializing in trans healthcare and surgeries—a large network of them has formed. They are active on social media, showcasing different lifestyles, which makes many others aspire to reach there if they can.

In Western countries—particularly when looking at a country like Canada—this separation persists and deepens, but shifts from being primarily gender-based to being driven largely by social class, economic status, migration pathway, and citizenship. Those who arrived through economic immigration programs, study permits, or by applying for asylum after arriving by plane formed a bubble closer to one another—due to shared language, education, and integration ability. Even though sub-bubbles exist based on gender identity or sexual orientation, they still remain more cohesive—even if some of them are trans—simply because of socioeconomic and class similarities.

Conversely, those who arrived as refugees through resettlement programs or overland migration formed another bubble, bonded by limited language proficiency (mostly Arabic), lower educational levels, and—in some cases—illiteracy. However, even within this bubble, class and education create further splits: those who know English or French or hold university degrees tend to intersect more with the first bubble (those who arrived through studies, immigration, or by plane).

In Quebec, for example—Canada’s primarily French-speaking province—social integration is often easier for people from Al-Jaw from North Africa who already speak French, regardless of their gender or sexual orientation. This facilitates forming relationships beyond the Arabic-speaking queer circle. Meanwhile, many from conflict zones like Syria, Yemen, and Iraq typically speak only Arabic, or limited English, and struggle to learn French—keeping them confined within closed Arabic-speaking bubbles.

Here, another deeply influential factor emerges: skin color. For example, Arabic-speaking individuals from Eritrea, Chad, or Sudan—particularly those resettled from Kenya—experience harsher racism in the West based on skin color. This leads them to align more with bubbles built around shared experiences of racialization rather than language, gender identity, or nationality alone. Consequently, bubbles within people from Al-Jaw in the diaspora are not only overlapping—they are fractured and highly complex.

As for Palestinian people from Al-Jaw, their situation is even more complex. There are no stable or clear asylum programs for them due to divergent legal identities depending on where they are (Gaza, the West Bank, East Jerusalem, ‘48 territories, or refugee camps in Lebanon, Syria, or Jordan)—not to mention Palestinians who hold other nationalities. Their conditions shift alongside international politics and renewed waves of displacement. Addressing their situation requires a separate, in-depth article and will not be covered here.

From my experience, I have observed that violence inflicted on people from Al-Jaw is often reproduced within their own bubbles. The more external violence they face, the more likely it is to be mirrored and amplified internally. Thus, the most marginalized and oppressed are often trans individuals—especially trans women—whose social bubbles experience the highest levels of conflict and violence compared to other bubbles.

Simultaneously, social networks among trans women are the largest and most interconnected—rooted not necessarily in formal structures, but in shared lived experience, daily survival, mutual support, and interdependence. Yet, this interconnectedness can sometimes carry elements of harm and violence. Other bubbles tend to be more dispersed, fragmented, and lack the depth of coordination that emerges among trans women, regardless of how much conflict exists among them.

This raises a central question:
How is it that the largest, most interconnected, and field-active social network is also the weakest in leadership within organizations working on people from Al-Jaw issues?
How do men attracted to men often occupy leadership roles first, followed by women attracted to women, while trans individuals are pushed to the margins—even though they are the ones most present in daily confrontation?

In my view, the answer lies in the fact that those who can accumulate more advantages—such as education, language proficiency, professional experience, and familiarity with institutional systems—are more likely to reach leadership. Men often have broader access to such opportunities than women, and women more than trans individuals.

When trans leadership does emerge, it is often shaped by two main factors:
1️Citizenship status;
2️The age at which the person began living openly as trans.

The earlier someone starts living as trans, the fewer opportunities they typically have to pursue education, work, and socioeconomic advancement. As a result, current trans leaders are often those who were citizens to begin with, or who began transitioning later—after securing some level of professional or financial stability. Some even held leadership or managerial roles before transitioning.

Meanwhile, many trans women and highly marginalized individuals from Al-Jaw have been denied formal education. Many did not finish high school, or even primary school, and some never attended school at all—leading to illiteracy and lack of skills considered essential in institutional leadership. As a result, sex work often became the most accessible path—either due to social and economic exclusion or lack of alternatives.

But when we discuss institutional leadership regarding people from Al-Jaw, the most urgent question becomes:
Why do leadership roles go to those who possess educational, economic, and social privileges—even though they are less socially connected—while trans women, who carry the real social presence, remain excluded from leadership?

My analysis suggests that institutional dynamics simply reproduce the same hierarchies found in broader society. The management of funding, logistics, proposal writing, reporting, advocacy, and formal communication requires technical and linguistic skills rarely available to those who have lived intense marginalization—such as many trans women and others in vulnerable situations.

Thus, those with such institutional tools rise into leadership, while those best suited for real community leadership—through lived experience and real connections—are pushed into categories like “beneficiaries” or “victims.” Even if they are victims of violence, reducing them to that role alone, and denying their leadership potential, is an added injustice.

Overcoming this requires dismantling how the humanitarian aid industry entered our communities—especially into the Al-Jaw spaces—over the past twenty years. It created organizations shaped by external donor logic, producing “activist identities” based on funding compatibility instead of depth of lived experience.

Over time, activism turned into a form of performance and competition—through institutions and social media—promoting models of the “ideal savior” or “heroic activist” whose impact is measured by followers, funding, or international spotlight, rather than building genuine networks of solidarity or tackling root causes of vulnerability.

This model—what I describe as distributing “crumbs to a hungry group”—nurtured competition rather than care, reinforcing stereotypes of people from Al-Jaw as perpetual victims in need of rescue, instead of recognizing them as agents capable of producing alternative frameworks of justice and solidarity.

The real danger is that with time, this system becomes more deeply rooted. What is twenty years old today could become nearly unchangeable in fifty or a hundred years. Therefore, liberation must go beyond "fixing" institutions; it requires reimagining the work entirely—outside conventional funding logic and beyond the fear of losing support.

Before we think of building a shared future for people from Al-Jaw, we must radically rethink how we build it, who leads it, and how to ensure we do not reproduce the very hierarchies we claim to resist. This won't happen unless we break away from dependency on temporary aid systems that offer crumbs for a single day, leaving people without real thought for tomorrow.

Methodological Note:
This text is not based on formal academic research, as the writer does not have the necessary resources or support to conduct such a study. Instead, it relies on the writer’s direct observations and lived experiences within the community, as well as practical and volunteer work with a wide range of people from Al-Jaw. It is also written as an act of documentation—especially given the early passing of many trans individuals, whose stories, knowledge, and lived experiences are often buried with them. Therefore, this text represents an analytical, experiential, and documentary attempt—not a scientific study in the conventional sense.

This is a first attempt in a series that may grow through the experiences of those who read it. If you see yourselves in any part of it—or even outside all of it—you are invited to contribute. Not to confirm what has been said, but to expand, critique, or propose new questions. For when personal experiences are written, they become part of a collective memory that does not disappear with their holders.