One Man's Tale

He was standing in the lobby of the Marriot Hotel in Cairo, just in front of the reception desk, when I first laid eyes on him. A chubby, pleasant-looking man in his mid thirties, he wore a fashionable black turtleneck and a pony tail that set him apart from the conservative-looking Arab businessmen congregated in the opulent lobby. I nodded at him and flashed him a copy of NEWSWEEK, as we'd agreed on the telephone; he gave me a little smile of acknowledgment and followed me out the glass door and onto the banks of the Nile. As we stepped into a taxi for a trip across town to Cairo's bustling bazaar district, Horus, as he called himself, admitted that his pony tail was a risque statement in today's conservative Egypt. "People give me looks," he said, in near perfect English. "I'm now considered a 'suspect'."

These are perilous times to be gay in Egypt. During the past 12 months, a massive police crackdown against homosexual men has terrified the country's deeply closeted gay community and raised a chorus of criticism from human rights groups in Europe and America. Nobody knows how many gays are languishing in Egyptian jails--the number is certainly in the hundreds--or what prompted the massive dragnet. But because of the strict societal taboos against homosexuality, Egyptian human-rights groups have shunned such cases, leaving it to a handful of local gay activists to raise legal fees and provide other support. The work can be hazardous. Gay activists in Egypt risk ostracism, arrest and even violence. But for crusaders like Horus, one of perhaps a dozen Egyptians who has 'come out' to friends and family, heightening the world's awareness of human rights abuses takes priority over personal safety.

Born into an upper-middle-class Cairo family, Horus came out eight years ago, he told me, following a traumatic breakup with a longtime lover. The man had been a fellow performer in Horus's theater group in Cairo; but he was so ashamed of the relationship that he kept it a deep secret, refusing to let them be seen together in public. Eventually he left Horus, claiming that homosexuality was a "sin". At first, Horus felt betrayed and angry. "Then I thought to myself, 'how can I blame him when I'm doing the same thing he's doing?" he says, sipping thick Arabic coffee in an outdoor stall. " I also was hiding who I really am."

He first revealed his sexual identity to his theater colleagues, most of whom proved to be supportive. His immediate family was far less so. "My brother was very homophobic. He accused me of being sick, called me a faggot and told me I had to be treated by a psychiatrist." His father, a chemist at a Cairo university, responded by walking out of the room and refusing to discuss the subject further. (His mother had died years earlier) Even sympathetic relatives responded with a measure of denial: A favorite aunt still invites him to her house for social engagements--to meet available women. "She still believes that I just haven't met the right girl," he said with a resigned smile.

Gradually, his activism deepened. In 1999 Horus wrote and directed an experimental play for a Cairo theater called 'Harem'--a pun on the Arabic word 'Haram,' meaning forbidden--a semi autobiographical work dealing with homosexuality and other taboos. The play was praised by many Cairo critics and selected as a entry into an international theater competition in Europe. But some members of the Egyptian nomination committee called the work "immoral" and, after a heated debate, the play was withdrawn. Since then, Horus says, he has had difficulty finding financial support or a stage for his plays.

Even as his work in the theater dried up, he was finding a new identity. In 1998 Horus became the "moderator" of an Internet mailing list and chat room for homosexuals that caught on in the Cairo underground; within a year more than 800 subscribers had signed on.