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(The author is a marketing professional working in Dubai. Their name has been concealed to protect their identity. The following is an as-told-to account, recorded and written by Rohini Roy.)
Disney Pixar’s animated movie Lightyear will soon hit theatres across the world, but not in the United Arab Emirates and a dozen other Middle Eastern and Asian countries. Reason? It includes a same-sex kiss.
The film would have been a perfect stepping stone for representation of same-sex relationships in Dubai’s big screens. It would have been a great start to normalise such relationships for children. Instead, the portrayal of a same-sex relationship, and a brief kiss between two characters, is most likely to have pushed the government to ban the animated film.
I made Dubai my home 10 years ago, in search of better employment and financial opportunities. Little did I realise that I would be moving to a region that is far more patriarchal than where I grew up. In the decade since, I make a difficult decision almost every day – suppressing my queer identity for financial stability.
This is a country where two men do not even have the freedom to hold hands, let alone wear their identity on their sleeves.
For us, the process of finding a sense of community and belonging here is a nightmare. Our identity is a constant threat to our existence. People from the community are afraid to reach out to each other, simply because of the inherent fear that the person may ‘out’ them. Being ourselves could land us behind bars any moment.
When the sensational Call Me by Your Name released in 2017, the entire world was raving about it. It was almost a celebration for the queer community. But I had to wait until I could travel out of the country to watch it.
Accessing censored movies here is a complicated, exhausting process – but you are tempted to take that risk because that’s how much representation matters. We either download queer-themed films in handheld devices when we are abroad or use a VPN. Some even go to the extent of installing personal satellite devices in their homes, knowing well that it could backfire at them any moment.
Bollywood movies, such as Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020) and the recent super-hit Badhaai Do, which have been appreciated for representation (with all their problems, of course), did not even air here in the UAE.
Growing up in India, I knew I was queer when I was 15. But growing up during the 1980s and the 1990s also meant limited access to internet and chat rooms to connect with ‘people like me.’
This also meant that everything and everyone screamed 'patriarchy’ and ‘masculinity’ at me. I was reprimanded by family members for not being muscular enough, for not enjoying football or cricket, and for being ‘soft like a woman.’
I worked on being financially independent to reclaim control over my life. Eventually, I opened up to my parents and came out to them, too. I grew up wondering if my feelings were valid. I questioned why I’d feel more excited when I looked at a man even though that I was ‘taught’ otherwise. I would ask myself if I was 'normal.’ Representation in movies – the ones that Bollywood is proudly making today – would have given hope to a small-town boy like me.
It would have made me realise I am as ‘normal’ as anyone else. My identity is as valid. And so is my love.
Without doubt, the landmark verdict by the Supreme Court of India in 2018 has changed the way LGBTQIA+ people live their lives in India. There is legal backing, an undeniable recognition and validation – even if the Indian society has miles to go.
I’m denied the privileges a heterosexual person is granted here. What’s normal for them is a luxury for us. I must think twice before expressing love – something which is intrinsic to being human.
Only if I live, will I be able to celebrate my sexuality. My existence is a constant conundrum – I must choose between my livelihood and sexuality every day.
I am constantly choosing to live in a country that provides no dignity to my sexual orientation but gives me a better chance at survival. Let me reiterate, it is not an easy choice to make.
(This is an opinion piece and the views expressed are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)
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Published: 16 Jun 2022,10:00 AM IST