When I lived in Dubai, I got news about Syria from second-hand sources: the BBC news channel that played as I sat on the couch and did my homework, or my mother’s stories about a colleague who lost all her life’s savings. I never knew how to make sense of everything that was going on—why was America more concerned with the safety of chemicals than the safety of Syrian civilians? I directed my questions at my mom, immediately forgetting her answers once I succeeding in extracting them.
I would be lying if I didn’t admit that asking questions was the extent of my worry about Syria. Knowing about the wars in Syria, the turmoil in Egypt, and the coup in Turkey made me feel critical of the privileged life I lived. Looking back, I now realize that I never really cared about the turmoil in other places in the Middle East. I only used my geopolitical knowledge to feel superior to my peers.
Last quarter, my friend asked me if I wanted to go to the Outfest Fusion’s screening of a documentary about a gay Syrian man who won the title of Mr. Gay Syria. I agreed almost immediately; I don’t know what I expected to find—vindication or even more information.
To say that Mr.Gay Syria was a celebration of the joys of being queer would be a lie. But to say that the documentary focused solely on the painful experience of being queer in a country, where queer men were thrown off roofs to make an example to others, would also be a lie. Mr. Gay Syria did not fall into either of these categories; instead, it portrayed the daily lives of its subjects.
In one moment, Husein, the primary subject of the documentary, cooks food in heels. In another, Husein is photographed standing on a roof by a man who is curating a series of photos on the lives of queer Syrians.
The documentary does not focus on big moments in the voyeuristic way news outlets do. It does not hover over bomb blasts and attacks. In a scene where Husein talks about his parents’ attempt to poison him after suspecting his sexuality, we don’t see their actions. We only hear of the events when he relays them to a friend.
The triumph of the documentary, for me, was its stillness, which gave the audience the space to ruminate, to look at the subjects and not past them. Mr. Gay Syria did not give me a decisive happy or sad ending, nor did it provide easy answers the way my mother did with her vast knowledge.
I didn’t walk out feeling vindicated, nor did I emerge with new knowledge. Instead, I walked out speechless. I don’t have the answers to the questions the documentary raises, but, like its subjects, I’m grappling with these questions and configuring how all our identities map out in the complexities of our individual circumstances. That, I hope, is the point of it all.