April 2000

My dear Emil, the mosque was interesting, more socially than spiritually. The imam kept saying to the women up in the balcony: "Sist-arrrs, ibleez, sis-tarrrs, ibleez be quiet!" One woman was so angry at all the kids screaming that she screamed at their mothers to take their kids and walk out of the prayer hall, but she was loud and hysterical, and the acoustics of the mosque made her voice reverberate. Of course, down with the men, I couldn't see the women, but my mother said that the woman, named Hena, cried after the outburst. 
I was, of course, grumbling to myself during the sermon. Not that there was anything wrong in what he said, just that he was leaving out so much about how destructive religion is. I kept having the distinct feeling that today would be my last voluntary venture to the Islamic Center. 


It was very reassuring to have a friend tell me about your site. I think I lived so many years with the ignorance that there were no gay Assyrians. I have read some of Emil's diaries and while they are painful to see they also reflect a lot of what I went through. I would like to contact him. I understand the reluctance because I'm sure you have come under attack by the Assyrian community. I would just like to make contact by e-mail and I'm hoping Emil will give me the chance to at least correspond. Thanks. 


Emil, This is all very frightening to me to even make contact and correspond with another Assyrian gay man. I live in Los Angeles so I am somewhat removed from the tribe and I do mean tribe since they will lynch you if you are not one of them. I alienated myself long ago from the community but sadly as I get older I yearn to make that contact and find out more about my heritage. When I was told of this site I immediately reached out and how reassuring it was to have someone reach their hand out to take me in. It's strange, I was out to dinner this evening with my mother and I had such a strong urge to tell her but I couldn't. Living this way is so painful not because I want to tell my mother that I slept with another man but because I feel as though I am living a lie. I will admit something I hide from even those close to me. I have not been tested for HIV because I feel if I was diagnosed as positive it would not only crush me but I would have to come out to my mother. I know my mother knows deep in her heart but will not admit it to herself and hides behind the idea that one day I will bring her grandchildren... and what a wound that opens in itself. I don't think I need to tell you the burden placed on an only son's shoulders in our culture and what that has done to me is not easily repaired. It's a wonder I didn't become an addict of sorts to hide my pain. But you reached out and how much more am I reassured. Where do you live? If you would rather not discuss personal matters I understand. I won't divulge much of my identity because I am very suspicious by nature... another one of the many problems plaguing me from growing up gay and Assyrian. It's sad and yet as I write this I am moved but I am happy too because now I know I'm not the only one. 
Your friend,
Anonymous


I absolutely understand and respect your present need for anonymity even though I think this is a great opportunity to shed that skin, get rid of that fear, and to start something different and new. Being Assyrian and gay does not have to mean living in fear and with constant loneliness. I would advise that you take that step. I will not expose you. I will not mishandle what you trust to tell me. But take your time. Do as you please. Do and say what feels right. 
So much of what you said in your e-mail really touched some tender places in my heart. Assyrians can be so hot-blooded and mean and terrible. I've heard some awful stories from other queer Assyrians, stories about being disowned, threatened to be killed by their own brothers. It's all too real. 
What you said about distancing yourself from the Assyrian community sounds familiar. But to distance yourself from other gay Assyrians might be too extreme. I, too, feel the need to return to my roots with age. I miss speaking my language. I miss looking into dark eyes. There's nothing more wonderful than talking to someone who truly understands what you mean about family and culture. 
The HIV issue. Wow! It's a big one. Every living and sexually active human being grapples with this dilemma. Even my straight friends complain about the same fears. I dread it. I also dread any sexually transmitted disease. We feel compassion for those with cancer but incriminate those with AIDS. It just stems from our own homophobia. I have accepted the reality. On one hand I would be devastated if I tested positive, but on the other hand I would accept and overcome it. Would your mother have to know? I don't know how old you are- you could be a teenager or in your thirties, but please please please protect yourself!!! There's no reason why we should even worry about HIV. Don't fuck up, and if you do that's all right. You were only being natural and human in your desires for sexual expression. I'm no expert but I think anything can be overcome. We have to stand back and define what gay means to us, as Assyrians in America. I found out that for me it means being sexually aware and awake without risking my life and integrity. 
One of the first gay Assyrian men I met here in the Bay Area died of AIDS. He was amazing. Sweet, smart, passionate, loving. He was not an animal, he was not a whore, he was not "a fag who deserved AIDS". He was everyone. Normal. Tender. He taught me a lot. 
I imagine that being an only Assyrian son has its pressures, but you're not at fault here. Our parents need to stop being selfish and stubborn and love us for who we are. I have seen some parents do it. It is possible to love our children as they are. Assyrian parents are too stubborn. They would rather make other people happy than to accept their adult children as they are. It's always about what other people might say. 
I recently broke down and had it out with my mother. She said something insensitive and everything I had held inside came right out. I told her how selfish she is for not loving me as I am. She said she loved me and would not want harm to come to a single strand of hair on my head, but that she would not understand my being gay. 'Well then, if you won't love every aspect of me, one-hundred percent, then I will never feel loved by you.' These exchanges are always painful and one stops to see the point in them, and feels empty. So, we have to live our lives. Without our parents. I think every adult faces this for different reasons... 
We have a lot of work ahead of us. Personally, I am only concerned with loving and trusting and being the best human being for others as well as for myself. What else is there in life that matters more? 
I really hope you achieve some level of peace with yourself and your family. I wish you all the best with all my heart. Remember, I think it's amazing that you've survived being gay and Assyrian because it is not an easy task. 


Emil-baby, I must tell you I have a crush on you before I lose my nerve. It's not just about nerve- it's about wanting to see you face to face, to know what kind of crush it is, to communicate without just words across the screen. Sometimes, at the beginning of profound friendships, there is erotic energy, the feeling of a crush. There is no requirement that a crush has to follow one course, or even that a romantic relationship or friendship has to translate into a loverly relationship. But I wanted to tell you that I have a crush on you, that's all. You are a lovely lovely person. Your eyes expressed so much sensitivity to me when I met you. I felt immediately at ease with you, and beyond that, connected across the room. 
I love you,
Tariq


Tariq, you must know that I have a crush on you too, but that I am hesitant about disclosing this because I have to take responsibility for my emotions when I have voiced them. Yes, I like you... no, now I love you... on many levels, from many peaks. I certainly want to see you and speak with you, take you to the beautiful places I go here and spend time with you laughing at ourselves, and talking talking talking. But how will I feel with you in person? Will I be shy and withdrawn or natural and open? What will I expect of myself? How do I know what's right decorum and what isn't? I have had no examples, no mentors in romance, no experience. Tariq, I am complicated. I want to be healthy for you, strong and independent without being elusive and out of touch. 


Abdel's party was an experience to remember, not just as a spectator but a true participant. I felt a part of things and at ease. There were men there I found attractive and as I observed them I understood that almost all gay Arab men resemble little boys, what with their long lashes, their big brown eyes so curious, eager, and flirtatious, the waves in their hair. The evening was a masquerade. No, it was not mendacity in the air, in the wine, or the white smoke that plumed out of the hookah, but a certain mystery. There was double meaning to everything, an underbelly to every phrase, a second intention, another language to each tongue- all things real and salient, yet subtle. Like vibrant sexuality in a place of worship.
I forgot my past experiences, let go.
Khaled was charming, had a snake's snicker, a panda's seemingly harmless exterior, was polite, but strange. He hung out at the hookah and offered me a hit. We smoked together. Everyone else danced to Arabic music. I stepped out for air. There were too many of us falling off the fringes of the rug.
Khaled had said I have bedroom eyes. His advances continued whenever no one was looking and strangely ceased when others were present, and the grin assumed a dignified demeanor, the eyes lessened their glare, focus shifted, body language muted. I felt that if I had said anything to anyone that they would have taken one look at him and doubted me.
It did not matter what Khaled said or did. I was safe from his advances.
It was a night of two faces, many meanings, double possibilities, opposites. To each smile there was a teardrop, to every kind gesture a crime. It was almost like having psychic sensations while talking to people- anyone: white, black, Arab, Iranian, straight, gay, young, old. I explained to myself that I am merely growing realistic in my expectations of people, all people.
Pouneh, an Iranian lesbian, asked if I was romantically interested in any of the men there. I looked down into my glass of wine and said, 'They really are cute, every one of them. But I'm just not interested in dating or whatever.' She looked at me sympathetically and asked why. The dark garden was behind her, a darling garden with a few chairs, a huge tree with swooping branches, and a mysterious shack set back. 'Because I can almost predict step by step, word for word, what will happen. Happiness with men is impossible for me.' The garden knew I was lying to myself, the night saw that I sabotaged others. The stars flickered. A night of one question with many answers. What I said was not what I meant or believed somewhere in my heart, elsewhere in the world...
Abdel had been sweet to invite me and I wanted with all my heart to get to know him, but I could not get hold of him. He was slim and slipped through the bodies, through the railing of the deck, through the cracks, like a man-shaped cloud. The one time I was able to catch up with him I spent those minutes drowning in the glare of his sad eyes. I was tempted to throw a stone in them and listen for the sound of it hitting bottom. I wanted to take him into my arms, but how does one hold mist? Next to the sadness I detected desire, like a subtle flavor on the tip of my tongue.
Why is it that when men want me it angers me and when they are indifferent I feel cheated? Of course, these are not the only two reactions I have to desire.
Someone came out to the yard and announced that "the show" was about to begin. He waved for us to "please come into the house". We snuffed out our cigarettes and shuffled inside, wondering what this show was and what it involved. I had a hunch that it was a belly dancer, maybe even Jacques! Everyone sat on the floor along the walls. The light was harsh, too bright. Someone turned up the volume and suddenly the front door swung open. Jacques came half-dancing half-running into the room. He was in costume and barefoot. We clapped, howled, screamed. Jacques pulled people out of the crowd and danced with them. My eyes were on fire. Suddenly I was pulled into the center of the room and was dancing with Jacques. We spun round and round. 'How are you? It's been a long time,' I nearly shouted over the music. "Well, but exhausted." 'Really? Exhausted? I couldn't tell.' We circled each other and shook to the drum. "I just got back from tour," he said.
'Where did you go?'
"Kuwait."
When the music stopped we kissed and I stepped outside for air. Jacques eventually came out and we strayed from others and talked in one corner. I lit his cigarette. At first the talk was idle, his eyes did not meet mine. I asked him about the tour. He said that it had been emotionally depleting and demanding, but that it had made him a lot of money. He said something fantastical about a prince giving him a car, a Jaguar. I was skeptical, but acted as though I were impressed.
"Was your audience in Kuwait straight?' I asked with interest.
"Yes! Male dancers are the rage now. I felt like I gave so much of myself on stage. On tour my costumes were more revealing, so the men responded more to me. But I got sick of the old sleazy men. They looked at me like they wanted to eat me. They had that look like they wanted to fuck me. Little did they know that I could fuck them!"
'Oh, I know you can,' I said playfully. We laughed.
Then I felt what I imagined was uncomfortable, unresolved air between us, so I said, 'You know Jacques, that night has given me great masturbation material.'
"Then how come you never returned my calls?' he asked, sounding almost affected.
'I guess we were just busy. I've been through a lot since then. But I want to talk to you because I don't want there to be anything unresolved between us.'
"I thought you didn't want to see me."
'I must have thought the same thing about you.'
When it came time to leave Jacques followed me outside. I said stupid things to pass the time. I did not want him kissing my neck. "Let's make plans right now," he said on the dark sidewalk.
'OK. Call me.'
"No, let's make plans now. Friday?"
'I work the weekends.'
"Wednesday?"
'Er... OK. Six? Metro?'
In the car Pouneh wanted to know what Jacques and I had been talking about. "You like him?"
'You know Pouneh, Jacques and I slept together once. Two years ago.'
"So, you got a date?"
'No, it's not a date. We're just going to build the friendship. I guess I don't like him in that way. I don't know.'
On the dark and lonely drive home, crossing Golden Gate, I wondered why I was so distant with Jacques. He had been expressive, bold, but I had backed away as much as I could without being hurtful. I turned down the music and the questions came. Do I, expressive and loving, have a fear of intimacy? I am not demonstrative. Is it that my parents were never affectionate with each other? But can the poor parents be blamed for everything? I crossed the bridge, passed through the tunnel, the city faded in the fog and the distance, followed the lane, got home, undressed, but found no answers.
I did not look forward to Wednesday but went. We met. I was open to good things happening. We talked further about Jacques' tour in Kuwait and he said that at the end of each night they had to pick broken glass out of his feet.
'Because you dance barefoot,' I said more to myself than to him.
"That, and my costumes had glass beads sewn on them that would fall off and I'd step on them while dancing. It was awful."
Just then Jacques' cell phone rang and it happened to be Khaled. I insisted he join us. Earlier Jacques had explained that he and Khaled had had a working relationship, but that they'd had a two-year falling out. "Khaled is fucked up," Jacques had blurted.
Over dinner the three of us had a complex and passionate discussion regarding relationships, acceptance, jealousy, abstinence, defiance. Khaled admitted that he was jealous and possessive and that he associated jealousy with love. He said that he felt loved when someone was jealous with him and wanted to know his whereabouts at all times.
I said I was unwilling to commit.
"You'll be wonderful in a relationship," Jacques said, flashing a smile.
I admitted that I had recently discovered that Arab men are extremely flirtatious and forward. Jacques agreed that it is all or nothing with Arab men.
After dinner we went to a bar. There were martinis and small round tables with votive candles. There was laughter. I was grateful for the night, but as well stifled by Jacques and Khaled's low-pressure attraction. They seemed to make intangible but palpable demands I could not deliver. I felt they resented me. When Jacques and I stepped outside to smoke I could not respond to his touch and said, "I hope I have not led you on." He said I hadn't. I was cautious, which is a terrible thing to be. It is not a graceful and natural state for me.
Back inside the music that was played on the piano filled the room and the three of us talked further, though for the life of me I cannot remember what led Khaled to say the thing that finally sent me over the edge. Mind you, earlier he had already made one uncouth remark, which had left me silently baffled, but I had chosen to overlook it for fear of being a poor sport. What he had said was, "Jacques is a slut. He will fuck any hole that moves." But the straw that broke the camel's back was, "You must have been abused, this is why you say the things you do about Arab men."
I think this is the most appalling thing anyone could say to someone they have just met. I got up from my chair, dumbfounded, and went outside. Unfortunately Jacques followed me. I wanted to be alone with my shock and Jacques comforting me made me feel even more belittled. I was also annoyed that Jacques used this opportunity to come out the stronger, sweeter one of the two. I had not come to flirt. I had not come to fight. My error was that I went to please Jacques.
"I told you how he is," said Jacques.
'Why would he say that? I don't understand it. It baffles me even more coming from a Middle Eastern brother. I expect total respect and decorum from us.'
"You give too much of yourself. I didn't know you were so emotional."
'What has that got to do with it? Am I supposed to change? Is it my fault that I am gracious and friendly and give my heart and my soul and others are stupid and abuse this?'
"I'll give it to him later," Jacques asserted.
'Please don't. Not for me. You see now, Jacques, why I am not in a relationship? People are mean, they are rude and abusive in one way or another. I just don't need it.'
I felt so foolish for letting Khaled get to me, more so for not having stood up to him. But what is the sense in arguing, fighting? To me there is no value in this.
By morning I had let go of the previous night.

Dear Emil, I'm glad you asked if I expected you to "put out" in Austin. I took the question seriously, but also tongue-in-cheek. Sitting here, from a distance, I feel affection for you, but not lust (not that there haven't been lustful thoughts.) When I first met you I did not feel lust- I felt affectionate, connected, flirtatious (yes), potentially lustful, but not in your presence at that moment. I felt like you weren't performing- and I felt close to you partly because you said you were Shammi's friend. She and every other Assyrian I have met love Palestine and sympathize with our experience and struggles, and I have to admit that maybe your being Assyrian put me at ease and made me feel that we could understand some important aspects of each other's experiences.  
Then you wrote to me. And every time you write to me I am more amazed at your honesty and more moved by you. This is where my crush on you really developed. 
So, to answer your question, no, I do not expect you to "put out". I don't know if we will feel attracted to each other, and if we do, if we will make love. And even if it turns out that we are attracted to each other maybe we should not make love. Does this sound ambivalent? I guess it is. Here is the deal: If you try to seduce me and I am not feeling it I will tell you without malice and without any hurtful or negative feelings. And if I try to seduce you and you're not feeling it just slap me silly! But I think we will be able to read each other's feelings. Maybe we should agree in advance that even if a mutual desire to make love develops, we will not. Let me know what you're thinking. 
Emil, I really mean it when I say that I am happy with our friendship and am excited at the chance of just hanging out. So let's talk about things openly when you come to Austin- sleeping arrangements, boundaries, anything. Trust yourself. Trust me. I will do the same. 
Thanks for trusting me, for coming to Austin. My only expectations are that we continue to be honest with each other. 
Love,
Tariq


I am being loved. So much has happened. I am not the same. Yet, I've not changed. My core remains intact, original. Since my trip to Austin Tariq and I have been e-mailing less and talking by phone more. Our talks are just as wistful as our e-mails. Perhaps more. The immediacy of our voices makes us long for each other's bodies, expressions, gestures. He is expressive, passionate. It amazes me how whimsical he still is at thirty-five. We talk about everything, every desire, every dream, every wish.
For years Tariq has challenged the traditions of conventional love. Now he says he will return to the ideal of monogamy if I want it. I say that I do not feel comfortable making demands of him. He says he is mine.
We are, for the time being, monogamous!
I am feeling things I've never felt before. Unimaginable sensations. A protectiveness.
One evening, while on the phone with him, drinking his voice with my leaping heart, he confesses that he has been sad. "I miss you," he blurts out. "So much!" His vulnerability makes me levitate.
I say, 'I want to make sure I'm ready for the responsibility of my words, of loving you, Tariq.'
Another night he makes another sweet confession, "Will it frighten you if I tell you I fantasize about us living in the same city?"
I am not here on earth to hold Tariq back, to possess and control him.
Tariq, my first love.
"I want to kiss you."
He says I have brought great joy into his life and deep fear. He fears losing me and being devastated. "It's not that I doubt you. It's that I don't trust the world." His voice touches my skin like diaphanous fabric.
I am enjoying myself in love.
Now Tariq is in New York. I awake from sleep feeling anxious, that I cannot have an errant lover. Am I willing to share him with the world? I do not know.
I hate saying it, but I love him.
I take my grandmother to the doctor and in the waiting room a toddler, barely walking, makes his way to me. He leans on chairs and steps sideways, closer, laughing. His smile makes me smile. An old woman watches with warm watery eyes. The child arrives and places his small hot palms on my legs. His little round face looks up at me. He shrieks. I am in love with him, with his perfect innocence, his total trust in me. I wish the whole world was like him. Inside I weep, I am sad for the world, for the child.
I am two men, always loving/hating, opening/closing, living/dying.
There are moments when I am sure I want to call it off, to withdraw, to forfeit. I want to break something because inside I am breaking.