Man or Woman?

CW: Sexual abuse, misgendering, graphic imagery.

I’m going through security in an Istanbul airport. As I pass through the metal detector I am greeted by a woman, the airport security officer. She has a simultaneously pleased and confused look on her face as she speaks to me in quick Turkish. I respond in English: I don’t speak Turkish. She continues to look at me, her curiosity flowing through her facial expressions, and asks me in English: man or woman?

My soul delights.

Man or woman! 

The first thought that runs through my head is ‘I have to tell them!’. I imagine telling my family, who I’m travelling with, what just happened. I ache to share the euphoria it brings me. I reroute my thought and realise that they will not be able to engage in my joy in the way that I wish they could. Okay, O is waiting for me on the other side of this flight. He will delight in my euphoric moment. He will understand how affirming the question was. 

I know that I must answer: woman. 

Her question is discernment. Do I search you? Or does my male coworker? 

I answer: woman. 

She pats me down and I realise that I am not as triggered as I usually would be by this touch. Maybe the guards I’ve experienced in the Cairo airport were more firm, more invasive. Maybe they weren’t. Perhaps it was my proximity to my trauma that left the bitter taste in my mouth that came from being handled. 

I remember the bruises that were left on my pelvis after that first Portsmouth night. I remember impatient thrusts. I remember the choking.

I stand outside of the Sphinx International Airport waiting for them, radiant them, to arrive and I am on edge, surrounded by seemingly straight cis men and waiting for someone to hit me, push me, hurt me, attack; waiting for someone to call me ya wad ya bitt a bit too aggressively. 

I recall the first time I heard someone referring to me using male pronouns in Arabic. I’m in a taxi with O and he’s sitting in the passenger seat, chatting with the driver as I sit silently in the backseat (as women should). We reach our destination and before we exit the car the driver asks: howa sa7bak biyitkalim 3araby?

I’m stunned, too stunned to open my mouth and reveal my voice; too proud to pretend that I don’t understand what he’s saying. O waits, waits for me to answer because he knows I understand. The driver makes eye contact with me through the rear view mirror and offers up: eh ya sa7by.

I pause for a moment and reply with my own, slightly modified, eh ya sa7by.

My soul delights, awakened by euphoria. 

His interpretation may not be entirely accurate as I have never had the desire to be a man. It does, however, speak to my gender non-conformity and my existance as a human being who is simply that: human. 

“You are originally male or female?” 

I can’t remember his name, the bumble match who asked this question, this more diplomatic (?) way of inquiring what’s between my legs. I didn’t respond. He followed up with anty z3lty mni?, then ezaik, then hi then babe then ana za3ltek f 7aga? then Anhu, all a few days apart. Sometimes I feel like a bad person for not responding. I could have just messaged and been honest about the fact that the question made me uncomfortable and said that that’s that. Instead I took the easy way out. 

I’m still unsure what the context allows. 

I often spend moments unsure of how the way I present myself compromises my safety in the streets, moments unsure what my bawabeen think of me. Part of me still feels like if I were to exist in a complete state of authenticity, I would end up alone, living far outside the bounds of society. I get closer and closer everyday, and every day I count my blessings, I count the people in my life who love and care for me. I learn to love and care for myself. I understand that authentic expression is a birthing ground for authentic love. I am not alone in this world, not alone in this life. I have people that I can walk with side by side, people who appreciate and respect my identity, people who have no need for explanation.

I was not put on this Earth to explain, no matter how confusing my appearance might be, it is not on me to educate, illuminate and eradicate ignorance. I am here to simply say that it does not matter what I am, it does not matter how I present, what matters is how I impact and what I have to offer. A nod of understanding, a smile to reassure, a hug to warm the spirit and a word to soothe the sunburnt psyche.

I do not intend to stand out, do not intent to garner looks, I am opening myself to what existence can be and accepting that who I am may not be compliant with what society has taught me. Who I am is resistance, a loud la2 that echoes in the streets as my boots make contact with the asphalt, a loud la2 to the man-made structures that suffocate us, a loud la2 to the systems that perpetuate hate, a loud la2 to the people who uphold the current state.