Dear diary, 

Before I get into the nuances of my identity, I want to make it clear that I am aware of my privilege. I am half white and half Arab. With that comes a lot of opportunity, especially because I am incredibly white passing.  

Additionally, I am incredibly fortunate to have parents (who although at times have not always understood my queer identity) who have been loving and supporting throughout my journey. 

With that being said, welcome to my rant about the lonesome truth of being queer and Arab in Nebraska. Warning: this is my most cynical and satirical piece yet!  

A little background on me- I was raised in a strict Islamic household at the start of my childhood. I was homeschooled and most of my friends were my family members or people from the mosque. I was completely fluent in the language of Arabic and had a small portion of the Quran memorized.  

 I entered public school in third grade; this marked the first time I ever faced prejudice pertaining to my identity.   

I made a friend in my first week of public school but by the next week, that friend began bullying me. I was so confused by her actions, so I simply asked why there was a sudden change in her treatment towards me (obviously, I didn’t say it like that… I was in third grade! Get real!) Her explanation was that her mom did not want her to be friends with a Muslim. Ouch, that stung a bit! 

The rest of my public-school experience was filled racism and Islamophobia.  By freshman year, the nickname “Zaynaaab the A-rab” was coined, which gets a couple bonus points in my book. In my defense, this nickname is far more innovative than “terrorist” or “towelhead,” both of which are overplayed and unoriginal.  

Boys in my grade didn’t just throw out slurs but also went as far as to insult my own family. One that took the cake was when they would call my father, Jafar. Not only was this incredibly insensitive but so far from the truth because my father is the most ethereal man I have ever known. I genuinely think they were just jealous of his luscious hair because they were balding at 16.  

Highschool was hell for me and not just because I had undiagnosed mental illnesses lol.  I was in a pretty toxic small town and was forced to laugh at other’s ridicules of my culture. Freshman year also marked the time I came out as queer.  

I started talking, well flirting, with a girl from a surrounding town. I decided this would be a good time to come out to my father. I was terrified but it turned out to be a quite a wholesome moment. I explained to my father I was queer and what that meant.  

Now, this is the cute part of the story. My father responded by asking if  I was “queering” was around with [redacted.] I hesitated, but said “yes,” and that is how I came out to my dad.  

However, let’s get out the tiny violin and get back to my sob story. What makes being Arab in Nebraska, especially in small towns, so difficult is there is virtually no one I can relate to. Sure, I can relate to other minorities, but only to a certain extent.  

 Arabic was my first language and now I struggle to speak grammatically correct in my native tongue. The only other person I can speak in my native language with is my father. When I was visiting my dad the other day, he asked me to finish a common phrase in Islamic teaching.  

He teasingly shook his head at me when I was unable to complete the phrase. Although he was just joking, I felt my throat close and quickly blinked away my tears. How did I become so disconnected to my identity? I know it is not my fault, but I cannot help but feel ashamed with how whitewashed I have become.  

Not only that, but I know my father feels ten times worse than I do, because he has been apart from his culture and country for so long. It stings knowing I am one of the few people he can communicate with in his native tongue and my Arabic is so broken.  

The only connection I have with my culture is through my family. However, I love women. Sorry not sorry! To put it lightly, Arab culture is not at all fond of the gays and theys. Every time I post about my girlfriend, I also check if any of my family members have decided to unfollow me. So far, that number rests at three. The relatives who used to always comment heart eyes on my posts no longer like them anymore.  

I know this all seems dramatic but that is where I am at. I feel so starved for connection to my culture that I stalk my likes. I know how crazy it sounds, because it is crazy. Allah forbid I cannot love my culture/religion and girls too.  

I know any of the Arabs/Muslims reading this are probably thinking, “Ya Haram Zaynab” and are muttering, “Bid’ah” under their breath. I am well aware, and it hurts every part of my being. I used to pray to Allah to not be this way. I am a grown up now and I am not ashamed of my queerness, but I would be lying if I did not say that my own sexuality has brought humiliation onto me. 

I know my dad loves and supports me and for that I am beyond grateful. However, I feel humiliated that he must defend my identity to his family. The first time my queerness was confronted by my family was during a Facetime call in 2020.  

I want to note that the relative I am discussing comes from an older generation and was raised in an Islamic country. Although this does not excuse their homophobia, it does explain his ideology.  

I had a nose piercing which a relative greatly disapproved of. [Redacted] assured me that I would never be successful with such a piercing. After [Redacted] discredited the number of people I said to be successful, I decided to make the claim that I was successful. 

I told [Redacted] I was part of numerous organizations including a club that promoted feminism. To which [Redacted] questioned me about the meaning of feminism. I explained I believe feminism was equal rights for everyone despite race, religion, gender or sexual orientation. 

That bit about sexual orientation opened Pandora’s Box and there began [Redacted’s] rant about what Islam says about being gay and how God brought the AIDS epidemic to punish homosexuals. I was fighting for my life during that Facetime. After hours of quite literally arguing with a brick wall, [Redacted] asked, “Are you gay?” 

I was too stunned to speak. Mind you, my gay a** is sitting there shocked with a buzzed head. My Doc Martens were soaked in a sweaty combination of fear and disbelief.  

“Are you gay?” Bruh! Look at me! Look at my clothes! Look at my hair! Look at me! What do you think?  

Thank Allah I didn’t have to answer the question because my father grabbed the phone before I could out myself.  

 The American side despises both my queer and Arab identity and the Arab side despises my sexuality. My life is a double-edged sword or as they say in Arabic, سَيْفٌ ذُو حَدَّيْنِ.  

 Honestly, writing this article is a bit scandalous for me. I know this is quite different than my usual submissions but can’t a person rant about the complexities of their identity from time to time? 

 I could submit it anonymously, but you all already know it is me. I am the only queer Arab on this campus. Hell, I might be the only Arab that you even know.  

I decided to create a new column called “Dear Diary” because I know we all feel lonely at times, and there is something so comforting about admitting it. Therefore, I invite all of you Wildcats to participate and send it your own “Dear Diary” submissions.  

This is your time to rant and get things off your chest. I want to hear everything whether it is positive or negative. Tell my why you hate pickles or about your obsession with Harry Styles. I want to hear it! 

If you are not comfortable having your identity attached to your confession, I would be happy to omit your name from the submission. If you are interested in sending in a “Dear Diary” column, please contact me through email at zakoua01@wsc.