ABOUT

DIRECTOR’S STATEMENT

Back in 2017, I was in Beirut and was fortunate to be introduced to Tarek Zaiden, who helms the oldest LGBTQIA+ rights organization in the Middle East.  It’s called Helem which is fitting as it means Dream in Arabic. Over coffee, he told me about the rise in bullying and violence that the queer community in Lebanon was experiencing at the hands of the government security forces.  Politicians were succumbing to increased pressure from religious extremist groups. Then, he told me about Mashrou’ Leila - a popular indie band from Beirut that had been around for a decade, and whose lead singer, Hamed Sinno, was openly gay. Their music reflected all of the politics that they, as engaged young artists, were observing and reacting to, and this included the queer experience from a very personal point of view. In fact, their song “the smell of Jasmine” is known to be perhaps the first gay love song in the Arab world. This level of queer visibility is revolutionary in most countries, but, in this region, also dangerously tabooed. 

I started listening to their music, sung almost entirely in Arabic. I was hooked. 

I experienced the power of it; how it resonates with truths that go beyond spoken language. I did then, of course, read all their lyrics and wished I had grown up with such beautiful artists to look up to, whose concerts I could go to, and dance freely at; and in my awkward youth be reassured that there was, indeed, in this crazy, motley world, a space for me.  As a queer man who grew up in a Christian country, I could relate to feelings of being less-than that were ever-present in the lack of positive queer representation in media - we were relegated to caricatures or monsters. I could relate to the death-by-a-thousand-cuts all queer kids feel as the preachers and politicians use them as tools to drum up fear, votes and all the benefits of othering and dividing to serve their needs. 

It became obvious to me why they are hugely famous all over the Middle East. This added to the devastation of learning that one by one they were being banned from performing in most countries in the region, including Egypt, their biggest fan-base. But Lebanon always seemed like one place they could return to, especially their hometown of Beirut, which was historically known as a relatively liberal oasis, hence dubbed as “The Paris of the Middle East”.  Yet by the time I reached them, that no longer held true.  As Tarek points out in the film, “One good song can do more than 5000 protests.” It’s pretty self-evident that the very existence of this band, their fearless and often joyful expression of their experiences combined with their sheer talent, have done more to further the queer movement than we’ll ever know. But sadly, as their fame has grown, so has their perceived power in upsetting the status quo, making them a target for all kinds of attacks.  

Yet cocooned within the tragedy, I also discovered hope in the spirit of Sarah Hegazi, a young Egyptian woman, a luminous leader who was silenced in the worst way. I hope through this film more people can meet Sarah and find inspiration in her voice. But I also wanted us to collectively have a space to grieve her loss, an act that is often robbed of those whose safety depends on their anonymity. 

For me, this is the most personal film I’ve made. The process has forced me to confront my own past, and the lingering traumas of living in a society that continues to steer so many of our queer siblings to early deaths.  Beirut is a film about belonging; a cautionary tale about what happens when greedy, fearful political and religious groups join forces to rehash some archaic worldview that serves them.