Growing up gay in Bahrain, I was thrilled by the camp potential of Arab music – but terrified of the reaction if I gave in and danced the way I wanted to. Years later, in a field in London, I let myself go
When I was a child living in Bahrain, I used to dread family parties. Not because I didn’t want to see my relatives, whom I loved, but because I felt too scared to dance. Some Arab music is beyond sumptuous. It is achingly romantic, dynamic and playful, filled to the brim with the most over-the-top metaphors you’ll ever hear, scored with the most luxuriant instrumentals. The camp melodrama is a gay kid’s dream come true … or worst nightmare, for the opulent emotional sounds almost taunt you to come out through dance. As a child terrified about the very real repercussions that would come from being found out as gay, Arab music was my forbidden fruit at familial events, tempting me to reveal myself and thus ensure my exile.
As a kid, I was particularly obsessed with the music of Umm Kulthum, the 20th-century Egyptian singer whose vocals hypnotised the Arab world with their yearning gravitas. Her voice is full of emotion, and her lyrics drenched in drama – listening to her can be an overwhelming experience. I used to watch my mother and her friends dance to it balletically, while I sat in the corner with my brother, father and all the other boys, restricted from moving my body in the way the music called out for.
