For the first time in my life, I felt like I truly understood what it meant to be both Palestinian and queer. I had been openly out since I was thirteen and was the first in my grade to do so. What I didn’t expect was the years of confusion, interest, and even fear over my identity that would lead to difficult questions like these. I was born in 1999 in Geneva to a British father and a Lebanese mother. When I came out to my mother as a lesbian in 2013, while we were still living in Geneva, she cried, hugged me, and told me that life was going to be more difficult than it already was. I had lost my father suddenly as a child, then my mother suffered a life-altering stroke a few years later—so things were tough. However, she has been my biggest supporter since then, and she was there for me when I came out to the rest of my family in 2020, where I was met with even more unconditional support. But, unexpectedly, my mother also told me a secret: she had been born and raised in Lebanon, with a Lebanese passport. But, she wasn’t Lebanese at all—she was Palestinian. My grandmother, who had been forced out of Palestine during the 1948 Nakba, told her not to tell me—she knew I would ask questions and they didn’t know how to protect me from the trauma of the Palestinian experience. At school, I wish I could tell you that I threw myself into my culture, learning everything about Palestine. Instead, struggling with my gender identity, I changed my name to Alex and told people I was British-Arab but "mainly British" with a passport to match. I was so far removed from my culture at the time because I was worried my sexuality would be an issue. When I began to embrace it, by connecting and learning with queer communities online through Instagram, my identity was questioned. It reminded me of when I was 17 and offered to do a presentation on the Israel-Palestine conflict for our politics lesson at school. During study hour, a group of boys confronted me, asking if I was spreading "terrorist propaganda" about Israel. Holding my ground, I told them I would just present historical facts, but that was the first time I truly realized how alienating my identity could be. Geneva is an extremely multicultural city, so I was regularly around people from different backgrounds. But then in 2017, I moved to Brighton—and life suddenly looked very different. Brighton & Hove is only 10.9% non-white according to the 2021 census compared to London’s 46.2%, while 39.2% of Geneva’s population are non-nationals. I felt lost. No one knew about Palestine or my culture—at least it was rare. Then, after the October 7 attacks, the whole city shifted and everyone had an opinion. The first few years in Brighton were tough. Everyone loved the fact that I was a lesbian, experimenting with my gender, however, as soon as it came to my religion, my name, my politics—they turned their backs. I tried to find solace in gay clubs, but even there, people would call me "exotic," asking me "where was I really from." They would touch my curls and not even ask for permission. Dates would question how I could be Muslim if I’m gay, followed swiftly by "it’s okay if your family don’t accept you." But they do. My mother loves me, and nothing about me will change that. I felt different to everyone else—not white enough to be in a gay scene, but not Arab enough to be in with my community, known as SWANA (South West Asian and North African). Many Arabs use SWANA to identify themselves, since it feels more true to where they come from. But because I don’t speak Arabic and I subconsciously feel "othered" because of my sexuality, I assumed I couldn’t enter SWANA spaces and connect as well as others. That didn’t stop me from living my life the way I wanted, and now, nine years after moving to Brighton, through visiting the Old Palestine House and local fundraising events put on by Queers for Palestine Brighton, I have expanded my LGBTQ+ SWANA network. I have a community that supports me in my activism, my efforts to fundraise for Palestinian and Lebanese causes, and to be there for me when I need advice. As a community, though, we have faced hardships—like being told by the white queer community in Brighton and local Zionists that we’re hypocrites for being LGBTQ+ and Pro-Palestinian. We’ve had far-right thugs yell "Chickens for KFC!" at us on our marches. Once, a Palestinian fundraiser I was hosting got cancelled by a prominent LGBTQ+ venue last minute due to "concerns from the local community" around "safety." But nonetheless, we get to experience true queer joy together. Like this year, for the 2026 Brighton Pride weekend, I attended my first ever SWANA Pride Party at Old Palestine House—a local community centre. It was joyous—we danced to music from our culture, did the dabke (a dance popular among Lebanese, Jordanian, Palestinian, and Syrian communities) over and over, laughed, ranted, and cared for one another. For the first time in my life, I felt like I understood what it meant to be Palestinian and queer, because I was just being me. I didn’t have to defend myself, I didn’t have to explain, I just got to dance as authentically as I ever had. I was there with my partner, friends, and local aunties, and it felt like finding the people I had been yearning for all my life. Being Palestinian shouldn’t be alienating, and being queer shouldn’t be controversial. When you combine the two, it shouldn’t be shameful. It should be, and will always be, joyous.