Before I even knew what the word gay meant, there was so much to love as a child raised in the Middle East. My Arab family household was like Ru Paul’s Drag Race (but without the cameras and acknowledged queerness). When I was eight years old and it was past my bedtime, I used to sneak around the house and watch my Iraqi-Egyptian mother in fascination: the meticulous construction of her glamorous social costume, how with a dancer’s grace she’d usher in her guests, how she’d conduct her conversations like a trained performer.

When I think back to my pre-teen years in Bahrain and Dubai, I feel fuzzy inside; Arab households pride themselves on open door generosity and a constant flow of relatives (with subsequent yet loving family “dramas”), and there’s never a lonely moment.

But things took a dark turn when my sexuality became an issue. What I once loved about home life was clouded by the strict expectations of my behaviour as a growing Muslim “man”. A compulsory Islam tutor at home was a weekly source of fear; at the age of 11, he painted my (straight) twin brother and I vivid visual descriptions of hell, where any non-conformist or unholy behaviour would be brutally punished. And resultantly, throughout my teens, I was victim to a recurring nightmare in which God himself pinned me down on a metal bed and tortured me for my gay sexual fantasies.

My parents – who were brought up Muslim and in Iraq – were so worried about my developing sexual orientation that they sought to “protect” me from the inevitable inferno, grounding me when they discovered I bought the Brokeback Mountain DVD, for instance, or throwing away all my “effeminate” clothes.

LGBT+ rights around the globe Show all 9 1 /9 LGBT+ rights around the globe LGBT+ rights around the globe Russia Russia’s antipathy towards homosexuality has been well established following the efforts of human rights campaigners. However, while it is legal to be homosexual, LGBT couples are offered no protections from discrimination. They are also actively discriminated against by a 2013 law criminalising LGBT “propaganda” allowing the arrest of numerous Russian LGBT activists. AFP/Getty LGBT+ rights around the globe Brunei Brunei recently introduced a law to make sodomy punishable by stoning to death. It was already illegal and punishable by up to 10 years in prison AFP/Getty LGBT+ rights around the globe Mauritania Men who are found having sex with other men face stoning, while lesbians can be imprisoned, under Sharia law. However, the state has reportedly not executed anyone for this ‘crime’ since 1987 Alamy LGBT+ rights around the globe Sudan Both male and female same-sex sexual activity is illegal under Sudanese law. Men can be executed on their third offence, women on their fourth Getty LGBT+ rights around the globe Saudi Arabia Homosexuality and gender realignment is illegal and punishable by death, imprisonment, whipping and chemical castration Getty LGBT+ rights around the globe Yemen The official position within the country is that there are no gays. LGBT inviduals, if discovered by the government, are likely to face intense pressure. Punishments range from flogging to the death penalty Getty LGBT+ rights around the globe Nigeria Both male and female same-sex sexual activity is illegal and in some northern states punishable with death by stoning. This is not a policy enacted across the entire country, although there is a prevalent anti-LGBT agenda pushed by the government. In 2007 a Pew survey established that 97% of the population felt that homosexuality should not be accepted. It is punishable by 14 years in prison Reuters LGBT+ rights around the globe Somalia Homosexuality was established as a crime in 1888 and under new Somali Penal Code established in 1973 homosexual sex can be punishable by three years in prison. A person can be put to death for being a homosexual Reuters LGBT+ rights around the globe Iraq Although same-sex relationships have been decriminalised, much of the population still suffer from intense discrimination. Additionally, in some of the country over-run by the extremist organisation Isis, LGBT individuals can face death by stoning Getty

And now, at the age of 26, I’m a professional drag queen. After what was a traumatic coming out, I left home at 18 with as fraught a connection to my parents as you can imagine. And I made university my home away from home.

It was at Cambridge where I began drag, and set up my now musical comedy drag troupe, Denim. The sense of liberation I had as a student – where I could live and perform my sexuality and gender identity without familial reproach – was a profound emotional step for me. It is why I initially thought of drag as my “running away”. It was a way to transgress how I was taught a man should behave, and it was an act of self-creation that severed me from my upbringing.

(Amrou Al-Kadhi)

But while I felt powerful in drag, I was still searching. I think it’s because my sense of empowerment felt forced, like a sparkly cork-stop on the anguish of rejection bubbling beneath. Rather than processing how I felt, drag was my armour – hence as the wig came off, I felt more vulnerable than ever before. And as I was quite literally shoving my drag in the closet when I visited my parents in the Middle East, drag became tied to further feelings of shame that I hoped it would eradicate. While moments in costume made me feel invincible and most “myself”, I found my general self-worth to plummet. Yet I couldn’t ditch the highs from feeling like a queer unicorn warrior when on stage as my drag alter-ego Glamrou.

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It wasn’t until I met the remarkable Amnah Hafez that things started to change for me. A remarkable stylist and editor-in-chief of Cause & Effect magazine, Amnah is the only other “runaway Arab” I’ve met and gotten close to in London. Originally from Saudi Arabia, Amnah came to the UK from a background of even stricter gender expectations than I did. And through a stroke of luck, we met, and she eventually styled my drag troupe’s first music video.

Through Amnah I was reminded of all the wonderful elements of Arab culture that I was quick to denounce at 18 – the generosity, hilarity, love, openness, and implicitly drag displays of emotion. And it was Amnah who encouraged me to wear my heritage proudly in drag.

(Amrou Al-Kadhi) (Amrou Al-Khadi)

Since then, performing uplifting tropes of Middle Eastern femininity has been a key feature of my practice. Whilst I set out to reject my heritage through the queer art of drag, I’ve ended up falling back in love with it. And though my mother does not accept a large part of who I am, through performing what I love about her on stage, my wounds are healing. We’re in fact closer than we’ve ever been.