What I Learned Living Where My Sexuality is Illegal
(The Raw Version)
This piece was originally published on the travel website Shut Up and Go on June 16, 2020. And while that piece was adequate in portraying my story, it was in actuality an edited version of the piece I had in my mind. While writing for the site I wanted to create work that I felt fit the audience, and I often avoided making pieces too long, too deep, or occasionally, too raw. But we’re in my house now, and I’m not holding back. This is the raw version of this piece, and I hope you enjoy.
This article contains sexually explicit content: reader discretion is advised.
Shot by Austin Dalley on iPhone XR
I remember when I first told my parents that I’d be leaving France to live and work in Morocco while I waited for my days in the Schengen to refill. They seemed both nervous yet fascinated. At how exotic it seemed, at the fact that I managed to find something that paid (even if it wasn’t that much), at all the stories I would come back with, and how my travels seemed to be getting more and more unpredictable. But what I think they didn’t know, and what I still have never mentioned to them, is that homosexuality is illegal, and technically punishable by imprisonment, in the kingdom of Morocco.
I’m not one to be afraid of traveling to certain countries due to my sexuality, because that would become far too restricting. If I were to avoid all nations that have some trouble with the LGBTQ community then most all of Africa, most all of the Middle East, and notable sections of Europe are off my potential travel list. And that’s not the kind of life I want to live. That being said, I would never jump into such a country blindly either. I spent my last spare moments in France researching history, old news articles, and other travelers’ stories to educate myself on the situation of LGBTQ life in Morocco. And what I found was...confusing. Not in that I didn’t understand it, but rather in that the attitudes towards it contradict drastically, depending on your origin.
From what I gleaned in my early research, the general attitude towards homosexuality is still negative, as it is for essentially all modern muslim nations. LGBTQ citizens of Morocco who are exposed or outed can be at risk of their family disowning them, their community publicly shaming them and their family, or being brought to the authorities where they can be imprisoned. And while these attitudes tend to be much more prominent and conservative in smaller towns and rural areas, larger cities aren’t immune to them. Most people still remain publicly closeted, with their only places of solace being their homes or a handful of clubs and bars where they can mingle discreetly under dimmed lights.
If Moroccans want to be truly liberated in their sexuality, their only real option is to flee to Europe. Many use the Spanish enclave cities of Melilla and Ceuta to gain asylum and then continue to the mainland (a method that has its own challenges), some sneak across the strait of Gibraltar via the ferries passing the strait, and others who manage to get an education or work opportunity in Europe just never come back. Such is the story of the openly gay writers Abdellah Taïa and Rachid O, who each separately fled to France in the 90s from the capital city Rabat, and now in their distance have the safety to critique intersecting homophobia and racism in both their homeland and France.
But notice how I specified these challenges for Moroccan citizens. Because if you’re a traveler, notably if you’re a white traveler and have money to spend, the rules don’t really apply. From what I had read in my research, as long as you aren’t blatantly groping each other in a public space, travelers can more or less do what they please. Two men or two women can book a shared hotel room together. They can sit close in bars and restaurants. They can wear their small European swimsuits on the beaches. And this isn’t a product of recent tourism trends either. In the 1950s and 60s Tangier became a hot spot for gay westerners, with creatives from Europe and America alternating between sultry cafes during the day and hashish binges at night. Renowned fashion designer Yves Saint-Laurent was born and raised in Algeria to French expat parents, and kept a fondness towards North Africa ever since, eventually buying the Majorelle Garden complex in the middle of the Marrakech medina which he frequented until his death. His ashes were even scattered amongst the gardens and just down the same street (which has been named after him) now lies a museum to YSL and his work.
The only recent case where a non-Moroccan was punished for homosexuality that I could find was in 2014 when a gay British tourist was meeting with a younger Moroccan man, and were both arrested after locals clued in the authorities. The man’s family was contacted and a British legal team had him out of the prison within a couple of days to return back to the UK; what inevitably happened to the Moroccan man I never saw in the reports. And it was only because the Moroccan was involved that the police were even informed in the first place; had two white men or women been seen together, a blind eye would likely have been turned. Such a risk is constant for Moroccans, and even goes beyond gay men, as to this day underground male prostitution is not an uncommon side hustle, the largest network of which being in Marrakech. Young Moroccan men that may or may not even be gay offer themselves to tourists, tapping into white fetishes of exoticizing North Africans as an unfortunately lucrative way to make ends meet.
So even with all this information, I still felt like I was leaping into the unknown going to the country. The strong contrasts of how locals and foreigners are treated made me wonder how my experience would be, as a non Moroccan living there for much longer than the standard tourist. But there was only one way to find out. And on my last day in the Schengen, I hauled my things onto a Ryanair flight at L'Aéroport de Marseille, and embarked on my first trip to Africa.
Shot by Austin Dalley on iPhone XR
My time in Morocco was mainly based in the coastal city of Essaouira, which due to a number of influences through history is not like other cities in the country. Its culture has a notably cosmopolitan and modern flavor, and because of that, is somewhat less conservative. It’s not uncommon in the city to see women or girls with their heads uncovered, young men and boys in shorts, and for people to continue about their day despite a call to prayer blaring from every minaret in the city. I quickly noted the city’s relaxed attitudes, but still out of caution didn’t immediately mention anything about my sexuality, attractions, or dating.
Only once I was certain that my friends and colleagues were good and trustworthy people I revealed in conversations that I was gay when subject of dating came up. To my relief, not one of them had a problem with it, and I would even go on to have regular conversations with my good female friend about our dating past, who we thought was attractive, and the like. But while I felt reassured in the privacy of my workplace and get-togethers with my friends, I also had to remind myself that they were also all young twenty-somethings that worked in the tourism industry, with a mainly European clientele, in this liberal coastal city. So outside of those private settings I still felt it necessary to be cautious. It oddly felt like going back into the closet, as I would walk down the street and regularly hope I didn’t accidentally do something too attention drawing, or to put it more correctly, something “too gay,” a thought I barely even had in the United States before I came out.
Eventually, my innate curiosity couldn’t be contained. I wanted to learn more, which meant I had to dive beneath the surface. So one evening, I opened up Grindr. And for better or worse, it was basically what I expected to see: an entire list of faceless profiles, most of them having the bare minimum of physical description. My inbox quickly flooded with messages, and of the young men I attempted to speak with, many would either be very timid and barely push a conversation forward, or extremely blunt and in-my-face about hooking up, in a manner that felt, for lack of a better term, transactional. Both of which, I hypothesized, are likely the result of living their entire lives in the closet and not really knowing how to talk to another gay man in an open, casual dating context. The few that I was able to hold reasonable conversations with would insist to me that the anti-gay sentiment wasn’t that bad, but I was hesitant to agree.
As more time went on I started to frequent the city’s main bar in the evenings, partly because my soul needs wine, but also to take mental notes. French expats, of which there are a large amount in Essaouira and a number of which are gay, would make essentially no effort to conceal their sexuality, sending flirty eyes across the room as they giggled with their European friends. In contrast, I would occasionally see a handsome Moroccan amongst a group of his friends and he would only subtly give me the look - any gays reading this, you know the look I’m referring to. But of course, this was the only communication they were able to send in such a public setting. Flirting in another way wasn’t an option. Once I did get a direct confrontation from a local: I was walking back to my apartment in the Medina after a night out, and from a small side street a young man approached me and started making conversation (I didn’t feel threatened, as by that time I was very familiar with the street layout and I was bigger than him). We walked and talked a bit, until eventually he quietly slipped a “so, you looking for sex?” to which I politely declined. As I went up to my apartment, I couldn’t help but wonder about how many times he had attempted that on other white male tourists, and how many of them had said yes.
There was one night that hit me particularly hard. It was the birthday of a good friend of mine, Ayoub, and we had a pre-game at his rooftop where he invited his friends (many of which would become friends of mine also) before we went out to a bar. As Morocco is a muslim country, a large percent of the population doesn’t drink alcohol. And though an increasing number of the younger generation are beginning to get into drinking and bar culture, wine and beer are usually still the more popular choices. On that night, however, a couple of Ayoub’s friends brought a bottle of vodka, which as Moroccans in their mid twenties, they had never drank before. The two started taking shots, neither of them aware of how much stronger vodka was than wine. Sooner than later they both became pretty relaxed, and I started to have a conversation with one of them, who for the sake of his privacy I’ll call Majid. He first complimented my style, to which I thanked him. After a moment, he continued.
“So, I heard you’re gay? That’s interesting man, I could kind of get that from you, but also you kind of not, you know?”
“Thanks man, I appreciate that. But that’s kind of the thing, there are stereotypes but really you don’t have to act a certain way if you’re a certain sexuality. I’m just myself, and I also happen to be gay, and those two things can both exist.”
“Wow man…it’s just really cool, to see you just be so real with it and own it. I respect you a lot for that. You know, that can be a tricky thing to do here.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I read a lot about the laws and the history of the attitudes towards it before I came here so I felt ready. But again, I just act like myself, and to a lot of people I just seem normal, which, I am. Just also gay.”
“Yeah, here in Essaouira you’ll probably be okay, but still man, just…be careful, you know?”
“I know, I know. I appreciate it though, thank you for looking out for me.”
“Absolutely man. I just…know how it can be in this here. You know, there was a guy I knew that I was really good friends with. And after a while, I started to realize that I…liked him, you know?”
I could hear in his voice, and see in the corners of his eyes, that he was holding back tears. “I realized then that I might be bi, because I just…I think I loved him. But I couldn’t…I know you’re comfortable in yourself but just be careful man. Be careful.”
I wanted to comfort him somehow, but what the fuck do you say in that situation? Risk your safety for love? Leave the country you love, your family, for your sexual freedom? This isn’t the United States or Europe where the “it gets better” rhetoric really works. All I could do was put my hand on his shoulder, but only for a moment until Ayoub’s other friend called him over for more shots. As the party went on, I stared from the rooftop towards the city, the lights making it sparkling in the dusk. I thought of how so many of the lights came from windows, rooms that probably held dozens of other Majids, trapped between two sides of their identity.
Shot by Austin Dalley on iPhone XR
During my time in the country, I never ended up hooking up, or even getting together as a casual date, with a Moroccan. And not because I didn’t find them attractive or avoided them, but because inevitably when I found young men that I could converse with and I would have been willing to meet, I always felt a well of guilt before I could commit. About how they have to hide so much more than I do, about how much they could put at risk just to connect with someone they were attracted to, and how no matter what I did, I would probably get away with it. The only people I would end up hooking up with were other travelers, because I knew neither of us would be in overt danger. Perhaps my guilt and paranoia were too high, but I just felt wrong about the possibly of putting a local at risk. My assumptions were solidified after I hooked up with a Welsh guy one morning before my shift at work, after which he offered to walk me there. The entire way he both held me by the waist and very openly and loudly talked about the things we just did without a bit of restraint. Had a Moroccan been doing that with me, he would absolutely be getting looks from the people in the street. And Essaouira is one of those small enough cities where everyone knows everyone; were something to happen with a local, it could spread like wildfire.
I want to be clear that this isn’t me trying to paint Morocco as an inherently sinister or dangerous place. My time in Morocco was overwhelmingly positive and is something I’ll never forget. As I mentioned earlier, none of my friends or colleagues thought less of me due to my sexuality, I never felt overtly in danger, and it would inevitably become one of my most memorial travel experiences. Younger generations of Moroccans are increasingly open to the LGBTQ community arguably more than any other modern muslim nation that I’ve researched, and I’m sure every large city will have plenty of people who will welcome you with open arms. Yet also in saying this, I’m very aware of the place of privilege I come from and how it very probably affected my personal treatment in the country. I’m a white, cis-gendered American male. I’m not that “outwardly” gay. My voice is deeper. I’m naturally calm and reserved. If necessary, it isn’t difficult for me to pass for straight. And I understand what luxuries these can be, not only as someone who travels internationally but even in day to day life in the United States and Europe. Many people within the LGBTQ community have aspects of themselves that are either difficult to conceal or they don't want to conceal anymore: mannerisms, voice pitch, outward gender expression, way of dress, and these factors are inevitably what leads them to be more chastised against.
What’s more unfortunate is that those outward displays, in many ways, don’t matter. What does is whether you’re Moroccan or Western, for the disparity between what white travelers or “expats” like myself can easily get away with, and what locals can't, is blatant. While nothing happened as a man literally held my waist and talked about how much he had liked my dick walking down a main street in the middle of the day, local gay men being publicly outed, and then mistreated, is a persisting problem. Quite literally as I began to draft this article in April 2020, not even two months after I left, over 100 gay men across the country were outed online via various hook up and dating apps due to a scandal with a Moroccan trans woman in Turkey. Photos that revealed mens’ identities were circulated across the internet and at least three known cases resulted in men being kicked out of their homes, and likely more since then. This contrast between the Moroccan and Western experience can clearly be seen as a remnant of European colonialism, with whiteness and European-ness still associated with wealth, power, and influence that overrides even the rights of natives in their own country. Gay men from these places of “prestige” and “power” are given freedoms because it is still ingrained into Moroccan culture that these people are somehow more powerful than them, that they get the pass to do all the things that citizens cannot.
About a week or two before I was going to leave the country, my boss approached me while I was working. He had never been disappointed with my work, so I was intrigued. After a moment of silence, he asked if I would like to make my seasonal position permanent. He wanted me to stay, and me to work with him long term. He offered to help me find an apartment, do all the legal work visa paperwork, and even asked what I thought was an adequate pay rate. I was beyond flattered. Here was an opportunity to actually leave the United States permanently, working with people I loved in a beautiful and fascinating country. It was something out of my dreams. But I couldn’t help but think of one glaring aspect: me, a gay man, moving to a country where homosexuality is very much still illegal. For reasons I’ve already mentioned, I would probably be safe. My whiteness, my masculinity, and my support system of friends would shield me from the worst of the governments eyes. Yet could I really let myself do that? Watch myself benefit from a system directly in the line of colonialism while Moroccans in the community often have to suffer? I told my boss that I would think about it, because the offer was generous and it was very, very tempting. Even as I told him though, I knew inside what my answer was.
Shot by Austin Dalley on iPhone XR
So what do we do about all this? Should those in the LGBTQ community bother to travel to nations that would normally suppress our community? And are we even able to help, make any kind of impact? The answer to both questions, I believe, is yes. As queer people from western nations it’s important for us to travel to such places so we can learn first hand, from history, government, and culture why the attitudes towards LGBTQ people are like that, if they’re even true in the current population, or how things could be changed in the future. Had I never went to Morocco myself, I would have never learned that there are notable amounts of young people open to our community, nor would I have witnessed how the lasting effects of French colonialism still influence how gays are treated in the country today. And in regards to making an impact? Presence alone is one form of educating, and as we interact with or befriend locals we have the ability to show people what queer people are really like, face to face. Along with this, we can amplify the LGBTQ voices from those countries, the artists, writers, and activists who we as white and or western foreigners should be listening to. Most of all, help in the way that you know you can. I declined the offer to stay in Morocco because at the time I felt that I wouldn’t be of any direct benefit to the cause. And while it was hard, I believe that’s okay. We all have our lane in the push for LGBTQ equality, and we should focus on what we know we can do well; this article, writing in general, is my lane. So here I am.
I left Morocco on the last day of February in 2020 with a complex mixture of sadness, happiness, and enlightenment. The memories and friends I made in those three months are some that I’ll never forget, and reminded me that, more often than not, people are inherently good, curious, and willing to learn. Many places in the world still have a long way to go before LGBTQ people are fully free from discrimination. But the least we can do is research fervently, travel, and take the time to learn from each other so we can move forward to a future where we can all love. Inshallah.