The Magic of the Margins: Rethinking Healing from the Perspective of Queer Exile

In her poem "A Litany for Survival,"¹ Audre Lorde proclaims we were never meant to survive. This "we" is ambiguous. She speaks of "those who live at the shoreline, standing upon the constant edges of decision, crucial and alone," those who "love in doorways coming and going, in the hours between dawns, looking inward and outward," and those who "were imprinted by fear," But we know she herself is included; Black, lesbian, survivor, and warrior. She speaks of those who exist on the margins, in a liminal space. Such marginal existence compels us to pose questions: Will their troubled existence give space for their dreams to be fulfilled? For their love to be seen? To heal?

This liminal space and these margins hold knowledge and wisdom and carry potential and capability, not only for survival but also for recovery and healing. These margins are embodied by the racialized, displaced, queer, trans, neurodivergent, and disabled. Being on the margin shaped my journey with healing, being a queer body from the (neo)colonized global south, forced into exile in the white Western world. This duality between marginality and the aptitude for healing has always intrigued me, and their relationship is what I investigate in this text.

A Journey Begins

I knew I was different as a child, but I didn't comprehend how. It wasn't until my prepubescent age that the bullying started. I was too feminine for the other boys at school. They called me names, shoved me around, and sexually harassed me. During recess, I escaped the schoolyard, full of boys running after each other. The quiet, mostly empty school library was my refuge. When I think of this now, I see the library as a margin. The schoolyard was a space where power was on display. My retort was an attempt to arm myself with another, hidden form of power. I sought shelter in knowledge and imagination. This anecdote elucidates my journey with healing; marginality shapes our choices, our paths, and the lives we lead.

The pressure was also felt at home. As a queer child, I wanted to impress my parents and get a prestigious job, which for them meant becoming a doctor. For a while, I was persuaded. I was a fan of American medical dramas and felt that medicine would be my contribution to healing others. However, that path didn't sit well with me. The roadmap for becoming a doctor in Egypt was too long. I wanted to move out of my small hometown and live freely. I opted for a pharmacy degree, to grant myself quicker independence, all the while fantasizing about finding cures for impenetrable diseases. I moved to Cairo once I got my degree. My first job was my visa to stay. But I hated working in the pharma business. It had nothing to do with healing. I decided to exit that path despite the lucrative prospects. I wanted to do something I believe in. I started working with NGOs on projects at the intersections of sexuality, gender, and health.

Cairo, with its stark inequalities, politicized me. In 2011, I joined millions who took to the streets to demand bread, freedom, and social justice. United in our call to end the dictatorship, our personal motives were different, and it was clear that the queer feminist block of the revolution was at the margin. Our fight wasn't only against the authoritarian regime but also against the revolutionary comrades who thought the time wasn't right for our agenda.

My journey with healing took a turn when I began working as a psychosocial counselor at one of the few organizations that assisted refugees in Cairo. I hesitated if I was right for the job. The task seemed huge. My friend, who worked as a psychologist there, talked me into it. She insisted that if community members seek counseling and comfort with me, then I am "a natural." After extensive training, I was doing basic counseling with survivors of sexual and gender-based violence. I accompanied people to hospitals, UN offices, and police...