 “I hate to admit it, but it does take a village. Queerness in a world bent on crushing it needs its crutches. A community of impassioned people, somewhere to put the filters down and set aside the pressure of expectations. A rich trail mix of individuals living, loving, and laughing shamelessly proves our very existence is a resistance, so we might as well rock it with jangly carabiners.” – a member of our community.
For some time now, activists in Southern Kurdistan and Iraq have based their advocacy and community building efforts on the NGO model. We create organizations, pitch large scale campaigns and projects, get funding, and execute. This model has created some of the most notable campaigns in the region within the past decade. However, there are several problems. When activism and advocacy rely on funding, they stop when the funds run out. If we understand activism only as large-scale awareness campaigns, workshops, and regional meetings, then we will need a continuous stream of funding to keep it afloat. A continuous stream of funding relies on institutionalizing activism, dressing up as an NGO, and pandering to white donors. Funding is inherently exclusionary. It has never been evenly or equitably distributed, and structural barriers often prevent it from reaching those who need it most. Access depends on language, time, networks, and technical expertise–resources that many grassroots movements do not have. As a result, funding systems privilege those already positioned to navigate them, reproducing the very colonial power dynamics they claim to challenge. They get to offload their work onto us, take credit, and avoid taking any responsibility for our safety or wellbeing. And us? We risk our lives to do their work for below minimum wage just to have every cent we spend scrutinized. Since the government has blocked queer and feminist organizations from registration, the queer movement has suffered even more. Donors will not fund entities that they deem ‘unofficial’. The mark of legitimacy is state approval, and they are not willing to make exceptions, even when the state is explicitly anti human rights. Even when playing by the rules and saying the right words, funding remains unsustainable. It may come to a halt due to stricter regulations within the country, crackdowns on organizations working with women and queer people, as well as shifting geopolitical priorities. We–queer activists of southern Kurdistan–have suffered the consequences of this reliance on donors in the past. Our work has been halted and our most vulnerable have been most severely impacted. Yet, fortunately, we have found another way forward. The community has in the past few years moved towards mimicking another model of advocacy which is more reliant on interpersonal relationships and built on trust. Following the footsteps of similar grassroots movements across our borders, we embraced collective leadership in order to allow everyone to have a voice and be heard. This was our narrative as a community, and it is one that we were–and still are–proud of. However, executing this idea on ground was somewhat of a rocky journey. Something was missing. Non-heirarchal leadership requires a shared understanding within the community of why we are moving away from hierarchy in the first place. In other words, we need social and class awareness within the community. Even when we started saying that we are not hierarchical, we had not stopped acting like it. We had renamed every part of our structure, but we still thought of some people as beneficiaries and some as leaders. Some of us were responsible for others, but they weren’t responsible for us. Some people were paid to show up and some people made the payment. We had failed to consider that despite changing our names, our structure had remained the same. I think for years I have felt as though our local community has been held together by symbiosis. We remain together, because we need each other in order to survive. Community has become a privilege, an armor, a form of protection you maintain in exchange for tolerating your fellow community members. Because those who frequent community spaces are those who ultimately will have priority over others within that network of people when they need access to lifesaving services, jobs, or funds. This in and of itself creates an unequal power dynamic and hierarchy. Hem–a collective working on queer liberation in South Kurdistan–was formed based on a desire to work more closely with the larger community and strengthen our ties of allyship after some fallout had occurred. However, while surveying the issues within the community we quickly discovered a serious gap in projects that specifically concern queer women, and we decided to pivot. The struggles of queer women are compounded because patriarchy exists even within the queer community. When we continuously design events that happen across city borders, require overnight stays, and involve a high degree of confidentiality, it is fair to expect that not many women can show up. Even with financial accommodations, most women in our region lack agency over their own lives because of patriarchal norms. In other words, their families are in charge of where they can and cannot go. While I know that none of my comrades who were planning those events intended to exclude women or even realized they had done so, the problem was that it had not even occurred to us before. The problem is that women remain an afterthought in systems that were neither designed for us nor by us. Upon this realization, we invested what funds we had left into planning two events specifically for queer women to come together and socialize. We thought it is best to step away from derivative activities that demand some form of mental or physical labor from participants (i.e. workshops, roundtable discussions, or any political/educational sphere), and simply let them exist in a space with no expectations. Both events were art themed. We bought canvases and paint so that we could spend a few hours painting together. On our first try, only two people showed up. On our second try, we had ten people. That was almost a year ago. The group has now grown twofold. We had 6 more events over the summer, and the next time we organized an event for the larger community, we had twice the number of women in attendance as the first one. This group continues to grow and Hem claims no ‘ownership’ of it. We don’t lead it, we don’t organize it, we take part in it as members of the community. I think the most important conversation I had about this group was with a comrade from Hem who remarked ‘my neighbors bring us food if my mom is sick, that’s what community is’. There are no per diems, contracts, receipts, or attendance sheets in the community. We must not only strip ourselves of this structure, but also–and more importantly–of the roles we think we play within it. Sustaining a community requires relationships built on trust, care, and mutual responsibility among its members. To view oneself as superior to or responsible for anyone within your community transforms you from a member of the community to a role outside of it. You have to exist in the village as just a villager. Existing within this group gives me immense pride and joy. These people have repeatedly challenged my notion of community, advocacy, and queerness itself. We have had many conflicts, some resolved and some ongoing. We have mishandled things, made mistakes, and even hurt one another. However, the love is still there, and that assures me that we will learn to do better. We have all unknowingly stumbled into the role of ‘activist’ by virtue of our queer identities being inherently politicized. If queerness is seen as enough reason to punish and hurt us by the patriarchal state, then our joy, love, and community is a radical political act against the state, and it is by far the greatest form of advocacy. When queer people come together as members of a community they create something that cannot easily be dismantled by funding cycles or political restrictions. In our context where both the state and the society attempt to isolate and marginalize queer lives, the act of building and sustaining community itself becomes a form of resistance. I think our true shared narrative–within the queer movement in southern Kurdistan as a whole–is that of resilience. When police raids our offices, we learn to operate without offices. When the government tightens its control, we find legal loopholes. When donors turn their backs to us, we turn to each other. If we have nothing, we have that–our resilience.
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 At IraQueer, we love to celebrate the bright, powerful voices within our community. Today, we are honored to introduce you to Ardesher Nwazad.
At 26, Ardesher is a man of many layers. Born in Baghdad to a patriotic Kurdish family, he holds a degree in Chemical Engineering and is currently pursuing a Master’s in International Law. But beyond his academic achievements, Ardesher’s journey is one of profound self-discovery and resilience. Finding a ReflectionArdesher knew from a young age that he was different. Like many of us, he found his first "mirror" in pop culture. While watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, he found himself inexplicably drawn to the character Angel (and honestly, who could blame him? Angel was the definition of "broody and unavailable"). Though he didn't have the words for it yet, he accepted the feeling as it was. By 14, that feeling grew into a realization: he was gay. It was a lonely time; he often felt like an outsider when his classmates talked about girls, unable to share the same feelings. His first taste of community came through the digital world—a Kik group chat with 30 queer teenagers from across the globe. For the first time, he wasn't alone. The Right of PassageArdesher’s coming-out journey began with a fellow member of the community—a lesbian friend. As many in our community say, coming out to a lesbian is a true "rite of passage." This positive experience gave him the courage to tell another friend from school. Her response? "I already knew." That simple acceptance emboldened him to start living more authentically with those around him. From A Gathering to ActivismThe true turning point in Ardesher’s life was a gathering designed to empower queer people in Kurdistan. Before this event, his interactions with other queer people had been limited to dating apps. At this event, everything changed. He met lesbians and trans people in a purely platonic, supportive context. It was a profound "click" in his mind: he didn't need to force himself into heteronormative boxes to belong. "I have met the best people in my life through trauma," Ardesher says. "It was the personal challenges I faced that led me to meet such amazing people." Inspired by the community he found, Ardesher transitioned from a participant to a leader. He began his activism journey with IraQueer, attending advocacy training, the Swedish Lab, Protest Lab, and Qawsuna. These experiences gave him a blueprint for what a safe queer space should look like. Today, he and his partner have turned their own home into a small, vital sanctuary for their friends—a place where they can simply exist without fear. Living BoldlyArdesher’s professional path has been equally transformative. His first "queer work experience" was volunteering for IraQueer back in 2017. Later, after navigating a homophobic and misogynistic environment at a previous firm, he used the confidence he gained through activism to seek out a more inclusive workspace. At his current firm, he took the brave step of coming out to his colleagues. For the first time, he felt truly liberated, no longer exhausted by the weight of hiding who he was. A Dream for the FutureWhen asked about his dream for our community, Ardesher’s answer is simple yet powerful: "I want the community to just breathe." Because queer identities are so often politicized, many in the community live in a constant state of "high alert." Ardesher dreams of a day where being queer is no longer a reason to be targeted—a day where peace is the default. His words of wisdom to you: "Please take care of each other. Advocacy and activism can be nerve-wracking, but you don't always need to be on the front lines. You can be an activist simply by being you." Today, Ardesher is thriving. He is happily engaged in a healthy relationship and stands as one of the leading activists in Kurdistan and Iraq. We are so proud to call him one of our own.  For many Iraqi queer individuals, asylum is not a decision driven by the desire to migrate or improve living standards, but a direct result of fear and lack of safety. Threats of violence, family persecution, blackmail, and social and legal harassment make remaining in Iraq impossible in many cases. Yet leaving Iraq does not mean reaching safety, it is often the beginning of another phase of suffering. The weakness of the Iraqi passport is a fundamental obstacle to reaching countries with clear asylum systems or effective legal protection. Most safe countries require visas that are difficult to obtain, or financial and documentation requirements that many cannot meet. For this reason, most Iraqi queer people are forced to head to neighboring countries as the only possible option, despite knowing in advance that this is not the end of the road.
Zainab Malik, an Iraqi queer refugee from a religious family background, says:“The first step I took on Beirut’s soil, I felt that I was standing alone in a world where I did not know how to protect myself.When I contacted an organization to help me find a safe place, I was directed to someone from the LGBTQ+ community. I trusted that I would be helped out of compassion and shared belonging, since we face the same challenges in different places. Instead, I was shocked to be exploited and intimidated by members of my own community for a few dozen dollars that I desperately needed. I also reached out to psychological support organizations partnered with UNHCR. I explained my situation in detail, the fear and danger threatening my life if my family discovered my location, and the symptoms of my mental illnesses that I had been unable to treat in my previous environment. I was simply told that they receive and treat only specific cases. I did not understand what those specific cases were. I felt that my suffering was not enough to be taken seriously.” Neighboring Countries… A Legal Gray Area Reaching a neighboring country does not mean entering a national asylum system that protects refugees; it often means living in a temporary and unstable legal situation. After arrival, Iraqi queer individuals apply for asylum through the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), a process that may take years before any tangible outcome. Haven, an Iraqi non-binary trans queer asylum seeker in a transit country, says: “I fled Iraq because of the danger facing trans and queer people, and because I feared my family if they discovered my truth. Currently, I have no legal residency. I cannot work officially, and even informal work is very difficult to obtain because of my queer appearance. There is no real protection I can rely on, and no stable life. I survive only on donations from friends and limited assistance from some organizations. Every day I wonder when the United Nations will move forward with my case. When will I be able to live in a country that provides protection, rights, and acceptance? My mental health is worsening over time, and the waiting has become extremely difficult. All I want is for my case to be accepted and to be resettled in a safe country. I want to live with dignity and safety instead of constant fear: fear that my family might reach me at any moment, or that I could be deported to Iraq. This fear is real. My mother contacted me by email and confirmed that my family has disowned me, and that if my brothers find me, they will kill me. I currently live in a country that is not safe for me as a trans queer person. There are protests against the LGBTQ+ community, strict religious laws, and police who pursue any suspicion of queer gatherings and attempt to imprison them.” During this period, many live in a legal gray area. They cannot return to Iraq due to real danger, nor can they settle in the temporary host country. Residency is limited or nonexistent, renewal is difficult or expensive, and any administrative mistake may lead to detention or deportation. Alex, a non-binary Iraqi refugee in Lebanon, says: “I thought the situation in Lebanon might be slightly better, but it turned out to be the same. People stare and make comments, even in the safest areas. Even the landlord of the apartment we live in—we try to avoid him seeing us, afraid he might evict or exploit us if he knows we are queer.” Life Without Legal Protection The absence of clear legal status means absence of protection. Iraqi queer people in transit countries often do not have the right to formal work, forcing them to rely on unstable or informal jobs, or limited aid that does not cover basic needs. This makes them more vulnerable to exploitation in work, housing, and even access to healthcare. Additionally, these countries often lack effective mechanisms to protect against violence or discrimination, especially when gender identity or sexual orientation is the direct reason for targeting. Many avoid reporting abuses out of fear of legal consequences or exposure of their identity. Hayden, an Iraqi queer refugee in Lebanon, says: “Because of our fragile legal status, everyone tries to exploit us, even organizations that claim to help refugees or members of the LGBTQ community. Some try to scam us and take our money, especially since we know nothing about this new country. When I first arrived in Lebanon, during my early days there, $100 was taken from me under the pretext of helping me, yet I received nothing in return. I saw this happen repeatedly; most people try to get something from us or take advantage of us.” The Burden of Long Waiting Waiting is the most defining feature of the Iraqi queer asylum experience: waiting for the first interview, waiting for the decision, waiting for any update on the case. This waiting is not neutral; it is filled with anxiety and uncertainty. Life is placed on hold, future plans become impossible, and everything depends on a decision that may or may not come. The psychological pressure during this stage is intense. Social isolation, the feeling of instability, and constant fear of the future directly affect mental health. For many, this is the hardest phase, because it combines fleeing a real danger with not yet reaching a safe place. Hiding Identity Once Again The painful paradox is that many Iraqi queer individuals are forced to hide their identities again in transit countries. Disclosing sexual orientation or gender identity may lead to harassment, violence, or legal problems. Escaping oppression does not necessarily mean being free from it; sometimes it simply reproduces itself in a different form. An Uncertain Ending Resettlement in a safe country remains the final and most anticipated stage, but it is neither quick nor guaranteed. It involves lengthy procedures, multiple interviews, and continuous scrutiny. Some wait for years to reach this stage, while others may never reach it at all. For Iraqi queer people, asylum is not merely a journey from one place to another. It is a prolonged state of temporary belonging, living in uncertainty, and trying to endure despite fragile circumstances. It is a reality lived by thousands in silence, outside the headlines, in countries that are neither home nor a final refuge.  In a society that still treats gender as a closed binary—“man” or “woman”—existing outside this system becomes an unspoken act of rebellion. Non-binary individuals—those whose gender identity does not fall within the traditional binary—live in Iraq between two worlds, without legal recognition, social protection, or meaningful representation in public discourse.
 Traditional Marriage: A Harsh Social Restriction on the LGBTQ+ Community.
In traditional societies like Iraq, marriage is considered one of the most significant social customs, ensuring lineage continuity and strengthening family and community ties. This concept defines gender roles, expecting men and women to marry someone of the opposite sex to form a “model family.” |