Few editors have reimagined contemporary queer Arab storytelling quite like Elias Jahshan. From the sweeping success of This Arab is Queer to his latest anthology This Queer Arab Family, Jahshan has created the much-needed space for stories that are as politically urgent as they are deeply personal while holding nuance, joy, and community in narratives so often disregarded and disenfranchised by mainstream discourse. Drawing on his background in journalism and his own lived experience across Sydney and London, his work challenges stereotypes while amplifying the voices that are far too often left unheard.
As he celebrates the release of This Queer Arab Family, Jahshan will appear at a special book launch event in WeHo tomorrow, the 15th, at the West Hollywood City Council Chamber, bringing these conversations directly to readers and community members. In this interview, he reflects on identity, home, representation, and the evolving politics of queer Arab life, all while offering insight into both his creative process and the urgent realities shaping his work today.
Elias, your work beautifully blends your Arab and queer identities. When did the idea of expressing these together through storytelling and sharing them with the world first come to you?
In 2019 and the lead-up to the UK’s first lockdown in 2020, I immersed myself in anthologies and contributed to one, Arab, Australian, Other. That experience, combined with my background in journalism, made me wonder if I could publish my own.
I began reflecting on how queer Arabs are represented in the media. Coverage often focused on sensational stories: ISIS atrocities, state crackdowns, or misjudged displays of Western solidarity while overlooking context, local activism, and nuance. Too often, queer Arabs were reduced to stereotypes: victims or “model migrants.”
These reflections led to my first anthology, This Arab is Queer, published in 2022. The response was overwhelming, and I was frequently asked if I’d edit another. I knew it couldn’t be a sequel; it needed a new focus.
Through the connections I built, and my own experiences of isolation during sudden deafness in 2023, I began thinking about how queer Arabs find family and community.
This Queer Arab Family explores those bonds, centering stories of kinship, resilience, and joy. It reclaims the idea of family in Arab cultures and asserts our existence in spaces that often try to erase us; we are family, too.
How has your understanding of “home” evolved across your life and how is this reflected in your work?
On a surface level, home for me is split between Sydney and London. Sydney is where I was born, raised, and began my career, where my family and lifelong friends are, and where much of my coming out took place. London is where I built a new life, where my career grew, my identity as a queer, deaf Arab fully took shape, and where I found community, friendship, and love.
On a deeper level, “home” is more complicated. Australia is shaped by unceded Aboriginal land, while my ancestral homes, Lebanon and Palestine, remain largely out of reach due to legal and political barriers. Visiting them brought a profound, bittersweet sense of belonging.
Living in London, as the child of immigrants, turned immigrant myself, I’m always aware of its colonial history. Yet its diversity and openness have made it feel like home.
These experiences shape my work. They’ve deepened my empathy for other queer immigrants of color and reinforced that we are more than labels, that our histories, identities, and communities all intersect in meaningful ways.
What is one of the more surprising things you’ve learned from one of your contributors when compiling and editing anthologies like This Arab is Queer?
Each of the contributors taught me so many things, I wouldn’t know where to start with this question. The fact that they entrusted me to read and edit their stories – stories which were often deeply personal and vulnerable, mind you – is something I do not take for granted. It made me conscious of ensuring the editing process was done sensitively, to ensure their stories were told on their own terms, yet still legible for a wider audience.
With my more recent book, This Queer Arab Family, I was constantly reminded of how queer Arab joy could be played out through family, kinship, comradeship, or community. It reminded me that despite the hardships many of us face on multiple fronts as queer Arabs, we are still resilient and powerful. No one can ever take that away from us.
How do you navigate or balance the expectations that come along with being a visible queer Arab voice in today’s political climate?
I don’t. LOL. As in, I don’t actively try to “navigate” or “balance” these expectations. I just am. I don’t actively hide anything about myself because I have nothing to be ashamed of whatsoever.
With regards to my visibility, though, this is something that evolved organically. It started when I was thrust into the national media spotlight in Australia as editor of Star Observer. From there, it grew via my social media platforms, the articles I wrote for various publications, and then the two books I now have under my belt that have been put in the hands of readers around the world.
However, I’m very aware that my visibility is only possible because of my privilege. Not just because of the fact I’m a cisgender male who’s had access to university-level education and freedom of movement – and lifestyle – that comes with having an Australian passport, but also because of the love and support I have from my family.
Many queer Arabs do not have the same level of unconditional family support I have, so it’s not something I take for granted, even if it wasn’t an easy path to get to that point for me. But this support and love I am privileged to enjoy – it’s like a superpower. It makes all the racists, homophobes, and online trolls who try to come after me look like utter fools. Let them keep frothing at the mouth with all their useless hate and anger. I have something they don’t have: empathy and love.
Can you share with us one assumption that people have had of you that you’d like to take this moment to correct?
Some people might think I’m being combative or divisive through my choice of words when I critique Western queer communities. But I’m genuinely not. If anything, I care about the community so much that I want it to improve and better itself – and we can only do that if we have an honest conversation about some of the pitfalls that still plague our community. And it’s not just racism, there’s also transphobia, and a complacency from many that we’ve achieved equal rights now that we have same-sex marriage. We might be “equal” on paper, but that doesn’t mean we’re equal in reality. Not to mention our queer brethren in countries where regimes or laws brutally suppress them. The fight is far from over, and we all have to look beyond our borders, or even beyond our bubbles in the cities.
As someone who finds themself at the intersection of queer and Arab identities, how do you view the current global state of human rights, and what is still painfully overlooked?
I don’t think there’s a single answer to this. It makes more sense to look at queer issues through a local lens; what the community faces in Lebanon is vastly different from Saudi Arabia, just as Beirut differs from rural areas, or from diasporic communities in places like Sydney or Dearborn. Social, political, and geographic contexts matter.
Take Palestine, for example. Queer Palestinians are often met with the cliché that Israel is a “safe haven” for LGBTQ+ people. While this may reflect legal differences, it’s reductive. Queer Palestinians are still primarily targeted for being Palestinian, living under occupation and systemic discrimination. For many, liberation from that reality takes precedence.
In contrast, queer communities in places like Egypt may be more focused on immediate safety, minimizing visibility to avoid state surveillance and crackdowns.
These examples only scratch the surface, but they point to a broader need for a decolonial perspective: holding Western powers accountable for colonial laws and ongoing interventions, while also challenging patriarchal norms and homophobia within our own communities.
At the same time, queer activists across the region are already doing vital work. They understand their contexts best and don’t need Western “saviors” imposing solutions. Queer liberation in SWANA cannot simply mirror Western models; assuming so is both naïve and, ultimately, another form of imperialism.
From your perspective, what role can storytelling and literature play in the progress of human rights, particularly for those whose voices are often overlooked?
Storytelling and literature can show readers that we have our own agencies, that we can tell our stories on our own terms. In addition, Arab writers and artists have played a huge role and facilitated change. They help ensure progressive perspectives are heard in an increasingly conservative context, and I don’t just mean religion; one can still be “secular” or non-religious and still be conservative, ergo a bigot. It’s through their work, alongside the work of so many tireless activists and organizers, that we have been able to become more visible, to have our voices and experiences documented and heard. It’s a long process, but these wins should always be celebrated, given the circumstances we are up against.
We also have a growing number of straight Arab allies coming forward to speak for our community, to stand in solidarity with us through their platforms in the media or their artistry and writing. Often it’s subtle, for safety reasons, but we see them and love them for it.
What does it mean to share your work in a city like West Hollywood, with its own deep-rooted queer cultural history and landscape?
It truly is an honor. I am a major history nerd, and to know that my work will be contributing to West Hollywood’s deep-rooted cultural history and landscape in a small way is something that blows my mind. I am so well aware of West Hollywood’s role not just in the USA’s queer liberation movement and history, but also in a global context. It can’t be underestimated, and the younger version of myself growing up in the working-class suburbs of Sydney could never have imagined making it this far.
Do you foresee this event as more of a celebration, a conversation, a call to action, D: all of the above, or something else entirely?
All the above! I am not there to simply preach to the choir; I am also there to start a meaningful, engaging conversation, even if it means some audience members may be confronted with uncomfortable questions or perspectives. As I said earlier, change is never meant to be easy. But this also doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate. We can, and should!
Why do spaces like this upcoming event matter right now, particularly for queer Arab voices as well as other marginalized communities?
To have this platform at West Hollywood cannot be understated. It’s an incredibly unique and powerful way to shed light on and uplift voices from marginalized communities – and to do it in a way that’s engaging and accessible to anyone and everyone. I really hope this moment of cultural and ideas exchange will be a stepping stone that leads to more nuanced discussions and understandings of all marginalized communities – not just queer Arabs.
Looking into the near future, what stories and whose voices do you hope will become more culturally mainstream?
We’re already seeing a shift in that queer people of color are taking center stage in the mainstream – not just in queer circles but also the wider, mainstream society and media. I really do welcome this, and I know it will only keep getting better.
I just hope that as this trend continues, we also don’t lose sight of what’s important – complete and genuine liberation for everyone. Not just equality, but also justice and equity too. And crucially, not just for one group of people at the expense of another. We’re all in this together, and applying basic critical thinking, along with a strong desire to hold elected officials and media outlets accountable, will be key in achieving this. This is essentially a long-winded way of saying sure, representation is great – but it’s not what will save us. Liberation requires complete reforms, or a complete dismantling of the status quo in many aspects of society.
Join us tomorrow to celebrate the launch of This Queer Arab Family with Elias Jahshan and the Los Angeles Blade