I just got off the phone with a friend and after talking about her poetry I
feel like I am in love; excited, smiling, flushed, ready. Hearing about her
work and telling her about my work is one of the best medicines I know
for grief and exhaustion, for stress, loneliness and isolation. In those
moments of eager talk, as in the moments of reading, writing, and making
love, I am my best self, more than the sum of my anxieties; larger than my
usual self. It is one of the most beautiful things in the world; it is one of
the reasons to keep on living.

I was thrilled to be asked to work on this magazine because I need it to
exist. Like many queer Arabs I love stories. I find it difficult to sleep
when more than one of us is in the same room; it is difficult to get off the
phone once we get started. I've had nights of sleep deprivation, my
body's exhaustion battling the need to express the thought triggered by
her thought, a feedback loop of mutual inspiration. I have hungered for
our stories; I have needed to hear about our lives. I love seeing us in the
flesh, but being a creature of words I also need to see us in print. This
magazine is about our stories; collecting our stories and celebrating our
lives in all our complicated glory. I'm tired of reading through other
people's books, searching for a stray glimpse or reference that reflects
us; we deserve volumes. May this magazine be a book in an immense
library, one contribution to a passionate conversation.

The first queer Arab woman I ever met was in a book. I was reading a
book by an American feminist about women and terrorism; it was called
something like the Demon Lover, I'm honestly not sure. The writer had
been a member of a terrorist organization and wanted to write about the
appeal of terrorist rhetoric for women. I picked up the book because it
looked interesting it and was on sale, but I didn't find it terribly gripping.
Then suddenly, in a chapter where the author described traveling around
the Occupied Territories in Palestine with a translator, she met a woman
who brought up a topic she had been told never to mention-lesbianism.
I read eagerly as the woman spoke calmly about her life and its pleasures
and difficulties. I still remember the low-key way that she compared her
experiences as a lesbian in occupied Palestine to those of living as a
lesbian in the U.S. when she was a student. She also had a beautifully
simple way of dismissing the people who said that there was no such
thing as an Arab lesbian. "I do not imagine me," she told the interviewer,
and I read it years later and shivered. Yes. She does not imagine herself.
And I do not imagine us either.

Three years ago, sitting in a room full of the first queer Arab women I
ever met in the flesh, one of us brought up that phrase and told that
story. Again I shivered, shocked by the sound of the words in the air;
but this time I looked around me and saw that half of the people in the
room were nodding. Many of us had read that book and we all
remembered that phrase. I have a fantasy that that Palestinian lesbian
will get ahold of this magazine, she will get access to the web through a
job and find it on a web search during a break, or somebody will print it
out and give it to her. I would love to see her write for a future issue.
Whether or not she ever does, though, I am deeply thankful for the gift
of her words, and these words are a gift back, to her and to the rest of us.
Thank you for telling me that you are in the world, and I hope that you
love these stories as much as I love them.

Participating in this community is a new thing for me. For most of my life
I have lived in the US, and for the most part I grew up isolated not only
from queer people, but also from Arabs. This has to do with the choices
that my parents made when I was young and the choices that I made
when I was older. It is not true of all of the contributors to this magazine;
we are a diverse lot and I am glad of it. But that is my experience; the
first true community of Arabs that I have known has been this
community of queer Arab women and transexual men.

I've noticed a new thing with these friendships and this community,
something that I have never experienced before, and that is the
importance of dreams. It might have to do with the fact that some of my
best beloveds, now, do not live on the same continent with me. There
are people who I love who I may never live to meet. In that context
dreams are crucial. Sometimes dreams are the only way for me to see
these beloved faces in movement, to keep these friends in my daily life.

There is someone very dear to me, an Arab transexual man, who I met
online while I was living in the U.S. and he was living in Bahrain. We've
never been on the same continent and I don't know that we ever will. At
one point, around a year after I had begun a series of passionate phone
conversations with him, I didn't hear from him for longer than usual and
had the feeling that something was wrong. When he contacted me, he
told me that he had just returned home from three days in the hospital.
During that time he had vividly dreamed of me.

This broke my heart and filled me with awe. Broke my heart because I
could not be with him when he was sick and in trouble; filled me with awe
because I had been. Despite the geographical distance, despite the
impossibility of doing something as basic and necessary as sitting next
to his hospital bed and holding his hand, he had brought me with him
into that room. It's difficult for me to even try to describe what this
meant and continues to mean to me; all the hair on my body stands up
still when I think of it. I couldn't be there with him, but through his
dreams I was.

I was thinking of him when I decided that the first theme of this magazine
would be a web of dreams; I was thinking about literal dreams, about
their importance in crossing these literal distances, these oceans.

I was also thinking about another sort of dream. Dream meaning
passionate desire, fought for with mind, body, soul and all other
available resources; the political dreams, the deep hungers, the needs
that unite us.

We are so different. I come up against that, we come up against that,
over and over. We have different lives and different experiences; we
have different languages and different ideals. Sometimes it seems that
the main thing that unites us is the same thing that divides us, an
intensity of emotion, frequent unwillingness to compromise, passion. At
a gathering last summer of queer Arab women I sometimes felt that I was
drowning in intensity, it was almost too much, I was drowning in the
eyes. None of us ever seem to blink when we are together, have you
noticed that? We are carnivorous in our desire. For each other's
company; beyond that for each other's recognition, approval, love. So
many of us have deep loneliness from years of not being fully seen by
the families we were born to and the families we have found. We need
each other now; we need to see our reflections in each other's
passionate eyes.

So this is a dream, this magazine. A dream, a hope, that wants to be a
promise. A dream to draw in those who have never yet seen the words
"I do not imagine me," who have never met another queer Arab women,
who struggle with the weight of so many words saying that we are
impossible, mythological, a contradiction in terms, that we cannot exist.
A dream to make those of us who grow tired and sad laugh suddenly, in
surprise and delight, relief and recognition. A dream to continue the
community that brave and hopeful women have already created through
hard work, compassion, argument, love. A dream of more late-night
conversations to leave us bleary-eyed but sated in the morning; a dream
of more love affairs to unite physical and soul-felt passion; a dream of
more deep-felt arguments; a dream of more. A web cast across oceans
and distance and the synaptic gaps of different languages, ideas,
cultures. Fragile as spider-silk and strong as anything in the world.

A web of dreams.