Archiving the Syrian Revolution: A Quest for Inclusivity

Since 2011, several archival initiatives have emerged within the Syrian cultural, artistic, and intellectual scene.¹ By creating, collecting, and preserving documentation about the 2011 revolution² and subsequent war, these archives play a crucial role in shaping a Syrian collective memory of past and ongoing events. They thus contribute significantly to the creation of a future Syrian identity: through the construction of shared memory, they can bring communities together and actively participate in (re)creating social ties after the trauma of the war and intersocietal violence (Firat 2019).

However, (re)writing history and constructing memory are rarely inclusive processes: different actors compete over narratives, and the dominance of some tends to relegate others to the margins. The Syrian media Ḥikāya mā inḥakat/SyriaUntold seeks to counteract this marginalisation.³ Launched in 2013, this independent media platform devotes particular attention to subalternity and minoritised groups, as it becomes evident when going through the menu of the website. In addition to political and economic analyses and reflections on cultural production, the viewer will find a section titled ‘gender’, featuring two series: ‘feminisms’ and ‘LGBTIQ’.⁴ The latter is the starting point of this article.

Similar to its feminist counterpart, the LGBTQI+ series is relatively recent, with the first article published in September 2020, and is continuously expanding. In addition to free contributions, the section offers a diverse range of content – such as interviews, testimonies, narrative texts, personal reflections, and analytical articles – curated into two main batches. Editor-in-chief Fadi Saleh introduces it as an effort to address the lack of LGBTQI+-related topics within recent archival initiatives, as well as in the broader Syrian public debate (Saleh 2020).⁵ The series is thus primarily conceived as an alternative archive, collecting narratives of the revolution, its prelude, and its aftermath, elaborated from a queer perspective.⁶

As emphasised by the media's contributors, for queer narratives to be recognised as legitimate, there needs to be a broader effort to dismantle hegemonic discourses about gender and sexuality. These discourses underpin both collective representations in Syria, depicting queer people as ‘deviant’, and Western victimhood approaches, presenting them as oppressed by a conservative society (ibid.). Since this deconstructive endeavour involves reclaiming discourse practices, SyriaUntold's queer archive is meant to be a space for LGBTQI+-identifying artists, activists, and researchers to share their works, experiences, and reflections. While the first batch focuses on the connections between queerness and the revolution, the second emphasises the potential of cultural and artistic production as a battleground for the struggle over narratives. As much as media, the arts, and literature can reinforce heteronormative imaginaries, they can also be powerful tools to undermine them, thereby providing new perspectives.

Delving into two contemporary Syrian non-Arabic novels, this article explores how literature, alongside SyriaUntold's initiative, contributes to developing innovative narratives on non-normative sexualities, especially male ones, and the 2011 revolution. After briefly outlining the dominant paradigms of male homosexuality representation in modern and contemporary Arab literature,⁷ I examine the portrayals of queer characters in Le dernier Syrien (2020) by Syrian–French author Omar Youssef Souleimane (b. 1987, Syria, al-Qutayfah) and The Foghorn Echoes (2022) by Syrian-Canadian Danny Ramadan (b. 1984, Syria, Damascus). This analysis suggests that the novels successfully disrupt the epistemic closure (Hadeed 2013) underpinning traditional narratives about same-sex-related topics. Drawing on the queer epistemological framework developed by contributors to SyriaUntold's LGBTQI+ section, I also interrogate the representation of the revolution, particularly its connections with queerness, as conveyed by the novels. By proposing a more sociocultural, individual, and non-dichotomous reading of the uprising, Le dernier Syrien and The Foghorn Echoes participate in furthering more inclusive literary imaginaries and political discourses. This attempt to craft narratives that transcend strict categorisation, both in terms of non-normative sexualities and broader sociopolitical movements such as revolutions, is what the notion of ‘queering’ refers to.

Some preliminary remarks are necessary before diving into the core of this article. Regarding the writers discussed here, both Omar Youssef Souleimane and Danny Ramadan belong to a new ‘generation’⁸ of authors who fled Syria amidst political turmoil, seeking refuge in Western countries – France and Canada – where they have since been naturalised. The linguistic accessibility of their works and their exploration of contemporary and ‘trendy’ subjects have significantly contributed to their literary success and media exposure. However, their presence in public and sociopolitical discourse differs markedly. In his public appearances, Souleimane frequently engages in conversations on Islam-related topics within the French context, contributing as a pop-up expert and writer of opinion pieces for various newspapers. Primarily benefiting from his ‘insider’ status – having grown up in Saudi Arabia and describing his family as Salafi – he discusses radicalisation, while also celebrating the values of the French Republic, such as secularism.⁹ In contrast, Ramadan is renowned as a public speaker and advocate for LGBTQI+-identifying refugees. Unlike Souleimane, queer-related issues are central to both Ramadan's professional and personal life, as reflected in his recently published memoir as a queer Syrian refugee, Crooked Teeth (2024). Since he writes openly as a minoritised subject, The Foghorn Echoes exemplifies the practice of reclaiming discourses, closely aligning Ramadan with SyriaUntold's approach. However, this novel must not be considered autobiographical or solely militant, but rather a literary work in its own right. Even though this article seeks to create a dialogue between the fictional universes crafted by Souleimane and Ramadan and the real experiences reported by SyriaUntold's queer contributors, my intention is not to reduce the texts discussed here to mere documentary works,¹⁰ as they primarily are not. Instead, I aim to demonstrate how novels, as literary creations, interact – consciously or not – with other forms of discursive production and actively participate in shaping new narratives. I hope that the analyses of excerpts presented will underscore the literary value of both Souleimane and Ramadan's novels and encourage further scholarly research.

Exploring Male Homosexual Relationships in Modern and Contemporary Arab Literature

Since the beginning of the twenty-first century, the representation of same-sex-related topics within Arab literature has been the subject of an increasing number of academic works. By adopting a diachronically comparative perspective, several of these studies have shown the evolution of homoerotic epistemology from the premodern era to the present day.¹¹ Scholars have thus highlighted the existence, within Arab-Islamic premodern societies, of a diverse set of same-sex practices and desires; while being accepted and even celebrated in some specific circumstances, these various acts and inclinations were not conceived as defining aspects of an individual's identity and are therefore referred to as ‘homoerotic’. Under the influence of Western modern sexual epistemology,¹² homosexuality – defined as an identitarian understanding of sexual behaviours – has gradually outpaced the traditional conception of homoeroticism – though it has not entirely replaced it.¹³ According to this new perspective, homosexual conducts are viewed as central components of the identity that construct it as non-normative and then minoritarian.

By pinpointing the peculiarities of the more recent narratives around both homoeroticism and homosexuality, these studies have, furthermore, led to the identification of some dominant paradigms that shape the representation of same-sex relationships, especially the male ones, in modern and contemporary literary works. Focusing on modern Arabic-language literature, the Arabist Frédéric Lagrange (2000) categorises references to male homosexuality into three types: allusions that convey the idea of male-male sexual relations as an old practice typical of traditional society; representations of homosexuality as a pathological condition; and narratives that associate homosexual practices with the dysfunctional relationship with the West. His reflection is further developed by the literary scholar Hanadi Al-Samman, who states that modern Arabic literature mostly conveys a constructionist (and negative) idea of non-normative genders and sexual orientations. According to this author, the topic is usually approached through marginal characters, and same-sex relationships are represented as both the cause and the symptom of moral and societal degeneration and as the trope for the Arab man's emasculation due to political and economic oppression. Homosexual practices acquire then an allegorical dimension reflecting the sense of inferiority of the ‘modern Arab persona, particularly that of the Arab male, defeated by colonial and local powers and plagued by a diminished self-image’ (Al-Samman 2008). Alongside this constructionist approach, the essentialist one is not alien to literary works dealing with same-sex-related themes (Hadeed 2013). Nevertheless, it does not prevent negative and stereotyped representations: portraying homosexual drives as socially/culturally constructed practices or as biological/psychological anomalies, both constructionist and essentialist arguments can easily be mobilised to delegitimise homosexuality and strengthen heteronormative discourses about gender-based roles and identities (ibid.).

Furthermore, these two approaches seem based on the quest for determinants that might explain sexual orientations falling outside of the heteronormative paradigm: having been constructed as a non-normative condition, homosexuality tends to be enclosed in a narrow range of roles, desires, and practices, which makes it intelligible only by containing and isolating it. Relying on the notion of ‘minoritizing view’ (Sedgwick 1990), literary researcher Khalid Hadeed thus examines the representation of male homosexuality within modern and contemporary Arabic literature through the concept of ‘epistemic closure’, which is the effort ‘to restrict the meaning of homosexuality to a set repertoire of genders, desires, and explanatory narratives’ (Hadeed 2013). Regarding the Syrian literary production, Hadeed identifies an instance of essentialist closure in Saʿd Allāh Wannūs's (b. 1941, Syria) play Ṭuqūs al-ishārāt wa-l-taḥawwulāt (Rites of signs and transformations, 1994). For the constructionist paradigm, I propose Ammar Abdulhamid's (b. 1966, Syria) English-language novel Menstruation (2001) as an example. As observed in other literary works (Al-Samman 2008; Guardi 2014), the validity of the homosexual identity is subverted here by depicting homoeroticism as a response to the lack of contact with the opposite sex before marriage¹⁴ and/or as a temporary replacement when marriages are unsatisfactory.

A case of epistemic closure can lastly be found in Khālid Khalīfa's (b. 1964, Syria) novel Lā sakākīn fī maṭābīkh hadhihi al-madīna (No knives in the kitchens of this city, 2013). Although the homosexual character, Nizār, easily garners the reader's sympathy due to his positive representation, his portrayal perpetuates common stereotypes about non-normative sexual identities. This includes the perception of homosexual men as effeminate – reflected in Nizār's refined manner of dress and his love for the arts and music – as well as the understanding of homosexuality as a Western-imported practice – exemplified by the character's depiction as an open-minded artist with international connections. This stereotyped representation hence highlights the challenge of envisioning minoritised subjects in ways that diverge from dominant perceptions. As I demonstrate, Le dernier Syrien and The Foghorn Echoes successfully overcome this challenge by offering a more subtle and complex reading of the minoritarian experience as queer subjects. These works thus contribute to a wider effort¹⁵ to reshape narratives about queerness within contemporary Arab literary production. In this respect, using the term ‘Arab’ instead of ‘Arabic’ allows us to encompass not only literary works in Arabic but more broadly literature ‘as an Arab phenomenon with tremendous geographical and linguistic diversity’ (Hassan 2017). Written in French and English, Le dernier Syrien and The Foghorn Echoes exemplify this linguistic variety.¹⁶

To Love, To Rebel, To Be: Exploring Queer Journeys in Le Dernier Syrien

Published in 2020, Le dernier Syrien¹⁷ marks Omar Youssef Souleimane's debut novel. Set against the backdrop of the 2011 revolution, the narrative follows a group of young activists from diverse cities, backgrounds, and religious denominations who participate in the uprising against Assad's dictatorship. The novel recounts the early phases of the revolution, including the establishment of local committees for coordinating nonviolent resistance, the clashes between the rebels and the regime, the arrival of foreign forces and jihadist groups, and the frustration of local revolutionaries with the diaspora-based resistance and the international indifference. As the situation deteriorates, the group of activists gradually fractures, abandoning their leaders, Joséphine and Youssef, thus mirroring the broader trajectory of Syrian nonviolent resistance. In their effort to sustain a secular revolution in Homs, Joséphine and Youssef confront the growing power of Islamist forces, until they are ultimately forced to leave the city and decide to flee the country.

While tracing the evolution of the Syrian uprising from a peaceful, civil movement to a conflict involving various armed factions, the novel also delves into the personal and romantic journeys of a young generation of Syrians. Alongside the budding romance between Joséphine, who courageously defies societal norms regarding female roles, and her comrade Khalil, the narrative follows the love story between Youssef and Mohammad, who meet through a dating website. The portrayal of Youssef as a homosexual character holds particular significance when considering the stigmatization faced by queer activists within the Syrian opposition: as highlighted by SyriaUntold's contributor Leel Yousef, reporting on an activist's non-normative gender or sexuality has often been a tactic to discredit their political standing. This discrimination has thus forced activists to withdraw from queer political discourse, ‘for to be queer in the revolution is to receive countless insults about how ludicrous, egoistic and crazy your cause is’ (Yousef 2020). By featuring queer characters who actively participate in the uprising, as Ramadan's novel does too, Le dernier Syrien spotlights those activists who, paradoxically, have had to suppress a core part of their identity to gain recognition as legitimate political actors.¹⁸

Concerning Youssef and Mohammad's story, its representation diverges from dominant narrative paradigms of same-sex-related topics. In her analysis of these paradigms, based on a corpus of fifteen short stories and novels published between 1972 and 2007, Al-Samman (2008) observes that portrayals of male homosexual relationships within Arabic literature usually revolve around power dynamics, with one partner taking on a dominant position, often characterised by a sexually active role, while the other occupies a submissive position, symbolised by his passive role in the penetration act.¹⁹ The dimension of desire is frequently absent, and the relationship often exposes the submissive partner to instances of violence, rape, or tragic outcomes. Concerning Souleimane's novel, in some passages sexual acts can take on a violent connotation. These scenes are predominantly set in the prison environment, where active penetration is depicted as a tool wielded by regime officials to assert power and dominance over both male and female prisoners. However, the relationship between Youssef and Mohammad does not exhibit any traces of violence or power dynamics, and reciprocal desire, portrayed as an innate and beautiful impulse, emerges as a cornerstone from the outset. In this regard, the depiction of their first encounter is particularly emblematic. After meeting for the first time in person, they navigate the labyrinthine streets of Old Damascus to reach Mohammad's home, seeking refuge from prying eyes. The narrative paints a picturesque scene of Old Damascus, with its quaint alleys adorned with trees and flowers, evoking a sense of poetic beauty that mirrors the newfound joy of the two characters. Upon arriving at Mohammad's house, they engage in a light conversation before physically approaching each other.

‘Kiss me’. Youssef starts with his lips, the lower one, then the upper. He undresses him, removes his own clothes. He pulls him towards the bed, and buries his head in his chest. He would like to disappear to better be reborn. He wants to cover every inch of the body offered to him with kisses. ‘I want you’, he says, lying on his back. Mohammad takes out a tiny bottle of oil. He enters Youssef gently and lies down on his body. Two waves of desire unite on the mattress. Mohammad's perfume awakens an old memory for Youssef, from the time when he still lived with his two sisters and his mother (Souleimane 2020: 37).²⁰

Their first sexual encounter brims with desire, tenderness, and mutual attentiveness. The lovers progressively explore each other's bodies, beginning with their lips before undressing and reclining on the sofa. Youssef's desire to thoroughly caress Mohammad's body reveals an attraction that transcends the mere physical act of penetration; it suggests the yearning to discover the partner's entirety as a person. The other is no longer a foe or a source of apprehension, as in the representations of same-sex relations described by Al-Samman; instead, the partner becomes both a shelter where one can find solace and a source of rebirth. References to kisses, the smooth movement by which Mohammad enters Youssef, and the synchronicity of their bodies compared to the motion of waves lend the passage a romantic hue. This sentiment is further heightened by the mention of perfume and the childhood memories it evokes, underscoring the sense of security Youssef finds in Mohammad's embrace. At the end of the intercourse, tears of joy flow down Mohammad's cheeks (Souleimane 2020: 38).

Mohammad's in-betweenness concerns not only his sexuality but also his political stance, thereby taking on an existential dimension. While Youssef demonstrates a firm position regarding both his sexual identity and political beliefs – openly disclosing his homosexuality to close friends and rebelling against Assad's government – Mohammad is portrayed as a grey figure (ibid.: 52) who refrains from taking a side. Neither aligning with nor opposing the regime, he lives on the fringes of ongoing events, primarily preoccupied with his identity crisis. When examining Youssef and Mohammad's differing political engagements, the assignment of their sexual roles appears to break with the aforementioned representative paradigms. Youssef, assuming the role of a revolutionary leader typically associated with masculinity, adopts a sexually passive role, which is traditionally linked to negative connotations of femininity. Conversely, Mohammad takes on an active role in his sexual encounters while adopting a passive approach towards political and social engagement. By subverting the heteronormative dichotomy of active dominant male/passive submissive female, this reversal of sexual roles contributes to stripping homosexual practices of their symbolic significance and reduces them to mere sexual acts.

Intimate Revolutions: Queerness, Self-Acceptance and Reclaimed Visibility in The Foghorn Echoes

The Foghorn Echoes (2022) is Danny Ramadan's second novel. Unlike Le dernier Syrien, where the Syrian political context is central to the plot, The Foghorn Echoes relegates the 2011 uprising and subsequent war to the background of the main story, thus focusing on the dramatic journey of two young men, Hussam and Wassim. The narrative begins in 2003 when, the day the teenage protagonists share their first kiss on Wassim's rooftop, they are discovered by Hussam's father. Enraged, the latter threatens to kill them both and, in the chaos of that moment, Wassim accidentally causes Hussam's father to fall from the roof, causing his death. The story then shifts to 2014, alternating between Hussam, now a political refugee in Vancouver, and Wassim, living alone in Damascus. Interchanging their voices, the narration retraces the two lovers’ trajectories and the series of events that separated them, including Wassim's father's discovery of their intimate relationship, Wassim's subsequent arranged marriage, and Hussam's later arrest for participating in 2011 anti-regime protests at university. After many hardships, including a vain effort to reach Europe on a rubber boat, Hussam ends up in a refugee camp in Turkey and eventually obtains asylum in Canada. In Vancouver, he integrates into the local gay community and frequently attends the city's club scene. On the other hand, Wassim comes back to Damascus after the tragically ended attempt to follow Hussam to Europe. Having left his father, his wife, and their child in his quest to find Hussam, he no longer has a home to return to and takes refuge in an abandoned house. There, he meets Kalila, the ghost of a woman who was a victim of conjugal violence and died in that same house almost thirty years before.

Since the beginning of their love story at fifteen, the bond between the two protagonists is portrayed in a deeply romantic light, echoing what has already been noted about Le dernier Syrien. While the scene depicting their first kiss evokes a sense of innocence and purity (Ramadan 2022: 15–16), the erotic dimension is further explored in the account of their first night together. In this instance, the poetic language gives way to a more explicit narrative, openly naming the sexual organs and describing the act in detail, even more so than in Souleimane's novel. As shown by the following passage, Wassim and Hussam's sexual relation is represented as fully embodied acts, with the language stripped of its allusiveness, underlining the physical dimension, including references to touch, hearing, sight, and taste.

How did he know where the pleasure lay in my body? How did he know what would make me ache? He grew against my hip. I slipped a hand under his shorts and touched his penis, held it firmly. He produced a short gasp, and I placed my hand on his mouth. Now his eyes were wide open. […] Two bodies hungrily touching each other. I hesitated, then dipped my head down and took him in my mouth. At first, it felt weird, but by the time I came up for air I only wanted more. He watched me with sharp eyes. I went up again and kissed him. […] ‘I promise I won't hurt you’, I whispered as he locked his legs around my waist. He was dry, but I used my spit and then pushed myself inside him (Ramadan 2022: 74–75).

Soon after the beginning of their intimate relationship, Hussam and Wassim's lives quickly take a tragic turn. After returning to Damascus, Wassim struggles to come to terms with the loss of Hussam and wistfully portrays him to Kalila as his first and only love. In contrast, over time Hussam begins to see his affection towards Wassim as a damnation from which he seeks to free himself, associating all the dramatic events he endured in Syria, particularly his father's death and his arrest during the revolution, with this jinxed relationship. Haunted by his father's ghost and the numerous traumas that marked his journey to Canada, in Vancouver Hussam adopts an extreme lifestyle marked by substance abuse and casual sex. Through his character, The Foghorn Echoes thus revisits the literary topos of the sexual encounter between the West and the Arab world.²² As exemplified, among others, by novels like Muḥammad Shukrī’s (b. 1935, Morocco) al-Khubz al-ḥāfī (The bare bread, 1982) and Ṣunʿ Allāh Ibrāhīm's (b. 1937, Egypt) Sharaf (Honour, 1997), as well as by Abdellah Taïa's (b. 1973, Morocco) short story Moroccan Slaves (2004), in contemporary Arab literature the West-East sexual interaction often symbolises the East's political, economic, and cultural subjugation to the post-colonizing West (Lagrange 2000; Al-Samman 2008). The relationship between the two partners thus usually reproduces the model of the master-slave relation where the role of the master is played by the colonial Other.²³ This power imbalance is also evident in Ramadan's novel, where Hussam is transformed into an exoticised object of fetishisation by the white gay men he encounters, who reduce him to an ‘Arabian night fantasy’ (Ramadan 2022: 79). The character is thus deprived of his subjectivity, as strikingly illustrated by the loss of his real name: except for Dawood, a Canadian man with Syrian origins, no one, including his partner and friends, makes an effort to pronounce his Arabic name, referring to him as ‘Sam’ instead. Hussam's status as a recently arrived refugee, placing him in a subaltern position relative to his partner Ray, further reflects these power dynamics. Having facilitated Hussam's political asylum in Canada and currently hosting and providing for him, Ray describes him to his friends as ‘his’ refugee and proudly showcases him as a trophy (ibid.: 51).

However, Hussam does not passively endure his social, political, economic, and symbolic subordination, but actively navigates it through various coping strategies. The Foghorn Echoes thus provides insights into ‘minoritisation’ as a negotiable process (Brun and Galonnier 2016), allowing space for the agency of the minoritised subject. For instance, as the novel progresses, it is revealed that during his time in the refugee camp, Hussam was specifically taught ‘how to search Facebook for older white gay men’ (Ramadan 2022: 158) to secure an escape route to a Western country. His relationship with Ray therefore appears as merely a means he devised to flee Turkey.

Nevertheless, Hussam's different tactics to negotiate his subordinate position do not empower him; rather, he seems to seek self-destruction as a way to find relief from his traumatic past. His self-damaging behaviour culminates in an overdose during an orgy. What is more significant is that while Hussam is racialised due to his Arab identity, his passive sexual role does not acquire any symbolic value related to the East's problematic relationship with the West. Rather, his sexual orientation becomes a personal and embodied practice he deliberately adopts. This can be noticed in the description of the orgy he attends, where he invites his partner(s) to ‘use [his own] body as if it were meant for conquering’ (Ramadan 2022: 235). While this image evokes the trope of the sexually dominating West, Hussam has actively and consciously chosen to take part in the encounter and describes the pain he feels as ‘atonement’ (ibid.) for all the sins he attributes to himself: ‘this is why my father died, why I was arrested, why I pushed Wassim and left Arda and slithered to Ray’ (ibid.). His resignation to the pain is far from being a metaphor for the East's submission to the subjugating West but rather reflects his desire for annihilation stemming from the accumulation of many traumas that have marked his strictly personal trajectory. His racialisation as a Syrian refugee in Canada is certainly one of these traumas, but not the major one.

If we are to find symbolic meanings in Ramadan's novel, they may be identified in the representation of the Syrian revolution and its role within Hussam's and Wassim's journeys towards self-acceptance.²⁴

As far as Hussam is concerned, this journey begins immediately after his overdose. To fully come to terms with his traumas, Hussam must reconcile what he perceives as the contradictory aspects of his identity: his Arabness and his queerness. It is no coincidence that Dawood plays a crucial role in this recovery process. First of all, he is the only person in Vancouver who calls Hussam by his name, thereby acknowledging his Arab identity. More importantly, Dawood is a drag queen who integrates their Syrian and Arabic heritage, including the songs of the popular Algerian singer Warda, into his performances in Vancouver's gay clubs. His practice of drag thus carries revolutionary significance for Hussam's internal struggle: by embodying the possibility of harmoniously uniting multiple, seemingly contradictory identities, Dawood offers him a path to healing through self-acceptance as both a Syrian and a gay man. This path seems to echo the words of SyriaUntold's contributor Sahaba who, speaking about his experience of exile, writes: ‘I also reclaimed being Syrian, the most painful part about me. After years of escaping this identity that I thought I could not exist in, I am now building this stolen space’ (Sahaba 2020). In Ramadan's novel, while putting makeup on and transforming into his drag alter-ego, Dawood jokingly responds to Hussam's question, ‘What are you doing?’ by saying: ‘Leading the Syrian revolution’ (Ramadan 2022: 207). Even though it is a joke, this statement forges a symbolic connection between the political revolution and queer identity, adding a more cultural, embodied, and individual dimension to the dominant understanding of the revolution as merely a political, ideological, and collective process.

The link between queerness and the revolution becomes even clearer when considering Wassim's path toward self-reconstruction. His response to a traumatic past diverges significantly from Hussam's: while the latter's attempt to dispel the ghosts that haunt him leads him towards self-destruction, Wassim seems to seek disappearance, viewing himself as nothing but a source of pain for his loved ones. Consequently, upon returning to Damascus, Wassim confines himself in a dark, haunted house filled with dust and cobwebs and gazes at the outside world through the windows, only venturing out for food or occasional outings. This evasive attitude resonates with Ward Zaraa's words in SyriaUntold: ‘I never walked the streets of my homeland; rather, I was always escaping in them’ (Zaraa 2020), reflecting the profound lack of a sense of belonging. Wassim's withdrawal can be understood as a response to ‘abjection’ (Butler 1990; Eribon 2001; Kristeva 1980), a process whereby an individual is cast beyond ‘normality’, as defined by the dominant gaze. Like Mohammad in Le dernier Syrien, Wassim is relegated to pariah status, with shame deeply ingrained in his mind and body to the extent that it shapes his subjectivity (Eribon 2001). He thus describes himself as ‘a dysfunctional man’ (Ramadan 2022: 138) whom his wife was compelled to marry, ‘a louti, a faggot’²⁵ (ibid.: 146) in his father's eyes, and as someone ‘deemed inappropriate and persecuted into disappearance’ (ibid.: 66).

The theme of disappearance is literally incarnated by Kalila, the ghost of a woman whose name had been omitted from her wedding invitation and not even mentioned in her funeral announcement. Similarly to Dawood's role in Hussam's trajectory, Kalila's intradiegetic function is to assist Wassim on his path toward self-acceptance, making him feel heard and helping him process his traumas. Moreover, by recounting her own tragic story, she offers Wassim a cautionary example of the potential consequences of the disappearance he feels condemned to. Kalila and Wassim thus emerge as victims of a shared cultural framework, with the novel illustrating a direct correlation between patriarchal and heteronormative oppressions, as well as their parallels to political authoritarianism. These similarities become especially evident when considering Kalila's story, whose experiences of violence, particularly after her marriage in 1971, mirror the broader societal upheavals that followed Hafez Assad's rise to power in the same year. Echoing Foucauldian discourse theory (Foucault [1969] 2008), she portrays domination – whether political, social, or cultural – as based on the manipulation of narratives, primarily through the power to name and redefine events: ‘The Assad government called that last coup the Corrective Movement […]. From then on, things were never called by their real names. Coups were called corrective movements, dictators were called fathers, and abusers were called husbands’ (Ramadan 2022: 201).

But as Kalila's tragic death significantly shows, the power over discourses also extends to controlling what is spoken about and what is silenced, resulting in inaudibility and invisibility as defining characteristics of subordinate subjects. The day she finally reveals to Wassim the truth about her death, anti-regime protestors pass in the street in front of their house, inviting people to join them. Immediately, Kalila proposes that Wassim open the curtains of every window to watch the manifestation, thus letting light into the house: ‘maybe it's time for us to be seen’, she significantly suggests (Ramadan 2022: 238). Against the backdrop of protestors’ chants, she then recalls the day her husband killed her, four years after the regime's 1982 massacre in Hama. On that same day, sixty people perished in Damascus due to an explosion aimed at bringing down the Presidential Bridge. Following the blast, multiple conflicting narratives emerged, some accusing the regime while others blaming the Muslim Brotherhood, leaving the truth obscured. Similarly, rumours spread about Kalila's death, with no one suspecting her husband's responsibility. The uncertainty surrounding both events – the explosion and Kalila's death – condemned her story, along with those of countless others victimised by regime violence, to oblivion: ‘That rumour soon was forgotten, like the protests in Hama, like the sixty people who died in that bus, like Kalila and her mother’ (ibid.: 248). By encouraging Wassim to not be forgotten as her, Kalila finally succeeds in convincing him to end his self-imposed seclusion and subsequent invisibility, by reconnecting with the external world he has attempted to avoid.²⁶ Having fulfilled her purpose, she eventually fades away, with Wassim walking out to attend the revolution.

I pass through the rusty gate that never closed properly and join the crowd. Their clothes are colourful, like a river reflecting a sunset. […] I walk with them, shoulder to shoulder. We hear the distant sirens, but we march forward. Chins up to the sky, voices filled with pride, eyes tearing. The man next to me trips, and I grab him before he falls and lift him up. ‘It's a beautiful day to revolt’, he says. I nod. I raise my fist to the sky (Ramadan 2022: 249).

As Wassim joins the protest, it symbolically signifies a proactive reaction to his abjection, marking a pivotal moment in his path toward reconciling with his past traumas and his ultimate rebirth. The physical interaction with fellow protestors – walking shoulder to shoulder and helping a man who stumbles – emphasises unity and mutual support amidst the looming threat of regime persecution. Moreover, the vibrant array of colours in the protest, reminiscent of the queer flag, starkly contrasts with the grey uniformity of a pro-regime demonstration Wassim has previously witnessed.²⁷ The diversity of colours not only enhances visibility but also celebrates individuality, thereby challenging the attempts at homogenisation according to a normative paradigm, whether political (the regime's ideology) or sociocultural (patriarchal heteronormativity). As noted in SyriaUntold, the liberation of the individual is an essential prerequisite for the liberation of homelands (Zaraa 2020). By reintegrating into society through participation in a protest, Wassim embodies the intrinsic link between the personal and the political: his political rebellion allows him to reclaim a presence in the public space and to assert his identity not merely as a non-normative subject, but as an individual and a human being.

Conclusion

Unlike the dominant representative paradigms where male homosexual relationships are mostly depicted in a negative and condemning light – as the consequence of a disease, the symptom of moral decay, or shaped by symbolic power dynamics provoking violent outcomes – Le dernier Syrien and The Foghorn Echoes present them in terms of love, whether more or less complicated. Although scenes of sexual violence can be found in both, these works deeply explore emotional affection and desire, thereby emphasizing the romantic dimension of queer romance. Moreover, by delving into the internal struggles shaping the characters’ identities and perceptions of their sexuality, especially through first-person narratives, both novels avoid stereotyped representations of queer subjects as indistinguishable members of a homogenous group. On the one hand, Ramadan's introspective writing highlights the uniqueness of each individual trajectory and the subsequent existence of many different possible ways to live as a queer person. On the other hand, in Le dernier Syrien, Mohammad's inability to self-define due to the fluidity of his desires significantly challenges the dominant dichotomous categories, contributing to a more nuanced and inclusive discourse on sexual orientations. From different positions,²⁸ both authors thus eschew the tendency to label and the pursuit of an explanatory truth typical of epistemic closure. The subsequent epistemic ‘disclosure’ enables the recognition of multiple and evolving practices and identities, as well as an understanding of the processes through which queer subjectivities are shaped, including social inferiorisation and its resignification (Eribon 2001). This disclosure also participates in stripping non-normative relationships of their allegorical dimension – although Mohammad's sexual fluidity in Souleimane's novel might symbolically refer to his political in-betweenness. Active or passive sexual encounters therefore become deliberately chosen practices, which are embodied in physical acts described in detail.

However, since these novels are not written in Arabic and are published in Western countries, questions arise about their reception within Syrian communities. While these works push the boundaries of discourse in the literary realm, contributing to the redefinition of what can be openly said, enacted, or embodied in real life (Eribon 2001), their authors seem to primarily address Western audiences (both of them) or smaller LGBTQI+ Arab circles (especially Ramadan). Consequently, their performative impact on Syrian society may be limited. On the other side, they nonetheless provide new narratives that could resonate with future generations of Arab readers, particularly those in the diaspora.²⁹ Through these innovative perspectives, Souleimane and Ramadan contribute to the emergence of queer characters as hero(ine)s or central subjects of literature – a trend already noted by the Arabist Jolanda Guardi (2014) in the representation of female homosexuality in four contemporary Arabic novels.

Le dernier Syrien and The Foghorn Echoes also play crucial roles in shaping representations of the 2011 revolution, thereby participating in ongoing documentation efforts within Syrian literature. Souleimane's novel offers insightful perspectives on the early stages of the uprising, depicting it as a peaceful movement that united people from diverse backgrounds. While emphasizing the pivotal role of young generations, especially university students, in driving the revolutionary process forward, both novels underscore the social and cultural aspects of their insurrection. The uprising thus appears not only as a political movement but also as a revolt against every form of oppression, including the patriarchal and heteronormative cultures. This is evident in the prominence of female characters and male homosexual ones who mutually support each other: Joséphine and Youssef in Souleimane's work; Kalila and Wassim in Ramadan's. Besides the intersectionality of the cultural revolution, both novels also underline its individual and intimate dimensions, as well as the connection between political liberation and personal freedom. Furthermore, by recounting the involvement of queer activists in the 2011 revolution, Le dernier Syrien and The Foghorn Echoes seem to heed Yousef's call in SyriaUntold ‘not to assert our existence within liberation movements, but within liberation discourses’ (Yousef 2020). This allows defiance against the double invisibilisation that queer subjects are exposed to: as individuals – with no right to exist – and as citizens – with no right to political engagement. Lastly, through Mohammad's in-betweenness and Wassim's long journey before his engagement in the revolution, both novels promote a queer, or non-dichotomous, political discourse. They illustrate that between competing perspectives – such as the dichotomies of heterosexuality vs homosexuality, and regime/Islamists vs rebels – there exists a wide spectrum of potential stances that transcend rigid binary oppositions. By demonstrating that it is possible not to align with either pole, they offer a nuanced understanding of political affiliations and identities.

In conclusion, these novels not only disrupt conventional narratives about sexual non-normativity by rejecting rigid categorisations and classical representative paradigms, but also contribute to shaping a more inclusive discourse and memory of the 2011 uprising. By narrating the revolution through a queer prism, they present it as a multifaceted process and highlight its inherent complexity.