This story was produced under the Feminist Journalist Fellowship, it is part of a series highlighting the work of our fellows, developed in collaboration with UntoldMag and Noor.

LGBTQ+ individuals in Egypt face daily incidents of online violence, including threats, harassment, defamation, and blackmail. Much of this abuse comes from conservative and religious segments of society and often spills over into offline risks—or begins offline and later escalates online. 

The boundaries between digital and physical harm are increasingly blurred.

A few years ago, Noha Abeer, a pansexual Egyptian in her late twenties, became a target of online violence because of her identity and sexuality. The digital attacks soon translated into offline threats that put her life at risk.

“Yes, I was subjected to harassment, defamation, and online threats,” Noha recalls. “Between December 2021 and January 2022, people used photos and personal information from my account after I filed a harassment case against a driver,” she adds.

Targeting Nonconformist Persons in Egypt

When Noha filed the complaint, she refused to disclose her personal address and information to the prosecutor in front of the accused. The prosecutor insisted. Shortly afterward, anti-LGBTQI+ groups launched a defamation campaign against her, denying her right to exist in both digital and public spaces.

Those who are nonconformist or who simply do not obey the traditional gender divisions and social attitudes always face restrictions on their freedom, as they threaten the conservative social ethics, this applies especially to members of the LGBTQI+ community. For many like Noha, harassment flows seamlessly between online and offline spheres.

“I went to the cybercrime unit,” Noha recalls, “and the treatment was terrible. After a lot of persistence, a report was filed, but nothing happened. I couldn’t follow up because I couldn’t leave the house due to the defamation campaign in my neighborhood.”

She adds, “I was subjected to hundreds of instances of online harassment in the form of text messages and hateful, threatening comments. Sometimes I shared these messages and other times I just ignored them.” 

Noha had rejected advice about staying safe online, such as restricting messaging and commenting to friends only, not posting personal photos, and blocking abusers. She explains that she considers that all these steps are equivalent to asking, “What was the girl doing to be harassed?” or “Why did she go to that place?”, comments that blame the victim and do not solve or address the real problem.

Days before writing this article, Noha was subjected to a new smear campaign because of her opinion on a recent harassment incident that sparked public outrage in Egypt. A young woman was harassed on a public bus, and according to MadaMasr, “She said in a video she published on her social media accounts she faced three incidents of verbal harassment and assault on the road she takes to work, all by the same stranger.” 

Noha’s views were met with a hate campaign against her, with attackers sharing what they considered inappropriate photos of her taken from her personal account, including photos of her supporting LGBTQI+ people.

Noha is currently living outside Egypt, and it’s difficult for her to pursue or file reports against the ongoing abusive comments and threats she receives.

“The process of reporting harassment and online blackmail against women could be made easier and the state could allow for electronic reporting,” she explains.

LGBTQI+ Rights Rejected

In a report published in January 2025, a group of women’s rights organizations and initiatives submitted a joint submission on the status of women’s and girls’ rights in Egypt for the period 2019-2024.

The report revealed the situation of the LGBTQI+ community, from trapping and harassment to digital targeting and targeting in the public sphere, to the poor quality of medical services provided to them. According to the report, “transgender women are 50% more likely to receive harsher sentences than gay men.” Judges in ‘debauchery’ cases usually issue defendants with a single sentence for all charges.”

In January 2025, 137 countries submitted more than 370 recommendations to Egypt to improve its human rights situation. According to its response, the government decided to support 264 of the recommendations in full (77%), partially supported 16 (5%), and “noted” 62 (18%).

Some of the recommendations made to Egypt regarding improving the conditions of the LGBTQ community included Chile, Spain, Canada, and Iceland raising the issue of prosecuting and criminalizing individuals based on their sexual orientation or actual or perceived gender identity and the need for Egypt to commit to stopping forced anal examinations and amending the debauchery article used to criminalize consensual sexual conduct between adults.

The Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights (EIPR) released a report in July 2025 a day before the final report of the Universal Periodic Review (UPR) of Egypt’s human rights record, criticizing the Egyptian government’s response and commenting on the recommendations received during the review held last January.

According to EIPR: 

“This time, the Egyptian government decided not to respond to any recommendations with an overt rejection, as it had done in the three previous reviews, instead using the term ‘noted’ to refer to all the recommendations it did not accept and is therefore not committed to implementing. The government rejected any allegations of restrictions on civil society activities, any form of arbitrary detention, or requirements that limit the right to peaceful assembly or demonstration or freedom of traditional or digital media or that Egyptian laws are used to punish individuals for their sexual orientation.”

Why All These Waves of Hatred?

Mohamed Zarea, a researcher at the Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies (CIHRS), believes that the recent wave of anger is not new to the LGBTQI+ community; “they suffer from hatred and discrimination from society and through media outlets indirectly controlled by security agencies.” 

“I would say that this wave of hatred has been escalating since 2014, when the community faced unprecedented arrest campaigns,” Zarea adds, “my explanation for this is related to the closure of freedom spaces that opened up after the 2011 revolution, including spaces specifically for the LGBTQI+ community and within the framework of the state’s control over the concept of morality.”

Zarea doesn’t believe that Islamist movements are solely responsible for this: “I don’t deny their hatred of the LGBTQI+ community, but they are not the only ones responsible; the state also has a very conservative regime.”

Zarea explains that Egypt has signed numerous human rights agreements, but it has not adhered to any of them. It consistently places a reservation, namely, “the stipulation of non-conflict with Islamic law”, in all the agreements it has signed (such as the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, CEDAW, and others). 

However, according to him, when it comes to LGBTQI+ rights, Egypt does not merely place reservations; it actively undermines any recognition of their rights. This is evident in its role within the Human Rights Council when opposing any resolution related to LGBTQI+ rights. “For example, in 2016, Egypt expressed its concern regarding the adoption of the deeply flawed draft law L.2. Rev.1, which aims to establish new rights for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) people”, Zarea explains. 

“Egypt emphasised that the Council does not have the legislative authority to create new rights. Egypt will not recognise or cooperate with the independent expert established pursuant to L.2. Rev.1,” he adds. 

Zarea explains that Egypt consistently forms alliances to support opposing resolutions aimed at protecting the family as the fundamental unit of society. This is clearly demonstrated in its recommendations to countries that grant freedom to LGBTQ+ individuals through the UPR mechanism. 

Zarea confirms that Egypt consistently submits recommendations with almost identical wording: “Strengthen policies to support the family as the natural and fundamental unit of society.” This recommendation was submitted by Egypt during the fourth (current) cycle of the UPR to countries such as Switzerland, the Netherlands, Finland, and France.

This official broader pattern reflects a deeper and structural cause for the hostility faced by LGBTQI+ people like Noha in Egypt. These are not only shaped by social attitudes but also by a wider political and legal environment that leaves little room for protection. In such a context, harassment does not remain confined to one space. Hate speech, smear campaigns, and threats often move easily between social media and everyday life and the judicial system. For many LGBTQI+ people in Egypt, the result is a continuous cycle in which online and offline violence reinforce each other rather than exist separately.

The post Online and Offline Violence are Two Sides of the Same Coin for LGBTQI+ in Egypt appeared first on Untold.

This story was produced under the Feminist Journalist Fellowship, it is part of a series highlighting the work of our fellows, developed in collaboration with UntoldMag and Noor.

Years before Jan (preferred pronoun he), a 33 year-old Egyptian non-binary, came out or even knew about the LGBTIQ+ community, he would search online for people like him. He often found himself deceived by strangers on social media – people pretending to be LGBTIQ+,  or men posing as women. 

Like many queer Egyptians, he was searching for connection in a digital landscape designed to expose him.

A few years ago Jan adopted a new name for safety, deleted all his old social media accounts and rebuilt his online presence from scratch. The fear of being tracked — by security forces, anti-LGBTIQ groups, or far-right actors — shaped every decision he made online. On an earlier account, he happened to encounter members of the community who guided him through basic digital protection practices. For the first time, he felt a degree of safety.

Homosexuality in Egypt: a dangerous secret

According to a report by Transat, , transgender and gender non-binary people in Egypt live under a repressive system that perpetuates violence, discrimination, and stigma in various areas of life. This includes the private sphere, where domestic violence and deprivation of family support are prevalent, as well as the public sphere, where discrimination in education and the labor market persists. It also includes systematic legal and societal harassment that exposes LGBTIQ+ individuals to direct targeting through the state’s repressive laws and practices.

Egypt criminalises same-sex relations, according to the Law on the Combating of Prostitution (No. 10 1961), and in recent years, also on cybercrime laws such as the Law on Anti-Cybercrimes and Information Technology Crimes in  Egypt’s economic courts.

According to the Transat report, there is an increase in cases where online morality laws are applied: 

“The Egyptian media is a key partner in adopting and disseminating hate speech and incitement against women, minorities, and the LGBTQ+ community in particular. It consistently participates in stigmatizing LGBTQ+ individuals by perpetuating the stereotypes that have been nurtured about them over decades in artistic productions and media programs”.

The telecommunication law has been under the Economic Courts since they were created in 2008, and the cybercrime law was added to the Economic Courts by decree in 2019. With this addition, the Economic Courts began exercising influence over public life by reinforcing digital surveillance and by policing digital morality.

For Jan, digital safety became urgent. Other LGBTIQ+ individuals stepped in early on, teaching him how to protect himself online. This was guidance he needed because, by his own admission, he was once too bold and dismissive of the dangers. Today, his greatest concern is keeping his identity from his family, as they respect him so much and though he’s religious.

“I was harassed online by both women and men, within and outside LGBTQ+ circles. This harassment was not always direct or explicit perhaps, meaning if the conversation escalated, I would stop it, but it still happens” Jan recalls.

In a disappointed tone, he recounts a time when he was shamed by his closest friend, who was also part of the LGBTIQ+ community. During an argument between them, she threatened to go to his house and out him with his mother.

These threats reflect the broader precarity facing LGBTIQ+ Egyptians: vulnerabilities compounded by policing, stigma, and the absence of legal protections.

How to protect LGBTQ+ persons online?

In 2022, an organized anti-LGBTIQ+ campaign known as Fetrah emerged across social media, especially on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and Telegram. The name, which translates from Arabic as “human instinct,” was adopted by religious and far-right networks. Using the slogan “Fetrah is an idea,” the campaign launched coordinated posts and Twitter threads in Arabic urging users to promote its core message: that only two genders exist and that homosexuality is deviant and contrary to human nature. 

M.A, a researcher and gender activist who preferred to keep his real name hidden, believes that the Fetrah campaign promotes the outdated idea that homosexuality is an illness or a perversion. This is a great injustice to the LGBTIQ+ community, which is fighting for its rights. “The Fetrah campaign uses religion to fuel hatred and discrimination and legitimize violence against the queer community”, the researcher adds. 

For Jan, the violence and threats he experienced online led him to isolate. “I practically have no friends”, he says. “I stopped trying to make friends or form relationships online.” After closing his social media accounts he is even isolated from the LGBTIQ+ community which is increasingly under attack online — a choice many queer Egyptians feel increasingly forced to make. 

“The LGBTIQ+ community isn’t an isolated island from larger society; it’s a reflection of it to varying degrees”, M.A. explains. “I have seen somewhat similar experiences, some people withdrew, not always out of fear, but sometimes to protect their mental well-being. Others persevered and confronted the situation regardless of the consequences,” he adds.

“When people like Jan are threatened, they certainly won’t go to the police for protection”, M.A. explains. This is why the queer community must be a more compassionate place, or at least more aware of the dangers of male-dominated and patriarchal actions like harassment. 

“The presence of violations within the community necessitates that all entities, individuals, and activists re-evaluate themselves, not justify their actions”, M.A says. “They must work on building a genuine culture of accountability that protects people instead of silencing them or causing them to withdraw,” he adds. 

Though Jan cannot represent the experience of the entire LGBTIQ+ community in Egypt, he reflects a vital part of it, as he and many others have faced—and continue to face—digital challenges and risks that limit their access to safe online spaces. 

While social media offers visibility and connection, it also exposes the vulnerables to digital violence, blackmail, and state surveillance. These threats force many of LGBTIQ+ individuals to navigate the internet with fear and caution, restricting free expression and access to support. Understanding these struggles is essential to recognizing both the power and dangers of online spaces on queer groups in Egypt.

The post For LGBTQ+ People in Egypt, the Internet is Both a Lifeline and a Trap appeared first on Untold.

The book excels in shedding light on the multifaceted possibilities of centring Queer Arab women’s sexualities and bodies as the focal point of theoretical discourse originating from the Global South. It is difficult to undertake the construction of an exhaustive literature review on the intricate topic of Arab women’s sexualities without recognizing the presence of two interconnected hurdles. Firstly, there is a noticeable scarcity of scholarly works that specifically address this subject matter, resulting in a constrained pool of resources accessible to researchers. Secondly, a deeply rooted historical pattern has shaped the exploration of Arab women’s sexualities within a confined canon of knowledge. These biases have gradually led to the creation of a narrative, with some exceptions, that predominantly portrays Arab women as passive and devoid of sexual agency. This narrative has impeded the development of a more nuanced understanding of their diverse experiences in this realm.

“Between Banat” emerges as a valuable addition to the academic community, offering substantial benefits, especially for PhD students embarking on the arduous journey of crafting their research proposals. For writers, it provides a sophisticated and nuanced departure point that transcends the foundational aspects of Arab sexuality. In the midst of the quest for texts capable of expanding the scope of representation concerning Arab women’s sexuality, this book introduces unique and much-needed perspectives. 

What sets ‘Between Banat’ apart is Shomali’s adept engagement with the queer Arab archive and literature, treating them as established entities, showcasing the author’s profound familiarity with the subject matter. Departing from much of the existing literature, which often grapples with the question of whether queerness can be attributed to ‘Arabness’ or ‘Arab women,’ Shomali astutely positions Arab women as fully realized subjects with their own sexual agency, dismantling the pervasive desexualization of Arab women. In doing so, Shomali redirects our focus, reminding us that Arab women possess a sexuality that extends far beyond being objects of desire for Arab men; indeed, they also share desires and experience sexuality with one another.

Shomali introduces Orientalism and anti-Arab racism, illustrating how they centralize Arab men in queer narratives, driven by a blend of Orientalist fascination and reinforcement of normative gender dynamics. The author adeptly highlights how fantasies of male homoeroticism perpetuate Orientalism, portraying Arab men as objects of both fear and desire and emphasizing the influence of heteropatriarchy and Orientalism in shaping these representations. Shomali’s insightful analysis delves into the discrepancy in the extensive study of Arab gay men compared to lesbian women. The researcher skillfully dissects the complex landscape of gendered queer Arab representation in relation to Western epistemology about Arab bodies.

Additionally, the book can also be read as an ode to all Queer Arab women organizing and production of knowledge resulting in the possibility of integration of various lesbian productions of knowledge into the stream of epistemological consciousness. Thus opening a new dimension for engaging with archival, academic, and literary artifacts about Queer Arab women.

This book is highly recommended for anyone interested in SWANA sexuality, Queer sexualities, and the SWANA Region, especially within the context of feminist and queer knowledge production. Whether you specialize in sexuality studies, gender studies, feminist studies, Middle East studies, or if you work on the SWANA region or on sexuality from the Global South at large, “Between Banat” is a must-read that will undoubtedly enrich your academic perspective.

The post “Between Banat”: Queer Arab critique and transnational Arab archives appeared first on Untold.