When I look back at some of the opinion pieces I wrote and the art I made in the 2010s, I can’t help but cringe at the conviction with which I presented myself and my work. Like many of my twentysomething contemporaries, I spoke with delusional ferocity about the “evils of the straight cis white man” and described anyone who disagreed with me as an out-and-out enemy. As a queer and Arab person in Britain who had long felt excluded from the mainstream conversation, it was thrilling to be making forceful and oppositional interventions in public debate.
Thinking back to this version of myself, I understand now that my combative approach to political disagreement – which was admittedly part of the spirit of the age, marked by culture wars escalating across the social media landscape – was, in my case, a response to personal trauma. In my mid-20s I was a struggling artist carrying unprocessed feelings from the conservatism of my childhood. I had been raised in a religious environment where my sexuality was not only suppressed but outright prohibited, and I lived so much of my childhood genuinely terrified of losing the support of my family (and God). I had also moved to the UK at the start of Britain’s invasion of Iraq – my family’s home country – and internalised much of the racism I encountered.
