VICE US - IdentityRSS feed for https://www.vice.com/en/section/identityhttps://www.vice.com/en%2Fsection%2Fidentity%3Flocale%3Den_usenFri, 23 Feb 2024 08:45:00 GMT<![CDATA[How it Feels to Be a Queer Palestinian in Exile]]>https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/5d94ex/queer-palestinian-in-exile-how-it-feelsFri, 23 Feb 2024 08:45:00 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Belgium.

It’s been over four months since Israel declared war against Hamas in Gaza. For Palestinians living abroad, watching the whole world talk about what’s happening to your people without being able to contribute in any way is incredibly challenging. Reduced to a sad statistic and too rarely invited to speak, Palestinians often struggle to reconcile mainstream representations of their lives with their own, multifaceted identities.

That’s been the experience of queer multidisciplinary artist and architect Hamza Abuhamdia. Born in 1988 in Amman, Jordan, to Palestinians in exile, Abuhamdia has been living in Paris since 2016. His father, Maysara Abuhamdia, a famous Palestinian resistance fighter, was imprisoned twice by the Israeli army before being banished to Jordan. Locked up for a third time in 2002, he died behind bars eleven years later from untreated cancer.

From a young age, Abuhamdia stood out from his brothers for his creative temperament and expressive queerness. As an adult, Abuhamdia never really understood how to introduce himself to others: The son of a Palestinian freedom fighter, or the upper-middle-class queer Arab frequenting queer-friendly bars in downtown Amman? Or maybe the artist in exile, fetishised by a Parisian scene that still struggles to deconstruct its white saviour complex? “Today, I feel the need to remind people that I am Palestinian, I am queer, and I exist,” he says.

Faced with Israel’s pinkwashing of its military campaign – think the Israeli soldier waving a rainbow flag on the ruins of Gaza – the Palestinian queer community has become more vocal in affirming its resistance. “We refuse colonial and imperialist tactics that seek to alienate us from our society, and alienate our society from us, on the basis of our queerness,” stated the Queers in Palestine collective in November 2023.

I sat down with Abuhamdia to discuss how he came to understand his queer and Palestinian identity in a world that keeps trying to define it for him.

VICE: Hi Hamza. Where do your parents come from? Hamza Abuhamdia: From Al Khalil, or Hebron, in the West Bank. My father has been involved in Palestinian resistance since the 60s. He was banished from all Palestinian territories, so he settled in Amman, where I was born and raised. Growing up, I knew very little of his political struggles – he wanted to protect us from all that. I was raised in a bubble.

My mother comes from a relatively well-off background. Her family owned a hammam, and her father had two wives and 17 children. It was really chaotic, but my oldest aunt was one of the first women from Al Khalil to go to university. My mother grew up in these contradictions, between bourgeoisie and tradition.

What do you remember about your childhood? 
My father raised us with science and culture: We watched nature documentaries, Looney Tunes, and Tom & Jerry. He made jokes and did impressions. Well, when he was around, which wasn't often.

I was my mother's little darling. She was a very social, cultured woman, and our relationship was almost like a mother and daughter – it contradicted traditional gender norms. We had our own thing, our inside jokes that no one else understood. Everyone called me little Zaïra because I was her spitting image.

**Have you always felt “different”?
**That’s all I’ve ever known. My parents didn't treat me the same as my other brothers – sometimes they were harshly scolded, whereas I rarely was. When people asked my mother why she treated me like that, she would answer: "It's Hamza, that's it!" I was her accomplice, her friend, her confidante, her soulmate, almost.

**And how was it with your father?
**I think he was a bit scared of me. I was “team women” and made fun of toxic macho culture. It was my mother and me against the boys, always.

As a teen, I started wanting to fit in with boys but I was so far off. I’d spent all my life following the girls everywhere. It took me years before I could build healthy relationships with cis guys. Today, it's the opposite: I often joke that I can't get laid because I always hang out with cis-het guys.

**What's your relationship with your parents like today?
**Well, nonexistent. My father passed away ten years ago. My mother still lives in Amman but we’ve been low-contact since I came out. I’ve tried to talk to her but she always brings up hell or death – she's very conservative. What she has trouble accepting, really, is that people might know.

**What happened to your father?
**He died in an Israeli prison of a cancer they didn't bother to treat. I don't have all the pieces of the story. I did some research, but I'm trying to move on. I'm proud of my father – he was a good person and his story inspires me.

**Do you consider yourself a refugee?
**That's not quite the right word. Legally, I was born Jordanian, but when I was four or five-years-old, I remember realising I was Palestinian who’d come over from a country under military occupation. People will hate me for saying this, but it was an unpleasant moment. I didn’t feel like identifying with this reality I didn't choose. After all, we’re human beings – as a child, all I wanted was to eat sweets and wear nice clothes.

**How was your relationship with your family growing up?
**Not great. I found them “uncool” and conservative. I didn’t consider them on my level because they didn't speak English, for example. The truth is, I tried to lead my life in a way that nothing could bring me down.

I wanted to be smarter. Most of the movies, books, and music I immersed myself in were Western. I didn’t consume a lot of Arabic culture, even while living in Amman.

Once, when I was little, I remember I wanted to watch Lizzie McGuire, but my grandmother was against it. Sure, it's a series for stuck-up evangelical teens, but it doesn’t show anything “bad”. She took the remote and put on an Egyptian movie instead, which told the story of a charming saleswoman in the 50s who gets with a rich guy and becomes his mistress. It was a shady soap opera, but for this 80-year-old Muslim woman, that was OK, while Lizzie was haram [forbidden]. I still struggle to understand why to this day.

**What role did religion play in your upbringing?
**My parents were religious but politically secular. They didn't drink alcohol but my mother didn't wear a hijab, and gender-mixing was the norm.

**Do you consider yourself a believer?
**No. I look at religion from a sociological and anthropological perspective: How humans have shaped themselves and tried to fill the void?

**Do you feel resentment towards your family after coming out?
**Honestly, I find it hard to be angry because I believe they didn't have the space or mental health tools to understand it all. I’m lucky not to have grown up in handcuffs, and I'm grateful for that.

How did you feel when you saw Israeli soldiers waving the rainbow flag in Gaza? Horrible, obviously. But I wasn't surprised at all – the history of this flag remains Western, white, and capitalist.

**Do you know many other LGBTQ+ Palestinians?
**Not many, but some. I don’t think it’s easy to be queer in Palestine given the context and religion, but in all honesty, I've never lived in Palestine. This is just my perception as someone in exile, and I could be wrong. Truthfully, I don’t have any concrete information.

**Some say you shouldn't support the Palestinian struggle if you’re queer. Have you found your place as an activist?
**Of course, but it's by embracing who I am that I was able to do so. I had to acknowledge my privilege, my suffering, my resources, my mental health – then I could find my place.

I have to say, I’ve often felt most accepted by women who wear a hijab. Similarly, I've met many cis-het men who treated me with more respect than gay guys.

**What was their problem?
**I think there are many traumatised people in the LGBTQ+ community who reject people as a reflex, as if they have to project the hatred they experienced onto their peers. There's also a lot of racism in parts of the rich, white, gay community.

**In Europe, people think of the Middle East as very homophobic. Having lived in both regions, what do you think?
**I can only speak from my experience: In Jordan, homosexuality is not legally penalised, but socially, it's different. I was relatively accepted by my family. It comes back to this notion of privilege, since my uncles, aunts, cousins have travelled around the world and read a lot of books.

European homophobia and Arab homophobia are just different, but neither is worse than the other in my opinion.

**Do you still have hope for Palestine?
**Yes. I feel like the world is becoming more aware, but maybe I'm in my bubble. All I’m trying to do is understand what makes me happy, like an animal trying to avoid suffering. But first, you have to ask yourself, ‘What will make me feel worse: talking about Palestine, human rights, feminism, or bottling up all my feelings?’ I don't want to follow those who’ve chosen the second solution. Their way of life, their health, their relationships with money, themselves and others, depresses me.

**What’s the key to happiness in your opinion?
**Living as authentically as possible.

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5d94exThémis BelkhadraGen UedaBecky BurgumThémis BelkhadrapalestinegazaqueerLGBTQPalestinianactivismarabVICE InternationalVICE BelgiumPinkwashingcoming outHomophobia
<![CDATA[What I Think About International Adoption as a Chinese Adoptee]]>https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/m7b4p8/international-adoption-as-a-chinese-adoptee-what-i-thinkThu, 08 Feb 2024 10:22:37 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Netherlands.

In the 90s and early 2000s, China became a hub for international adoptions. After implementing its one-child policy in 1979, families who conceived more than once were forced into unwanted abortions and sterilisations, or to abandon their “over-the-quota” children. This problem was especially prevalent in poorer, rural areas, where serious allegations of child trafficking also emerged over the years.

In the 80s, many abandoned children were informally adopted by Chinese families and kept off official records, with dire repercussions. In 1991, China opened itself up to international adoption – at least in part – to prevent the tradition of informal adoption. Between 1991 and 2005, over 120,000 Chinese babies were adopted by foreign parents. Up to 90 percent of them were girls under the age of two, and over half of them went to U.S. couples.

After hitting a peak in 2005, international adoptions have sharply declined, as childless families from China’s emerging middle class spiked the demand for official national adoptions. In 2015, China ended its one-child policy, allowing couples to have two children. But, for over a decade, adopting a Chinese child became a sort of trend in the West, as wealthy European and American parents were prioritised over local families.

China’s adopted children have grown up, and are now reckoning with the impact of being raised in a social and cultural context so far-removed from their birth country. One of these adoptees is filmmaker Xiangxia van den Ham, who was adopted to a Dutch family at the age of one, after being found in a box near a Chinese school at just two weeks old.

Now 27, van den Ham has released the documentary Dumpling Stories in collaboration with VICE Netherlands, detailing the dark side of adoption. We spoke to her about her investigation of her own origins, how it feels not to fully belong anywhere, and her views on international adoption today.

Watch Dumpling Stories with English subtitles.

VICE: You first pitched us the documentary in 2019. What was your vision back then? Xiangxia van den Ham: I wanted to document my own quest for my roots, as well as open up a discussion about post-adoption support. Even now, there aren’t enough resources for parents adopting kids from China. There's little focus on how children adopted from China can feel at home in the Netherlands, too, and how to later find out more information on their Chinese identity.

Xiangxia van den Ham, Dumpling Stories – vintage photo of a white couple holding two small Asian children in their arms and standing in front of the great wall of china.
Xiangxia van den Ham with her adoptive family. Photo: Courtesy of Xiangxia van den Ham

**As a kid, did you often think about your own adoption?
**Not much, actually. I grew up with a sister who was also adopted from China, so I wasn't alone, thankfully. My parents were always open about the fact that I was adopted. I knew I came from the Mother's Love orphanage in Nanning [a city in southern China, near the Vietnam border] and that I spent three months with foster parents. We celebrate my birthday on the 18th of May, but I'm not sure when I was born. I was found on the 5th of June, when I was about two weeks old.

We have home videos from when my parents and sister picked me up from the orphanage and a photo album with a few pictures of me before my adoption. But that was all I had, so it's not like I had anything to base fantasies about my biological parents on.

**Eventually, you became curious.
**Yes, I saw in the news that adoptees were returning to China and finding their biological parents, which planted a seed in my mind. My parents had always told me it’d be like searching for a needle in a haystack – after all, it’d been a while, and many Chinese orphanages didn't have the means to archive anything. Still, I decided to see if I could at least visit my old orphanage.

Xiangxia van den Ham, Dumpling Stories – a boy and a girl sitting side by side at a large wooden table with white and blue plats and mugs and having breakfast. Xiangxia (left) has long black hair and a fringe and smiling big.
Xiangxia. Photo: Courtesy of Xiangxia van den Ham

**How did you go about it?
**First, I wanted to better understand where I came from and experience what it's like to live in Asia. In January 2019, I moved to Hong Kong for two years to volunteer at Mother's Choice, an NGO led by Kit Ying. She founded my orphanage, Mother's Love, which no longer exists.

At the airport in the Netherlands, I saw a lot of Asian people together for the first time, which was pretty surprising to me. Then in Hong Kong, I realised I’d never been surrounded by so many people who look like me. I immediately felt at ease. For the first time in my life, I didn't feel stared at on the street.

I ended up celebrated Chinese New Year with Kit Ying. She took me to a dim sum restaurant and taught me about Chinese cuisine and culture. I’d never heard of Chinese New Year before and found it incredibly fun – the dragon dances, the fireworks, the delicious food. That's when I realised that Chinese culture is a part of who I am.

In Hong Kong, I found a group called Adoptees of Hong Kong. Every month, we’d get together for dinner and for the first time, I felt comfortable discussing my background. They talked about their journeys in search of their biological parents, too.

Xiangxia van den Ham, Dumpling Stories – two women walking together near a leafy area.
Xiangxia with Kit Ying. Photo: Courtesy of Xiangxia van den Ham

**Is that when you decided to go looking for them?
**Yes, with the help of Kit Ying. She arranged an interpreter and guide for my trip to China. She also managed to identify my foster parents based on the few photos I had of them. This was quite exceptional because they’d only looked after me for a few months, 26 years ago. I managed to locate them, and they agreed to meet.

Xiangxia van den Ham, Dumpling Stories – middle aged couple holding a small child in front of a large white building with a statue of a mother and a baby
Xiangxia with her foster parents in China. Photo: Courtesy of Xiangxia van den Ham

**Exciting! How was that?
**Strange and overwhelming. They were very enthusiastic and welcoming, though. They looked exactly the same as in the photos, but I just didn't know them. They, on the other hand, had many memories of me. They had photos and told me all about how I was as a baby – I cried very little and ate well. Apparently, I especially liked congee. They had seven other foster children, besides me.

My adoption papers said that, before I ended up with my foster family, I spent a few months in another orphanage in a much smaller town about 200km away.

**What did you find there?
**Miraculously, they still had lots of documents about me. One of them mentioned I was first brought to the police by a 12-year-old girl, so I contacted her via WeChat. She didn’t speak English, but thanks to a translation app and an interpreter, I got an idea of how I was found. Apparently, a classmate of hers found me in a box near their school. He called the teacher, and she brought me to the classroom where they took care of me. Later, the oldest girl in the class brought me to the police.

She told me that all the children in the class tried their best to make me feel comfortable. Together with a few other students, she wrote me a detailed letter about that day. They still remembered it well and were surprised to hear from me after so many years. They tried to visit me at the orphanage, but suddenly, I was gone. The teacher had even considered adopting me – she wrote me a letter describing what it was like to find me.

Xiangxia van den Ham, Dumpling Stories – Poster with chinese writing and two pictures of Xiangzia: one of her as an adult and another one as a small child
Xiangxia's open call on Douyin, TikTok's equivalent in China. Screenshot: Courtesy of Xiangxia van den Ham

**Have you found your biological parents yet?
**No, that’s proven difficult. Finding the person who found me is already very special, but I’m still very curious about my biological parents. Although I was found in a small town, I could be from one of the hundreds of surrounding villages. I took a DNA test, but so far, there’ve been no matches. I’m on a website for parents looking for their child, too, and I posted an open call on Chinese TikTok. I might also put flyers up around those villages.

**What do you think about international adoption now?
**I'm not against adoption, but I’m sceptical about transnational adoption. I think it's better for a Chinese child to grow up in an Asian culture, or in China itself. It's quite intense to remove someone and place them in a completely different environment.

In the Netherlands, I've always felt like I didn't quite fit in and lacked role models. If I’d grown up in China, I wouldn't have been as insecure about my height and appearance, for instance. In China, I might’ve had a different life with fewer opportunities, but that's not a guarantee. When I returned to the orphanage in Yulin, I met a 27-year-old woman with a physical disability. She’d also been in the orphanage but was never adopted. She now has a university degree, just like me.

I believe international adoption should only be considered if there's truly no possibility for local adoption. This could be due to conflicts and human rights violations in the country, or because the child has severe disabilities or illnesses.

**How has your life changed since your first trip?
**I'm now way more involved in Chinese culture. I started learning Chinese, which requires a lot of motivation and discipline, but I really want to speak it fluently. I want to be able to talk to people in China, and perhaps that’ll also help with my search for my birth parents. Learning the language helps me better understand Chinese culture, too, and makes me feel slightly less like an outsider. I’ve finally truly accepted that I’m also Chinese.

Scroll down to see more pictures.

Xiangxia van den Ham, Dumpling Stories – three photos of two little kids in front of fuscia flower pots. Xiangxia's sister (left) is wearing a blue and white polka dot dress. Xiangxia a yellow t-shirt.
Baby Xiangxia with her older sister. Photo: Courtesy of Xiangxia van den Ham
Xiangxia van den Ham, Dumpling Stories – young woman wearing a tie die t-shirt and a tight black skirt sitting by a turquois lake surrounded by wooden houses.
Xiangxia. Photo: Courtesy of Xiangxia van den Ham
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m7b4p8Djanlissa PringelsAmarens Eggeraatchinaadoptionforced sterilizationOne Child PolicyorphanVICE InternationalVICE Netherlands
<![CDATA[What It's Like to Be an Addict – and Homeless]]>https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/z3mkn9/homeless-people-living-with-addictionThu, 01 Feb 2024 08:47:20 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Belgium.

Transit is a non-profit organisation in Brussels that’s welcomed homeless people with addiction since 1995. The programme allows drug users to stay at a recovery facility for 13 days, and receive medical and psychological support. The focus is not on ending the patients’ drug use entirely, but helping them control their consumption to minimise risks.

In 2022, 693 users stayed at Transit. People who pass through these doors are already at the beginning of their healing process. Their first step is deciding to coexist with what’s become their addiction. The journey is long and punctuated with regrets, stagnation and missed opportunities. But the hope for a better, more balanced life pushes them to continue the fight.

For some, Transit is a fresh start, but most people here have been through this struggle before. I met some of them in their new, temporary home to hear more about their journey. They all agreed to speak on condition of anonymity, so names have been changed.

Stephanie, 43

Transit, Brussels – close up of hands laying on a blue blanket. The nails are painted a metallic red and are slightly chipped.
Stephanie wears her mother’s silver ring and the many burn marks left behind by her drug use. Photo: Charlotte Verbruggen and Zoé Leclercq

Stephanie is sitting alone on one of the reception benches. Despite being in her 40s, her dark eyes have something of a little kid about them. With nails painted bright red, her pants and shoes sparkly, Stephanie doesn’t seem like a reserved person, but she prefer being by herself – especially when it comes to sharing her story. In her 12-square-metre room, which she shares with another woman, she slowly recounts her battle to overcoming addiction.

Like many people here, Stephanie’s had a rollercoaster of a life. Seven years ago, she lost her mother. “It's all been a bit of a downfall from there,” she says. The moment marked a turning point in her relationship with drugs. She began using more “to try to numb the sadness” and recreational use gave way to addiction. She lost control and found herself trapped.

This shift marked the end of her previous life. She was forced to live on the streets after squandering her inheritance on cocaine – “one of my great regrets”. Years of violence and abuse, and several unsuccessful attempts to stay sober, all led her to today.

This time feels different. The last time she used made her feel “total disgust”. It was a wake-up call – she felt she’d gone too far. Stephanie has managed to stay sober for ten days, but she’s stopped using for a year and a half before without it sticking.

“What bothers me is there's always a relapse,” Stephanie says with anger. “I often wonder, ‘What is relapsing, why do I relapse?’” At times, she feels suicidal.

After Transit, Stephanie will head to a shelter where drugs are prohibited. She thinks it's particularly challenging for her to resist right now, though, because she’s been dreaming a lot about her mother. “On the upside, this also means she is close to me,” she says. “I wish she could forgive me.”

Henri, 58

Transit, Brussels – closeup of a man's hand about to flicker a ball into an old foosball table
Photo: Charlotte Verbruggen and Zoé Leclercq

“Lift your players when I shoot,” says 58-year-old Henri, who has a three day-old beard covering his cheeks. The foosball ace is a regular at Transit. Sober for six years, Henri was once grappling with alcoholism, but still comes around three times a week because the environment gives him stability.

Henri sees himself as an example, because he’s managed to quit for good after about ten attempts. But even when you’re sober, a relapse can lurk behind the slightest vulnerability, and he knows that. One of the main reasons he can’t drink today is because he takes medication that doesn't mix well with alcohol. This is the solution he found after searching for 30 years – a sort of a trump card, his lucky break.

Henri spent part of his childhood in an orphanage in a different country before he was adopted by a well-off family in Belgium. During a visit to his old orphanage, he learned that his father struggled with drinking, too. Alcoholism often runs in families, and research has confirmed that genetics play a role in predisposing people to developing addiction problems.

In Henri’s case, it was his adoptive family who first introduced him to alcohol around age eight, thinking that an education on quality booze should be part of his bourgeois upbringing. These initial experiences left their mark, but things took a turn for the worse in high school, where he’d often skip class to drink with his friends. Thanks to his good grades and privileged background, no one really looked into his relationship with booze for a while. In the end, though, social status didn’t make him – or anybody else – immune to addiction.

Marc-Antoine, 28

Transit, Brussels – closeup of a man's hands rolling a cigarette. He is wearing a grey sweatshirt and blue jeans.
Marc-Antoine rolling a cigarette. Photo: Charlotte Verbruggen and Zoé Leclercq

A coffee in one hand, a rolled cigarette in the other, Marc-Antoine stands in a corner of the courtyard. He doesn’t seem like he wants to talk to anyone. His drug of choice is hash. “Sometimes, I get a hotel room for a night to smoke,” he says. “Then I slow down and stop for a while before doing it again.”

Marc-Antoine sees addiction as a trap – trying to quit can fail at every stage. If he doesn't talk to other users here, it's also to avoid being influenced. As an alternative to his consumption, he found himself gravitating towards tattoos. “And yet, I actually hate needles,” he says, which is hard to believe with a face and body covered in ink.

He dreams of travelling to Switzerland, Luxembourg and Eastern Europe. “I’d like to go to Ukraine and Russia,” he says. “Even now, yeah, I don't care.” For these plans, he needs money. That's why he's at Transit – his 13-day stay allows him to save. Money is one of the reasons that prompted him to slow his consumption. “It also made me violent,” he says. Marc-Antoine previously spent three and a half years in prison.

Marin, 50

Transit, Brussels – A dark room with a vertical window showing a church somewhere in the distance
The view of Brussels fromone of Transit's studio apartments. Photo: Charlotte Verbruggen and Zoé Leclercq

Marin, AKA “the Frenchman” or “the Elder”, as he introduced himself, is a 50-year-old man who looks like he’s in his late 30s. All smiles, he exudes confidence. It's his first time at Transit, but he already knows everyone from the streets.

Marin has been here for over a week and has been meeting with his social worker to prepare for the future. “I want to beat this,” he says, as if reciting a prayer. He touches the wood of the window frame. One of his main goals is to reconnect with his seven children, whom he speaks of with as much pride as regret. He hasn't really seen them grow up.

All his life, Marin has been behind stoves. In the restaurant business, it's hard to avoid cocaine, he says. One evening at work, a Colombian woman caught his eye: “A siren in a white dress,” he describes with a smile. She stole his heart, and he followed her to Barcelona.

At her place, three kilos of white powder were waiting for him on a silver tray. He was young, and drugs haven’t left him since. He had children with her, and he misses them dearly. His 23-year-old son recently visited him. “He deals now,” Marin says. “When I saw him he had a huge scar. I told him to stop, but all of this is my fault.”

Due to the nature of the people housed here, Transit can also be a source of temptation. All around him are “limpers”, as Marin calls them, who can push him back into consuming again. The previous night, another user offered him crack. “Here, people don't suggest going for a jog, getting some fresh air, watching a movie, or flirting, ” he sighs. “He told me he had a pipe, and I accepted.”

Marin is passionate about food. Opening his own fast food place is his dream recovery project. “I love cooking, I love making people feel good,” he says. “When the plates come back empty, it makes me so happy!" When another Transit resident told him there’d be veal stew on the menu for lunch, Marin was overjoyed. “We eat well here,” he says. “We even get dessert in the evening.”

After travelling and working in different countries, Marin landed in Belgium, where he’s been struggling to get a stable job. But having a roof on his head is still a distant step in his journey. “I shouldn't even think about finding an apartment now, because I’ll end up hanging out with limpers again,” he says. “And when you do, you lose everything. First, I have to do finish my detox, then rehab.” Next month, he’ll get a spot at a hospital to start withdrawal treatment.

Everyone at Transit is hopeful, but most people who come through here don’t manage to leave drugs behind completely. The path to recovery is long, perhaps endless, and each challenge can push you backwards. That's why staying at Transit isn’t about quitting, but rather transitioning to another stage – a stage where addiction no longer entirely engulfs your life.

Scroll down to see more pictures.

Transit, Brussels – close-up of a steel table with packaged syringes, drops and other medical supplies
At Transit, users receive sterile materials to consume safely. Photo: Charlotte Verbruggen and Zoé Leclercq
Transit, Brussels – long white corridor with a small table and a plant towards the end.
The users staying at transit have to drop off their belongings in a locker before entering the facilities. Photo: Charlotte Verbruggen and Zoé Leclercq
Transit, Brussels – close-up of male hands playing UNO.
Photo: Charlotte Verbruggen and Zoé Leclercq
Transit, Brussels – close-up of a small sink in a room with blue tiles and a small mirror.
Stephanie's bathroom. Photo: Charlotte Verbruggen and Zoé Leclercq
Transit, Brussels – Closeup of a bedroom with a single, metal-frame bad low to the ground.
All rooms at Transit are shared with one other person. Photo: Charlotte Verbruggen and Zoé Leclercq
Transit, Brussels – Man sleeping on the floor of a room with orange walls, blue couches and mismatched furniture.
All people at Transit can lie down and hang out in the resting room, whether they are staying or just passing by. Photo: Charlotte Verbruggen and Zoé Leclercq
Transit, Brussels – closeup of hands cutting apples into slices.
Photo: Charlotte Verbruggen and Zoé Leclercq
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z3mkn9Charlotte VerbruggenZoé LeclercqGen UedaBecky BurgumCharlotte VerbruggenZoé LeclercqaddictionhomelessrehabDrugsVICE InternationalVICE BelgiumHomelessnessALCOHOLISMSober
<![CDATA[I'm the Social Media Manager at the Auschwitz Memorial]]>https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/dy3wmj/auschwitz-memorial-social-media-manager-interviewFri, 26 Jan 2024 09:00:00 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Germany.

Paweł Sawicki, 42, has spent the last 16 years working at one of the most depressing places on earth: Auschwitz, the largest of Germany’s concentration and extermination camps during WW2. Located in what was then occupied Poland, more than 1.1 million people died in this camp between 1940 and 1945. 

Sawicki, who used to be a journalist, is responsible for the memorial and museum’s social media accounts – he also gives guided tours and conducts interviews with survivors. We asked him what he thinks of people who take selfies at the site, why the memorial avoids TikTok and how he deals with Holocaust deniers.

Portrait of the interview subject – he has salt and pepper hair and a beard, and is wearing a red jumper hoody.
Paweł Sawicki. Photo: Paweł Sawicki

VICE: How many neo-Nazi comments do you have to read during your average work day?
Paweł Sawicki:
Every day, thousands of people visit the Auschwitz memorial, and we have over two million followers [across all social platforms]. Very few behave disrespectfully online or when visiting us. 

There are about 5,000 new online comments every day, and I read every single one of them. Only a small few are from neo-Nazis or antisemites. In the last 24 hours, I’ve reported and blocked two Holocaust deniers. On a normal day, I’ll block between five and 20 accounts. These aren’t only Nazis, but often bots asking for money or if you want to get to know them. 

Above all, I always notice how positive the comments usually are. People often just comment with emojis, like hearts. These are small gestures, but they show that people are still deeply moved by the fate of the people in Auschwitz.

Does everyone behave that well when they visit?
Most of them do. But a lot of people visit us every year. In 2019, there were 2.3 million visitors. With so many people, it's not surprising that some don't behave appropriately. 

Sometimes, visitors simply don’t have enough awareness of the history of this place. Some smoke and throw their cigarettes on the floor. But when I tell them not to smoke they stop. A few years ago, some visitors posted photos of themselves balancing on the train tracks. We publicly asked them not to take such photos because it's disrespectful.

Some teenagers who visit the memorial can’t or don’t want to show that the experience touches them, so they pretend it doesn't affect them, because classmates might otherwise interpret their grief as weakness. There are so many things to consider before jumping to conclusions, and I want to avoid that at all costs.

What do you think of people who pose or take selfies during their visit?
If someone posts a selfie with a thoughtful and respectful caption, I think that's OK. Selfies are a visual expression of our time. I think it's quite normal that people also want to document the places they visit in this way. But when I see visitors fooling around and making funny faces while taking photos, I don't think that's good. So I remind them of where they are. 

On the other hand, there are also visitors who take professional photos with expensive cameras and then write an inappropriate caption. When I see those posts, I report them. There are more than 500,000 photos on Instagram under the hashtag #Auschwitz. Most of them are very respectful and show that visitors have really engaged with the place. I generally think it's good when photos of Auschwitz are shared and I often use these for lectures. 

Are there any stories that really stick out?
Once, I published a photo of a young man who had died in Auschwitz. He was wearing the pin of the Spanish football club Real Sociedad on his jacket. I hadn't noticed, but our followers did. People started doing research and I was eventually told that there was a football club for German Jews in Prague in the 1920s. The club went to play San Sebastián and for the return leg, the San Sebastián players visited Prague, where the young man must have received the pin. This is not insanely emotional, but I think it's great to see how much commitment and interest our followers show, and how we can unravel more and more history with their help.

What was your most successful post?
For the 75th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, I had planned to break the 750,000 follower mark on X [formerly known as Twitter]. We called for people to follow the Auschwitz memorial account and famous actors such as Mark Hamill, who played Luke Skywalker, shared our account. An incredible number of people joined and we ended up with over a million followers. Again, it was great to see how people can create something so beautiful together.

Has your work changed since Elon Musk, who calls himself a free speech absolutist, bought X?
Compared to the other platforms on which we are active, X has the highest number of problematic users. This is where I have the most work to do.

Since Elon Musk, I have to fight more against antisemitic comments or those that deny the Holocaust. Holocaust denial is forbidden according to X's guidelines and I always report such comments, but usually nothing happens.

I have also publicly criticised X for this poor moderation. I don't think it's right that this social platform allows people to spread hate speech – because that is exactly what Holocaust denial is, it has nothing to do with facts. In such moments, however, our followers also help us and report these accounts. 

Why aren’t you on TikTok?
Studies show that TikTok polarises its users. The algorithm is programmed so that it’s more likely than other apps to display radical content again if you’ve previously been interested in such content. The Auschwitz memorial is not a topic that should drive people to extremes.

How much does your work drag you down emotionally?
Sometimes, very much. Every day, I see photos of people who were murdered. I look at the faces of children and babies. I'm a father of two sons and I can't understand how anyone could do anything to such defenceless beings. 

In September, I wrote a post congratulating survivor Sam Weinreich on his 104th birthday. Just three days later, I had to inform our followers in a new post that he’d passed.

So I'm frequently confronted with death on many levels. But I am also honoured to be responsible for keeping the memory of these people alive. In fact, every two hours, I post a photo on X of a victim of Auschwitz who would have had a birthday that day.

What lessons do you think we can still learn from the memorial and take into the future?
I am convinced that we should understand Auschwitz as a warning for all of us. When I guide visitors through the memorial, many ask how the Germans could have allowed so much suffering. You can’t imagine being capable of something like this. But they weren’t monsters. It would be far too easy to label them this way. 

People who worked in Auschwitz sat in their offices all day and went home to their families in the evening. They petted their dogs, taught their children to swim and greeted their neighbours. The challenge is to realise that even normal people can be capable of terrible actions when they are part of such an ideology. It was part of the Nazi ideology to dehumanise Jews; that is why they were able to commit such crimes. 

We need to understand this so that something similar doesn’t happen again in the future. The Auschwitz Memorial is here to re-humanise the victims of the Holocaust and keep their stories alive.

How has the recent violence in Israel and Palestine affected what you do? Does it resonate with the message you're trying to bring to the world?
The Memorial fulfills its mission of commemorating the victims and educating about the history of Auschwitz, regardless of changing international contexts. We do hope that memory and the lessons of this tragic human experiences can become a realm where one can seek keys to solving the most complex problems in our contemporary world.

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dy3wmjAlexandra TheisTim GeyerSocial MediaTwitterXTikTokIdentityauschwitzVICE GermanyVICE International CONCENTRATION CAMPAnti-SemitismWorkwar
<![CDATA[‘Skins’: The Show That Walked So ‘Saltburn’ Could Run]]>https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/n7e98g/skins-tv-show-saltburnMon, 22 Jan 2024 08:45:00 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Belgium.

Summer of 2010. I am 15 years old, and someone I kind of know invites me to a party while their parents are away. With blurry vision, I wander into their garden wearing ripped denim shorts, worn-out Converse, and a button-up layered on top of an Elevenparis t-shirt. A couple of people call me Effy because of my thick eyeliner look – or maybe because of my shaky, vodka-fuelled gait. 

That’s not a coincidence, of course. I was in my peak Skins era, where everything in my life – from my outfits to my parties – was inspired by the British TV series turning 17 on the 25th of January. The show’s iconic soundtrack, characters and plot lines left deep marks on me and on others in my generation who felt the urgency to live fast and experiment. I reached out to a few of them, and they agreed to talk about this era on condition of partial anonymity for privacy reasons.

To Antonin, 28, “the spirit of Skins lives in those parties you weren't really invited to, where everyone showed up with a bottle, and then it was open bar”.

Shagging in country fields, random people smashing things – Chris, Tony, Michelle, Cassie, and later Cook, Freddie, Emily taught us to guzzle booze, smash shit up, smoke joints – or shotgun them – and take as many pills as possible. The next day’s scratches and blackouts were clues to murky memories and stories to tell. 

When Antonin discovered the show at the end of middle school, the teen series genre had already been popular for decades. Skins came to freshen up the genre with stories of working and middle-class teens who had sex, did drugs and drank alcohol openly and in front of the camera.

Following a group of freedom-hungry teenagers, the show’s pop-trash aesthetic consisted of vomit, neon bras and an epic soundtrack mixing post-indie, electro-punk, and dubstep. It laid the groundwork for grittier, messier, darker portrayals of the teenage experience, from Project X to Euphoria and yes, even Saltburn.

Camille, who landed at her first Skins-themed parties 15 years ago, also envisioned herself as an Effy high on mushrooms dancing drunk in fields. “We listened to the same music, and she made me feel less inhibited,” she says.

Just like the parties in the series, Camille’s friends often spiralled into some dramatically OTT situation. “All it took was one person feeling down and starting to cry, and things would spiral in all directions,” she remembers. When things eventually settled, she and her friends would sit religiously in front of the TV to watch an episode, replenishing their imagination with even more drama.

For Charlotte, 30, the series provided inspiration for her dreams of emancipation. “My parents were overprotective, even a bit authoritarian, and prevented me from doing a lot of things,” she remembers. “The series allowed me to see something else, to push my parents’ limits, to be less reasonable.” 

It was this portrayal of freedom that also fascinated Antonin at the time. No longer a child but not yet an adult, Antonin found himself consciously flirting with boundaries. “When we partied, all we wanted was to have a blast, with the obvious juvenile clumsiness that came with it,” he says. “There was something glamorous about ending up on the ground vomiting on each other; paradoxically, I felt classy when I noticed myself staggering.” 

These excesses also overflowed into Antonin’s everyday life in middle school. “At 14, we would come to class in the morning and discreetly pull out a flask of vodka,” he laughs. “It was ridiculous because I would leave an hour later to puke, but we found some kind of elegance and audacity in this type of debauchery.” 

Around the age of 15, Lisa, who asked to be referred to with a pseudonym for privacy, went to her first Skins-inspired nights. “We purposely didn't eat much, drank a lot, made out with everyone,” she says. “Watching a series where people do drugs and sleep around reassured me when I was in a bad place.” 

After years of partying, Lisa now feels differently about her teenage years. “I sometimes feel nostalgic because we experienced crazy things, but when I think about it, there were slip-ups,” she points out. “Sex on drugs may seem cool, but you're not necessarily consenting, and you realise it too late.” Lisa, who started drinking and doing coke at a young age, has since quit drugs. “Sometimes, just for laughs, I say it was all a dissociative escape, that it wasn't really me,” she says. Sometimes, she felt she experienced reality almost like a fiction, with her in the leading role.

Charlotte also has some dark memories of those times. “I was dating a guy, and we spent a long time kissing on a couch,” she recalls. “The next day, I found a photo of us on Facebook where I was portrayed in a suggestive and sexualised pose. Monday morning at school, everyone was only talking about that.” 

In the post-MeToo era, a Skins rewatch quickly highlights some jarring issues with consent. In the first few seasons, Michelle is nicknamed “Nips” by her boyfriend because her breasts are uneven. Cassie is tasked with deflowering Sid, despite being in a vulnerable mental health state. Chris has a sexual and romantic relationship with a teacher almost twice his age.

Behind the screen, actors April Pearson and Laya Lewis – Michelle and Liv in the series – spoke out about the filming conditions on Are You Michelle From Skins?, a podcast created by Pearson. They said they didn’t feel adequately protected as (very) young actresses working on sex scenes, receiving negative comments about their bodies from the very first day of shooting. “And, as with a lot of victims of trauma, you look back at it and think: ‘Yeah, that was fucked up’,” Pearson said.

“Unlike the vast majority of teen productions, Skins decides to put at the heart of each episode …. sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll,” says teen movie researcher Célia Sauvage. “The series seems to finally embrace the excesses and pitfalls of adolescence, avoiding the politically correct life lessons usually part of American series.” 

While attractive, Skins characters are not idealised: They carry deep trauma on their sleeves, from Cassie’s eating disorder to Effy’s depression and Chris’s parental abandonment and overdose. “Skins has always explicitly acknowledged the toxicity of these behaviours,” argues Sauvage. “Those who succumb to them pay a high price: psychiatric hospitalisation, accidents and permanent disability, death, financial precariousness.” 

In real life, the teens who took inspiration from the show during those years of experimentation also came out of them with mixed feelings. While Lisa now describes herself as “anti-drugs”, Antonin still looks back at that time with fondness. “I'm not saying you have to go through that to enter adulthood, but it had some kind of an initiatory function,” he says.

Antonin still likes to party today, but things are obviously very different from what he did at 14. Let’s put it this way: The glamour of sobbing hysterically through tear-stricken makeup fades pretty quick when you’re in your late 20s.

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n7e98gPauline AllioneGen UedaskinsAlcoholDrugsteensSexPOP CULTUREMusicVICE InternationalVICE Belgiumskins parties saltburnEuphoria
<![CDATA[Nothing Can Stop These Trans Footballers from Playing ]]>https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/93kzv3/trans-footballers-interviewsTue, 02 Jan 2024 09:00:00 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Netherlands.

Football is first and foremost a team sport. It’s about trusting each other on the pitch, sharing intimate moments in the locker room, celebrating victories, mourning losses, and having a beer together after the match. Football has the power to bring together villages, cities, even whole countries. But it can also be a toxic environment where people of diverse genders and sexuality are not often welcome.

The Football Association (FA), which oversees all aspects of the amateur and professional game in England, allows mixed-gender football teams until the age of 18. Denmark has no limit, the Netherlands and Switzerland have an upper limit of 19, and Germany and Italy of 17. As a result, mixed-gender teams remain extremely uncommon in the modern game.

Generally, non-binary and trans players who take hormones have to request authorisation to play in tournaments from their local association. Where I’m based, in the Netherlands, the KNVB (the Royal Dutch Football Association) takes care of this. The conditions required to get this approval are pretty vague, and you’re not allowed to participate if your request is rejected.

Dylan, Jaimy and Jays are trans and non-binary players who have all played in women’s teams and have chosen to continue doing so after their transition. We spoke to them about their love for their teams and the challenges they encountered along the way.

‘I just want to be able to enjoy playing’

Portrait of a football player wearing a green football jersey on the pitch, he has piercings in his nose and ear, looks smiling at the camera
Jays. Photo: Roos Pierson

“When I was eight, I started playing football for the only women's team in my town. It was a lot of fun for many years, but then I transitioned. It's not like I suddenly became faster or stronger – I hadn't even started hormone therapy yet – but it still felt unfair to keep playing. I decided to leave, even though my teammates were sad about it. I later realised my feelings were motivated by the fact the presence of trans people in sport is often described as unfair.

“Ten years later, I found myself playing football in a men's team, which felt like a logical step to me. But people made a lot of misogynistic comments in the locker room. It wasn’t a safe space to tell people I was transitioning, although I wanted to.

“I didn't want to have the feeling that I was keeping a secret, so I decided to tell the coach. He said he felt cornered by this information, as if I was getting him into trouble. That definitely wasn't the response I was hoping for.

”I don't really like men's football, there’s a lot of aggression on the field, like people kicking each other's ankles. And I didn't feel physically strong enough to play with them – I was knocked over easily. After this experience, I didn't play for a long time.

action photo of three people playing football, the keeper wears a green jersey and is about to kick the ball and two opponents are running in a red and white jersey
Photo: Roos Pierson
photo of a player drinking water and sitting on a bench in the locker room. They're wearing green shorts and high football socks and there are clothes and sports bags around them
Photo: Roos Pierson

“I have identified as non-binary for several years now. That search took me a very long time. Last year, a friend shared an Instagram story saying her women's team in Amsterdam was looking for players. It was a bit far, but I still wanted to check it out. I was immediately invited to hang out after the game. Everyone started chatting and showed interest in me. It was so much fun that I thought: ‘Let’s just do this!’

“My coach, Gianni, submitted an application to the KNVB so I could officially play as a non-binary person. We wanted to do things by the book. Our application was rejected because my physical differences could supposedly affect the safety and performance of other female players. Even though I’m non-binary, my passport has an ‘M’ on it.

”Gianni forwarded the rejection in the group chat. My teammates decided we would just keep playing and see what happens. It really meant a lot to me. I don't always feel safe with people, but with this team, I really do. I would do anything for them.

two people hugging on a football field. One wears a green football jersey and the other wear blue jeans and a white jumper. There's an ING blank and Blue steel ad in the background
Photo: Roos Pierson
players walking across a football pitch, the team wears a bue jersey and the goal keeper's jersey is green
Photo: Roos Pierson

“Opponents have never made a big deal out of it. They do sometimes ask questions, and rightly so – I would, too. We always answer, and sometimes, Gianni walks up to them to tell them my story. I get where they come from, but everyone's body is different: Some women are bigger, buffer and taller than me, or more aggressive.

”I just want to be able to enjoy playing football. Fortunately, I feel very welcome on my team, I don't have to worry. That's also exactly why I play football, to get away from it all.” – Jays, 27

‘Playing football is also about the sense of community’

portrait of a football player standing on the pitch. He's wearing a blue shirt with Robey written on it, a rainbow armband and they're carrying a white and blue ball
Photo: Roos Pierson

“I remember not being nervous about telling people about my transition, except for football. I wanted to keep playing, and I would have had to stop if the team didn't feel comfortable with it, or the association disapproved.

”One day, we were in the room where we always discuss the match before entering the pitch. I told everyone I had been struggling with how I felt for some time. And the moment I said that I had decided to transition, I saw a lot of emotion on the faces of my teammates, tears in their eyes, but also big smiles. 

“When we walked onto the pitch, someone immediately put their arm around me. That felt magical. We realised how close we were as a team. Plus, we played a good match!

group photo of a women and queer football team on the pitch, they're wearing black and dark blue football jerseys except for the goal keeper who's dressed in green
Photo: Roos Pierson

“The following weeks, I really had to get used to my new name and gender, and I must say my team dealt with it very well. There were some older players who struggled to get used to it, but we would just joke about it or correct each other. We are all in this together.

“That’s also my team's attitude towards the opposing team: If they make a comment or have questions, they literally stand behind me to tell them I’m just as much a part of the team as any other player. Sometimes they want to get into it with full force, but I’m a little more laid back about it. I also get that it is unusual. My KNVB request was approved, and the club has an official letter explaining everything in detail. That makes things a lot easier.

action shot of three people playing football on a sunny day, they're wearing a black and dark blue jersey and one of them has a yellow jersey on top
Photo: Roos Pierson
four players laughing on a football pitch, the goal keeper, dressed in light green, is putting a rainbow armband on another player's arm. The other three wear a dark blue jersey
Photo: Roos Pierson

“I really wanted to play with men, because I feel 100 percent like a man. So I gave it a shot, but I quickly realised it was impossible. The physical difference is just too big. I’m stronger and I can handle more than I used to, but I still can’t compete with someone who was born as a man.

“I also tried to join a senior team, but my father played on that team. It's just much more fun to play football with your peers and friends! Playing football is also about the social aspect, the sense of community.

a football team changing in a locker room, putting their dark blue and black jersey while chatting. There are clothes and sports bags everywhere
Photo: Roos Pierson
two football players shaking hands on the pitch next to the referee and a younger player. Two of them wear a dark blue and black jersey, the opponent wears a red and while jersey, and the referee is in black and red
Photo: Roos Pierson

“I think a lot about the moment when the differences [between me and my teammates] might become too much. As a team, we have to keep talking about this. Every season, we can chat about whether it still feels OK to play together. The most important thing is that it remains fun for everyone.

“Recently, we played against a team that seemed quite diverse and open-minded, but when we were 2-1 up, they started to get frustrated. ‘A boy is playing, that's not fair,’ someone shouted.

“In moments like these, I try to calmly explain why I have chosen to play football at this particular club. It usually brings us closer. We shook hands afterwards and one of the players said we were the nicest team that they had faced in a long time.” – Dylan, 26

‘I would constantly feel pressured to prove that I have the physical strength and speed of a [cis] man’

portrait of a football player smiling, they're dressed in a long-sleeved green sports top
Jaimy. Photo: Roos Pierson

“At the age of seven, I started playing football in a girls' team. And 12 years later, I began my transition. I was very worried about my body. I explained to the team that I was wearing a special binder so that my feminine figure would be less visible.

“In the locker room, I sometimes struggled to put it on, so I asked a teammate to help me. She helped me once, but then never again. Putting on the binder in that locker room felt like torture, and after that rejection, I felt less and less comfortable within the team. Eventually, I decided to leave.

“A few years later, during my transition, I started playing football for another women's team. When I met them for the first time, I immediately said: ‘I'm in transition and I've had breast surgery, and I'm also planning to take hormones. Let me know if you have any issues with it, because in that case, I won't play here.’ But everyone reacted very well. In the locker room, my teammates even said that I had beautiful scars. I thought to myself: ‘Yes, I am actually very proud of them.’

four players putting their sneakers on in a sports locker room. One of them is dressed in black, another in green, one in yellow, and the last one if white
Photo: Roos Pierson
action shot of a goal keeper wearing a green jersey jumping to his right to catch the ball
Photo: Roos Pierson

“My experience with the KNVB was difficult, to say the least. I emailed them several times, but the person I was in contact with didn't really know how to handle the situation. I still haven’t heard back from them.

“I grew up playing football. I do it because I enjoy it, and I feel most comfortable with women. I already knew many of the players I play with now, so it’s comfortable. The coach also immediately told me that I was more than welcome to join.

“I haven't tried playing on a men's team. The macho culture doesn't suit me. Besides, if I played football with and against men, I would constantly feel pressure to prove that I really am a man. That I have the physical strength and speed of a man. That I always have to go the extra mile, even though it wouldn’t be physically possible at a certain point.

three players on a football field at night. Two of them look at each other smiling and the third one looks down. They're dressed in black, blue, yellow and green
Photo: Roos Pierson
group photo of a women and queer football team near a small goal at night, they're wearing black, white and yellow football jerseys except for the goal keeper who's in green
Photo: Roos Pierson

“With my opponents, I take it easy. I'm stronger and more buff, so I take that into account, even though I'm super competitive. And it's not like I'm on a super high level – I’m completely out of breath after a sprint. But I feel like if you can hit hard, you should also be able to take what comes back at you.

”Before every match, my teammates and I take the time to tell my story to the opposing team, and say that all we want is to play a nice game. Eventually, they usually understand. My team recently made it clear that if the other team makes a big deal out this, we won’t play against them.

“I have felt lonely in some teams in my football career. I spent a lot of time on my phone and quickly fled the cafeteria after the match. But on this team, whenever I get up from my seat, they always ask me straight away: ‘Are you leaving already?’” – Jaimy, 26

VICE has repeatedly asked the KNVB to comment on their policy regarding transgender and non-binary players as well as the specific cases mentioned in this piece, but there has been no response to this to date.

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93kzv3Lisa LotensAmarens EggeraatSporttransgenderFootballLGBTQtransFootballers
<![CDATA[Inside the Parisian Cafe for Subversives and Whistleblowers]]>https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/4a3ben/inside-the-parisian-cafe-for-subversives-and-whistleblowersTue, 02 Jan 2024 08:45:00 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Belgium.

Taha Siddiqui is a man who wears many hats and has lived many lives. After a career as an investigative journalist in Pakistan, Siddiqui survived a kidnapping and an assassination attempt. In 2018, he decided to move to Paris with his wife to rebuild far away from home. Cut off from his regular sources and the ability to do fieldwork, he found himself looking for a new career.

In 2020, Siddiqui launched the Dissident Club, a modern-day “café littéraire” reminiscent of the gathering spots where bright minds would exchange ideas in the 1800s. “In Paris, there are many bars with cultural, social, and political activities,” Siddiqui tells VICE. “As a political refugee, a journalist in exile and a dissident, I wanted to bring together people like me under one roof.”

Today, Siddiqui is both the café’s manager and its bartender. He organises events to highlight the work of journalists, activists and artists who had to leave their home country under threats of persecution, just like him. Discussions, debates, conferences, and exhibitions help him create a safe space for dissidents from all over the world, as well as enlightening and educating customers at the bar.

In 2022 alone, 50 different countries were represented at the Dissident Club. Some of their home countries are mapped onto a dartboard, where journalists and activists have pinned photos of their often undemocratic leaders. (I’ll refrain from disclosing the identity of the figure on the 20 point slot.)

“I have a project on transnational repression where we talk about the fact that, even in exile, you can still be targeted, intimidated and harassed,” Siddiqui says. "What I want to convey to people with this project is that when you go into exile, you don’t simply start a new life and everything is different. You continue living your previous life – in greater safety, yes, but never in total safety. I want to raise awareness about this.”

Siddiqui has rebuilt his life in France to the best of his ability, and continues to write for international publications including the Guardian and the New York Times. In March, he published the graphic novel Dissident Club: Chronicles of a Pakistani Journalist in Exile, where he talks about freedom of expression and of the press – topics he also raises in regular talks at schools.

But because of the target on his back, Siddiqui still has to be careful about who he associates with in daily life. Pakistan is one of the most dangerous countries for journalists, ranking 150 out of 180 in the World Press Freedom Index. His friends and relatives from Pakistan also have to avoid being seen in public with him, as associates of reporters are often targeted.

That’s also why the Dissident Club matters so much to Siddiqui. Being in exile can be isolating, so he made it his personal mission to forge connections between political refugees and locals.

Daniel Noel, a Frenchman and retired teacher, is one of Siddiqui’s regular collaborators. Since June 2018, Noel and his wife have been running an artist residency programme called La maison des artistes en exil (The House of Exiled Artists) in the small northwestern town of Saint-Briac sur Mer.

Every year, the couple supports new artists’ exhibitions and invites them over to stay while working on their projects. Over 50 artists so far have joined the programme from countries all over the world, including Syria, Afghanistan, Palestine, Iran and Ukraine.

“This project is a political choice,” Noel explains. “I'm not a humanitarian proving assistance to people in distress. After decades of activism, we decided that supporting individuals persecuted by political regimes after having fought against them was the best choice for us.”

Noel believes our understanding of what it means to be a refugee has been hollowed out by our current political debate. “These people don't flee their countries just to seek shelter,” he argues. “They do it to continue living, to rebuild themselves, and to pursue their struggle through their art.” That’s why he’s always on the lookout for artists to connect with Siddiqui and show their work at the cafe, whether they go through his residency or not.

The evening I visited the Dissident Club was the opening of Belarusian painter Iren Flore's exhibition. Flore has opposed her country’s government – often called Europe’s last dictatorship – since she was young and, at 17, she decided to leave for Ukraine. In 2022, the war prompted her to seek refuge in Paris.

Since then, Flore says, she’s been struggling to showcase her work. She’s visited several Parisian galleries, but no one showed an interest in her work. The language barrier and her status aren’t exactly helping, she adds.

Like Flore, this is also Dasha's first time at the Dissident Club. Dasha, who asked to remain partly anonymous out of safety concerns, is a politically engaged Russian intellectual who left after the Russian invasion of Ukraine. Back home, she had many run-ins with the police, including an official letter addressed to her university, accusing her of illegal conduct.

After the letter, Dasha no longer felt safe. She quit her job and moved to France, where she’d previously studied during her Bachelor’s, to avoid more problems. For Dasha, a space like the Dissident Club represents an opportunity to connect with people who share a similar story as hers without having to constantly explain the finer points of her situation.

“The other people here understand that you're not in great shape and that you might not want to talk about it,” she says. “I’ve been trying to speak more with French people to improve my French, but in general, I spend most of my time with Russians. Otherwise, I get a bit tired of always having to tell the same story.”

Siddiqui is familiar with this mental and emotional fatigue. After his assault, he kept having flashbacks to the trauma and had to seek therapy to treat his PTSD. “ Of course, I sometimes still get tired, upset, or depressed at the thought of talking to people, but that's natural,” he explains. “I think therapy helped me better understand my feelings.”

Discussions at the club might feel challenging or hard, but the only way to feel less alone is opening up to those who understand you most. Siddiqui organises a roundtable on mental health for political refugees with the help of psychologists, alongside the many debates and performances open to the public. Ultimately, his vision is to foster some unity among people in exile and to transform the Dissident Club into a haven of support for them; a place they can come home to, even if they have to navigate tough circumstances in every other part of their lives.

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4a3benPaul-Louis GodierGen UedaPaul-Louis GodierParisrefugeesactivismdissidentwhistleblowersVICE InternationalVICE BelgiumΠακιστάνARTISTSmental healthPTSD
<![CDATA[My Name and Face Are the Only Things Linking Me to My Heritage]]>https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/ak3aep/algeria-yasmine-yahiatene-interviewFri, 22 Dec 2023 09:00:00 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Belgium.

“Dad, do you know what the Algerian War and alcohol have in common? I've found three things: silence, taboo and shame.” That’s how French-Algerian artist Yasmine Yahiatene opens her solo show La Fracture (The Fracture), about her Algerian roots.

Yahiatene was born and raised in France by Algerian parents, who came to live in the country that formerly colonised their land of origin during the Algerian War of Independence. In this bitter conflict, which lasted from 1954 to 1962, France was accused of horrific war crimes, including the use of torture and chemical warfare.

About 40 percent of Algeria’s population was displaced. Some people lived in refugee camps; others followed friends and relatives who had relocated to France during the colonial period. The violence of the conflict has left its mark on those who experienced it, and many survivors still struggle to make sense of what happened or open up about it.

Two women with dark curly hair having a chat on stage, they both hold a microphone and there's a white drawing on the floor in the background. One is dressed in black and the other is wearing a white t-shirt and blue pants
Photo: Julien Hayard

In the show, Yahiatene delves into her complex and personal family history to the sound of music from the Algerian singer-songwriter Idir and the rapper Soolking. She opens up about her father’s alcoholism and how he’s never told her about his past and his country, but also about their shared love for football and Zinedine Zidane.

I wound up seeing her performance twice. As a Belgian-Algerian, I identified deeply with it. The found footage she shows of her family reminded me so much of my own. She also plays a clip of Zidane's famous double against Brazil in the ‘98 World Cup and then runs euphorically across the stage. I remember this moment very well, too. I remember how proud and happy my whole family was – we even called up my grandma and auntie in Algeria.

I also know what it’s like to have a father who doesn't talk much. After seeing her play for the first time, I remember thinking to myself, ‘Actually, we’re all the same; we're all just as clueless.’

When I consider that thought more closely, there's some truth in it – in the sense that our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents who lived through colonisation and the war all have some key things in common. (Trauma, mainly.)

For Yahiatene, creating this show was healing. It let her to open up about topics that had always been taboo, like her father's alcoholism. It also helped her decolonise her own personal history and reconnect with her origins.

“My relationship with Algeria is non-existent, apart from my face and name,” she says as I interview her on stage at one of her performances. “This show has allowed me to reconnect with that part of myself. It meant understanding that I'm not white, blonde with blue eyes. It's all new to me!”

Many people of colour growing up in white spaces don’t realise they’re not white until a mirror is held up to them and makes them different. I remember realising it for the first time when I was still very young, in primary school, when a white classmate said in front of the whole class that my Moroccan friend and I smelled the same. That left a mark on me, even if I was too young to understand why. Of course, as you grow up, you get a lot more frequent, harsher and alienating comments.

For Yahiatene, things clicked much later. “When I was looking for a flat, I sent around the same email as a friend, except our names were different,” she explains. “He kept getting replies and I didn't. That was it. It's fairly common, unfortunately.”

This realisation marked the start of a deeper period of questioning for Yahiatene. She realised that decolonisation doesn't only happen physically – like when the French left Algeria – but also mentally. “Decolonisation is something you have to work on,” she says. “Whether you’re a person of colour or not, when you're born in Europe, you grow up thinking that this is the only way to do things. But more and more thinkers and artists tell us it doesn't have to be that way.”

She’s aware of the juxtaposition at play: While Yahiatene looks to dismantle the effect of colonialism on her identity, her parents have been down the exact opposite path, giving up their personal history to integrate and fit in. “[Integration] is giving up a part of yourself to fit in with the dominant country,” she says. “That's what we - and I - are putting into question today.”

Integration has consequences for the people who experience it themselves, but also for their descendants. “There’s a reason why I can't speak Arabic but speak French perfectly,” Yahiatene says. It’s something I’ve also always felt ashamed of.

In his book L'arabe pour tous - Pourquoi ma langue est taboue en France (Arabic for everyone - Why my language is taboo in France), author and journalist Nabil Wakim explains in detail why Arab-speaking immigrant parents are less likely to teach Arabic to their children, compared with people who speak other, less stigmatised languages. Once again, Islamophobia and racism are the core of the problem.

Wakim also shared the shame of not speaking the language of his origins and not being able to pass it on to his children. But in her play, Yahiatene wants to reclaim this missed heritage. “I think it's important to reclaim the part of ourselves that was stolen from us by colonisation without feeling bad about it,” she says. “This place of not knowing yourself has a right to exist. Many of us are in this situation!”

According to Yahiatene, this process of reclaiming is not just about learning, but about listening to yourself. "I don’t know much about history, dates or facts; I’ve seen the same documentaries you have,” she says. “But I act with my gut more than with my brain.”

photo of a performer on stage wearing a blue football jersey and white peint on her skin. There's a ball on the floor and she makes a heart with her two hands
Photo: Julien Hayard

During the play, Yahiatene asks her dad questions. “Why does Grandma have tattoos on her face? Why can't I speak Arabic? Why don't you tell me what happened in Algeria? Why can't I stop myself when I drink?” – questions that speak of heaviness and oppressing silences. Her mother’s side of the story is not included because Yahiatene is currently developing another show about her.

The question of intergenerational trauma is particularly relevant for Yahiatene, as she is about the same age as her father was when she was born. “I question my relationship [with alcohol] and how I can avoid making the same mistakes,” she says. “I’m trying to face this issue and solve it, or at least make it less taboo. Bringing it up on stage is a first step. It might help people to talk about it after the show – or maybe not.”

Football also plays an important role in La Fracture, both for personal and political reasons. When you first enter the performance space, you find Yahiatene wearing the blue strip of the French national team - number 10 like Zidane, of course - and drawing a football pitch on the floor of the stage with a white marker.

Yahiatene used to play football a lot growing up. Just like many in the Algerian diaspora, she was deeply marked by Zidane's legendary status. “I was living in the south of France at the time, and there must have been only two Arabs in my school,” she said. “The day after the final, we both went to school chests out, going: ‘Yeah, yeah, Zidane!’ It was a really powerful moment for us and for the whole community.”

Zidane has also paid the price of integration, Yahiatene says. When you think about it, the simple fact that he wears the French jersey but makes Algerians so proud is disconcerting. "When Zidane scores, he scores for France, and we're happy that he's French,” she adds.

But the myth of the beauty of diversity Zidane personified took a major hit when he famously headbutted Italy’s Marco Materazzi in the 2006 World Cup final. “That showed the whole problem with the idea of the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ Arab,” Yahiatene says.

Beyond the fact that it’s touched audiences, La Fracture also made Yahiatene’s family proud and helped them become closer. “A lot of people in my family saw it and that was quite beautiful,” she says. “In families like mine, we don't talk. My show helped to get things out that were a bit dead inside, but without talking about it.”

Her mother, aunts and grandmother returned to Algeria last year for the first time in 40 years. “They went back to their village, where my mother was born, and it was great to experience that from a distance,” she explains. “I like to think that it was thanks to the show.”

I attended Yahiatene's performance on Oct. 18, when the latest bombardment of Gaza by Israel had begun. Yahiatene and her team decided to add a statement at the end of the show, drawing a parallel between Algeria and Palestine. Yahiatene’s show is “profoundly anti-colonial,” she says. “We condemn and will condemn all forms of colonisation past, present and future.”

It’s a sad correlation that history repeats itself, just like trauma.

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<![CDATA[I’m a Woman of Colour Who Mostly Hooks Up With White Men – Is That Bad?]]>https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/jg5a93/im-a-woman-of-colour-who-mostly-hooks-up-with-white-men-is-that-badWed, 29 Nov 2023 08:45:00 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Netherlands.

Ask VICE is a series where readers ask VICE to solve their problems, from dealing with unrequited love to handling annoying flatmates. Today, we’re hoping to help a POC reader who doesn’t understand why she can only flirt with white guys.

Hi VICE, 

I’ve been in an open relationship for a long time. My boyfriend and I are both people of colour. He is totally my type – I really fall for guys like him. But since I’ve been able to date other men, I’ve noticed that I keep making certain choices. I wonder where that comes from, and whether I should worry about it.

When I go out, I often end up with guys who aren’t actually my type at all: white with blonde hair and blue eyes. I also often get attention from them, which makes it nice for me to flirt back. Sometimes, I only have to say a few words to someone to notice that they’re in with a chance. 

This kind of attraction is purely sexual and superficial for me. If I try to flirt with a man who’s my type, I feel very insecure. I clam up and don't know what to say. But with those blonde guys, it's very easy.

I’m in my mid-20s and this is quite bizarre for me. Back in school, I used to be invisible to guys like them, let alone be someone they wanted to date. Growing up in a predominantly white environment, outside the big cities, I always felt I wasn't pretty enough, that I couldn't compete with white beauty standards.

It's not necessarily a bad thing that I occasionally spend a night with a white man, but I wonder where this comes from. Why do I only hook up with white guys, and not with the men I actually find attractive? And why can’t I flirt with men I feel genuinely attracted to? 

Best,

A.


Hi A.,

Researchers believe that you develop your own identity during your teenage years. Puberty can have a big impact on how you see yourself, and therefore who you’re attracted to. But it doesn’t mean you don’t continue to grow after that. A lot of things keep influencing who you are as a person, such as the people you date, your friends, the environment you evolve in, your education and your work. 

You’re now at the stage of life where many people learn about what they find attractive and what they want from a partner, so it’s not surprising that you’re discovering you can also fall for different types of men. Still, there’s no harm in questioning this new attraction, especially because your question is also about beauty standards and your attraction to a type of man you used to feel insecure about.

Fariba Rhmaty is a transcultural psychotherapist and co-founder of the Dutch centre Transculturele Therapie (Transcultural Therapy). The practice approaches therapy from a social and cross-cultural perspective, taking into account the patients’ gender, religion, spirituality and sexuality. According to Rhmaty, your question contains several layers relating to your own feelings, but also to the society we live in. By understanding where your new flirting behaviour comes from, you might also be able to understand the insecurities you felt when you were at school. 

What did you learn at home about what it means to be a person of colour? Have you ever felt unsafe or discriminated against as a child? How did your family deal with discrimination? Did you think of yourself as beautiful as a child? These questions could help you understand how you learned to look at yourself. 

Rhmaty says issues of confidence and belonging usually start in the family. If you have a parent of colour, it’s likely that you were made to feel different twice: by the outside world and by your own parents, who also probably felt like they never fit in. “Indeed, chances are that your parents also experienced discrimination,” she says. “As a person of colour, you carry with you a piece of trans-generational trauma, whether it’s unconscious or not.” The extent of these traumas depends on your family history.

This can also affect your love life. You write in your letter that you only fall in love with boys of colour, which is quite normal, says Rhmaty. “Discrimination creates a sense of insecurity, because you’re made aware time and again that you’re not enough,” she explains. “Chances are, you feel safer with people who look like you.” This isn’t a bad thing, BTW!

Rhmaty thinks your new sexual preferences might be a sign that you are stepping out of your comfort zone and opening up to types of people you previously perceived as unsafe – “and you’re finding that you are appreciated. That's actually really nice”, she adds.

You wonder why you’re not falling for the men you flirt with. There could be several reasons for this. How does this flirtatiousness start? What are your expectations? Do you feel completely safe around white men today?

“The feeling of insecurity can sometimes also create attraction," Rhmaty explains. “Flirting then becomes very exciting. You seek the boundaries of your comfort zone, look for affirmation and enjoy the attention you get, especially if you didn't get it in high school.” And yes, that can be completely separate from your need to connect with someone.

The fact that you get nervous around men who are your type is also understandable. After all, those are the guys you can see a future with, so the stakes are much higher.

According to Rhmaty, this development is part of growing up and stepping out of your bubble, especially if you grew up in a predominantly white environment and then went to study or work in a bigger city. When you’re confronted with the fact that there are actually many people with different cultural backgrounds in your country and that you’re not an exception, that can boost your self-confidence. You find out that what made you different in your village can actually be attractive.

That said, Rhmaty emphasises that not every person of colour goes through the same process. The experience of love is different for everyone. And the kind of people you fall for don’t necessarily have to be linked to trauma or a sense of insecurity.

Try not to worry about all of this. Rhmaty recommends speaking to a therapist only if you find yourself being very insecure, unhappy or anxious. As long as you’re honest about your intentions when you flirt and don't break too many hearts, it’s healthy to test out your new confidence in dating. Just try to get to know the world and yourself a little better, and enjoy the journey.

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<![CDATA[What is Edging? The Art of Building Up to Extremely Intense Orgasms]]>https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/vbjb5j/what-is-edging-better-orgasms-sexTue, 28 Nov 2023 20:30:00 GMTMuch ink has been spilled in the service of helping us experience BIGGER, BETTER ORGASMS, with tips ranging from the benign (blindfolds, more foreplay) to the, uh, creative (“Put a donut on his dick!”). Often overlooked in these sexy guides, however, is the simple and incredibly effective technique known as edging.

What is edging?

Not to be confused with the lawn-maintenance term that also bears its name, edging is a technique for bringing yourself (or others, or all of you together!) to the brink of orgasm—the edge, if you will—then backing off. Do this enough times and your body will become a giant, pulsating nerve of sensation; and your orgasm, if and when you are brought over that edge, will be that much more intense and powerful.

Edging is also known as “peaking,” “surfing,” “orgasm training” and “orgasm denial,” and shares similarities with “slow masturbation” in Alex Comfort's book The New Joy of Sex, and the “Venus Butterfly” technique in The One Hour Orgasm by Leah and Bob Schwartz.

It also can be and is used as a technique to help those with penises gain better control of their ejaculation. In that capacity, it is sometimes called the “stop-and-start method.”

To make things a little more confusing, edge play, which has nothing to do with edging, is a BDSM term that involves taking someone to their psychological edge. Edge play activities vary widely, but are often deeply taboo, intense, emotional, occasionally violent, yet also highly erotic. (One example is breath play (erotic asphyxiation), which restricts one’s supply of oxygen.) Every person has a different edge, so every person’s edge play will be different. But, that’s a topic for another How to Sex!

Why does edging feel good?

Better orgasms aren’t enough for you? Fine. Here are more perks.

For those with penises, the appeal of edging is often that sexual encounters last longer. (The median duration for hetero penis-in-vagina sex is 5.4 minutes, according to a 2015 study in the Journal of Sexual Medicine, so take that as you will.) No orgasm also means no refractory period is needed, so one is less likely to fall asleep on their beleaguered partner, who just wants to get off one time this year, Jason!

In addition to living the Boyz II Men dream of making love all night long (or even just longer than 5.4 minutes), edging appeals to people because it allows them to stay in a heightened state of sexual arousal. Building up one’s arousal in this way also allows people with vulvas time to warm up, and increases the chances that they’ll have their own orgasm—should their partner decide to grant them one, you kinky birds.

The basics of how to edge

Without a partner

The basic approach to edging involves masturbating until you feel like you might come, then stopping for a short period, but not for so long that you lose interest and, like, start Instagramming. Do that a few times and see how it makes you feel, not just your genitals, but your whole body. The more you practice, you might find the longer you can go on edging, and the more explosive the eventual release becomes.

For those with penises, another method to try is the “squeeze” method. This involves getting themselves close to the edge, then when they are about to orgasm, stop and squeeze the tip of the penis for about 30 seconds, and then starting the build-up once again.

With a partner

The tips above are all relevant if you’re looking to edge your partner with your hands, but you can also use anal or nipple play, oral sex, or just plain old intercourse – whatever you know gets them off. The key is to pay attention for physical or vocal signs that they’re about to reach orgasm.

Not totally sure? Check in verbally with them. Even something as simple as “tell me when you’re about to cum” can work (and is pretty hot, too) – if they answer in the affirmative, immediately stop all stimulation and wait for their body and their breathing to return to normal. This could take a few seconds or a few minutes – your partner’s mileage may vary. Once that’s done, feel free to repeat the process all over again so you can build them up to sweet, sweaty release.  

How do you use edging with BDSM?

Speaking of kink, dominants and submissives also practice edging, albeit by adding an additional element of psychological or physical control to the practice of delaying or outright denying themselves or their partners an orgasm. The heightened arousal still applies, but with a power twist to amp up the fun.

For tops, edging a partner can increase their sensations of power and control—but it also works in reverse. A top who wants to test the control they have over their own body and desire might practice edging. For bottoms, edging can increase feelings of submissiveness, consensual objectification, and surrender.

Taken a step further, from edging to outright denial of orgasm, this can be used by tops to increase a bottom’s tolerance for certain kinds of stimulation, act as erotic torture (chastity belts, cock cages, cuffs, etc.), and even serve in training someone to cum on demand, which is not just a fun party trick.

How long should you edge before you orgasm?

That's up to you!

If you don’t have a skilled top at your disposal, you can practice edging on your own through masturbation. Knowing your body and how it responds to sensations, pressure, and rhythms is immensely helpful not just for edging, but any sexual activity. As the Ancient Greek aphorism put it, “Know thyself.” And, considering that it was the Greeks, we can infer it may very well have been about masturbation.

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The benefits of edging

There's no solid science suggesting that edging has positive health benefits. But, we live in an orgasm-centric culture, and while there’s certainly nothing wrong with getting off—and doing it efficiently—the fact that we are goal-oriented instead of pleasure-oriented can produce a lot of anxiety, shame, and not to mention, fake orgasms. I'd bet that contributes to the high number of people who are anorgasmic (someone who has extreme difficulty reaching orgasm), or who have never had an orgasm (10-15% of adult women haven’t orgasmed, according to research). By taking orgasms off the table, even for a short period of time, we free ourselves from the burden and duty of end-game sex and can instead focus on pleasure, playfulness, and savoring our bodies’ erotic responses the way we would a delicious, multi-course meal. Radical.

 This article was updated for clarity. It was originally published in July 2018.

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