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Reclaiming Language
Marwan Kaabour’s Queer Arab Glossary & the Power of Words

AFEEF: Using your own glossary, which phrase describes you best? Aka how do you identify?
MARWAN: It would be unfair of me to choose only one, so I’m going to go with a couple. I identify as a ṭubjī, which is used in Lebanese dialect in the same way as faggot. Ṭubjī comes from Turkish Ottoman and refers to the person whose job is to operate a cannon. I also identify as Shawwaya, which is Arab for grill rack, and is used in Moroccan and Tunisian to refer to a gay man who is versatile, because just like meat on a grill rack, you’d need to flip him over every now and then!
AFEEF: Other than the phrase you identify with, what were other favorites that you learned in the process?
MARWAN: I love all the words that refer to water, like sāyiţ (Palestinian; watered down); qāyiso-l-mā’ (Morrocan; has been touched by water); māyi‘ (Kuwaiti; liquid); markhūf (Tunisian; loose or swaying); amongst a few others. These words are itended to belittle men who are effiminate or gay, by highlighting the way they sway while walking, or the fact that they have “limp wrists”. Despite the derogotary connotation, I find the use of water as a metaphor to refer to queer people as deeply poetic and beautiful. Just like water, queerness is a limitless, boundless, ever-changing and morphing thing.
AFEEF: Why is documenting queerness in the Arabic speaking world important to you?
MARWAN: Understanding one’s own history, whether on a micro personal scale or a macro national/international scale, allows one to learn and grow. Otherwise we end up getting stuck in versions of the truths that lack much needed context and nuance. As a queer Arab person, I found it difficult to find accessible records and literature that I saw myself in. As someone with experience and skill in storytelling and visual communication, I decided to take matters into my own hands. So I started Takweer [Kaabour’s online platform], and that allows me to better understand myself and how queer Arabs are situated across our own history. It also allows the queer Arab community to engage with the project, which contributes to community-building and re-enforcing the bonds that exist between our sense of queerness and Arabness. I also hope it adds much needed complexity to the dominant eurocentric notion of queerness.

AFEEF: What gave you the idea for this book?
MARWAN: Takweer is an Instagram page I created that serves as an ever-expanding archive of queer narratives in Arab history and pop culture. The knowledge that I accumulate in my research and the exchanges I have with the page’s followers also serve as a space for new ideas to develop and be fully realized. I would often come across queer Arabic slang during my research, or would spot it in the comments or in the DMs by Arabic-speakers who spoke different dialects from my own. Generally speaking, I have always been interested in language and the multifaceted nature of language and meaning, so I started to develop a curiosity exploring the entire linguistic landscape surrounding queerness in the Arabic-speaking region. In the spring of 2020 I put a call-out on Takweer, asking the page’s followers to submit words and terms used to identify someone who is queer (or perceived as queer). I expected a few dozen responses, but I ended up compiling a few hundred entries insead. That’s when I knew I needed to dedicate more time to develop this project properly.
AFEEF: What was the methodology? How did you make this thing come together?
MARWAN: The project was collaborative and participatory at every stage. The research process was in three phases: The submissions phase, whereby Takweer followers (and others who were made aware of the call-out) would submit words and terms they are familiar with in their own dialect. I then collated and categorized the submissions across an extensive spread sheet. This was followed by the interview phase, where I would have one-on-one interviews via Zoom or in-person with a group of people from of the Arabic-speaking countries. The interviewees varied in age, socioeconomic class, locality and in the way they identified across the queer spectrum. I would go through the list of the collated entries with each person and discuss its use, familiarity, meaning, etc. Each interview would inform the descriptions as it would either confirm, negate or add to the existing text, and by doing so adding additional context and nuance. Finally, in the editing phase, I invited Suneela Mubayi to come on board as the glossary’s editor. Suneela’s incredible knowledge of the Arabic language and queer histories allowed her to add much-needed historical, linguistic and cultural context to each entry.
It was important for the methodology to be organic and participatory to best reflect the fluid nature of the subject matter: dialect and queerness. There are several examples of existing slang glossaries and queer slang glossaries, but to my knowledge this is the first project to use such a methodology.

AFEEF: Tell me about the illustrations and what role they serve?
MARWAN: As soon as I decided on creating a printed glossary, I knew I wanted it to be illustrated, just like the old glossaries I used to come across as a child. It’s one thing to illustrate a bird species or a chair, but it’s another to visualize abstract concepts like a Dudaki (Iraqi dialect; wormy one; derogatory term to refer to gay people) or a Nagafa (Egyptian dialect; chandelier; refers to a flamboyant and/or effeminate man). That gave us the chance to imagine these queer characters, who are joyful and at ease with their sense of queerness. I immediately thought of Haitham Haddad’s brilliant skill in creating beautifully complex and relatable characters in his art. The brilliant illustrations Haitham produced allowed us to populate the queer Arab imaginary with these wonderfully eclectic characters that can open up the space for us to dream.
AFEEF: What compelled you to include essays?
MARWAN: An earlier iteration of the project was just an illustrated glossary. When I started exploring the idea of publishing it as a book, I wanted the findings of the glossary to be expanded on and given more dimensionality. I also wanted to open up the space for additional voices from across the Arabic- speaking region, and whose perspectives and experiences are different to mine. The glossary is a record of the lexicon surrounding our queerness, and the essays provide us tools to think through the themes that the glossary explores: queerness, dialect, Arab identity, language, etc. and each essay does that in a uniquely thought-provoking way.

AFEEF: What do you hope people take away from this work?
MARWAN: I hope queer Arabs are able to take pride and learn from a project that centers their experience and humanity at its core. I hope queers in general get to widen their perspectives on a non-eurocentric experience. I hope the general Arab public gets to see queer people as an inseparable part of the fabric of Arab communities, and not some kind of foreign import. I hope Westerners who claim to care about Arabs are able to see how queer and Arab identities have co-existed since the dawn of time, and despite our challenges, we are proud of being Arab. I hope linguists learn from the creativity and wit of queer Arab slang. And I hope for the world to see our humanity, with all of its facets and contradictions, in the face of the zionist death machine that wants to annihilate us.
AFEEF: What have you taken away from this work?
MARWAN: I learnt that nothing is singular. Whether its queerness, language, gender, slang, Arab, etc. these are all notions that encapsulate a multitude of meanings, interpretations, contradictions and experiences. Attempting to overly define or limit any of them would ultimately lead to their demise. Accepting these multiplicities, and allowing for things to change and constantly morph is what keeps life exciting and rewarding.

Marwans Kaabour’s “Queer Arab Glossary” is a first-of-its-kind survey of the language used around queerness in the Arab world, bringing together more than 300 words and terms used to refer to queer people across the spoken Arabic dialects. It also includes essays by eight leading Arab queer artists, academics, activists and writers, which situate the glossary in a modern social and political context. The book has beautiful, witty illustrations that make the journalistic masterpiece come to life. Marwan sat with EIP to explain how the Queer Arab Glossary is a powerful response to the myths about queer people in the Arab world.
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{
"title" : "Reclaiming Language: Marwan Kaabour’s Queer Arab Glossary & the Power of Words",
"author" : "Marwan Kaabour, Afeef Nessouli",
"category" : "interviews",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/marwan-kaabour-queer-arab-glossary",
"date" : "2024-12-11 14:33:00 -0500",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/marwan-kaabour-4.jpg",
"excerpt" : "",
"content" : "AFEEF: Using your own glossary, which phrase describes you best? Aka how do you identify?MARWAN: It would be unfair of me to choose only one, so I’m going to go with a couple. I identify as a ṭubjī, which is used in Lebanese dialect in the same way as faggot. Ṭubjī comes from Turkish Ottoman and refers to the person whose job is to operate a cannon. I also identify as Shawwaya, which is Arab for grill rack, and is used in Moroccan and Tunisian to refer to a gay man who is versatile, because just like meat on a grill rack, you’d need to flip him over every now and then!AFEEF: Other than the phrase you identify with, what were other favorites that you learned in the process?MARWAN: I love all the words that refer to water, like sāyiţ (Palestinian; watered down); qāyiso-l-mā’ (Morrocan; has been touched by water); māyi‘ (Kuwaiti; liquid); markhūf (Tunisian; loose or swaying); amongst a few others. These words are itended to belittle men who are effiminate or gay, by highlighting the way they sway while walking, or the fact that they have “limp wrists”. Despite the derogotary connotation, I find the use of water as a metaphor to refer to queer people as deeply poetic and beautiful. Just like water, queerness is a limitless, boundless, ever-changing and morphing thing.AFEEF: Why is documenting queerness in the Arabic speaking world important to you?MARWAN: Understanding one’s own history, whether on a micro personal scale or a macro national/international scale, allows one to learn and grow. Otherwise we end up getting stuck in versions of the truths that lack much needed context and nuance. As a queer Arab person, I found it difficult to find accessible records and literature that I saw myself in. As someone with experience and skill in storytelling and visual communication, I decided to take matters into my own hands. So I started Takweer [Kaabour’s online platform], and that allows me to better understand myself and how queer Arabs are situated across our own history. It also allows the queer Arab community to engage with the project, which contributes to community-building and re-enforcing the bonds that exist between our sense of queerness and Arabness. I also hope it adds much needed complexity to the dominant eurocentric notion of queerness.AFEEF: What gave you the idea for this book?MARWAN: Takweer is an Instagram page I created that serves as an ever-expanding archive of queer narratives in Arab history and pop culture. The knowledge that I accumulate in my research and the exchanges I have with the page’s followers also serve as a space for new ideas to develop and be fully realized. I would often come across queer Arabic slang during my research, or would spot it in the comments or in the DMs by Arabic-speakers who spoke different dialects from my own. Generally speaking, I have always been interested in language and the multifaceted nature of language and meaning, so I started to develop a curiosity exploring the entire linguistic landscape surrounding queerness in the Arabic-speaking region. In the spring of 2020 I put a call-out on Takweer, asking the page’s followers to submit words and terms used to identify someone who is queer (or perceived as queer). I expected a few dozen responses, but I ended up compiling a few hundred entries insead. That’s when I knew I needed to dedicate more time to develop this project properly.AFEEF: What was the methodology? How did you make this thing come together?MARWAN: The project was collaborative and participatory at every stage. The research process was in three phases: The submissions phase, whereby Takweer followers (and others who were made aware of the call-out) would submit words and terms they are familiar with in their own dialect. I then collated and categorized the submissions across an extensive spread sheet. This was followed by the interview phase, where I would have one-on-one interviews via Zoom or in-person with a group of people from of the Arabic-speaking countries. The interviewees varied in age, socioeconomic class, locality and in the way they identified across the queer spectrum. I would go through the list of the collated entries with each person and discuss its use, familiarity, meaning, etc. Each interview would inform the descriptions as it would either confirm, negate or add to the existing text, and by doing so adding additional context and nuance. Finally, in the editing phase, I invited Suneela Mubayi to come on board as the glossary’s editor. Suneela’s incredible knowledge of the Arabic language and queer histories allowed her to add much-needed historical, linguistic and cultural context to each entry.It was important for the methodology to be organic and participatory to best reflect the fluid nature of the subject matter: dialect and queerness. There are several examples of existing slang glossaries and queer slang glossaries, but to my knowledge this is the first project to use such a methodology.AFEEF: Tell me about the illustrations and what role they serve?MARWAN: As soon as I decided on creating a printed glossary, I knew I wanted it to be illustrated, just like the old glossaries I used to come across as a child. It’s one thing to illustrate a bird species or a chair, but it’s another to visualize abstract concepts like a Dudaki (Iraqi dialect; wormy one; derogatory term to refer to gay people) or a Nagafa (Egyptian dialect; chandelier; refers to a flamboyant and/or effeminate man). That gave us the chance to imagine these queer characters, who are joyful and at ease with their sense of queerness. I immediately thought of Haitham Haddad’s brilliant skill in creating beautifully complex and relatable characters in his art. The brilliant illustrations Haitham produced allowed us to populate the queer Arab imaginary with these wonderfully eclectic characters that can open up the space for us to dream.AFEEF: What compelled you to include essays?MARWAN: An earlier iteration of the project was just an illustrated glossary. When I started exploring the idea of publishing it as a book, I wanted the findings of the glossary to be expanded on and given more dimensionality. I also wanted to open up the space for additional voices from across the Arabic- speaking region, and whose perspectives and experiences are different to mine. The glossary is a record of the lexicon surrounding our queerness, and the essays provide us tools to think through the themes that the glossary explores: queerness, dialect, Arab identity, language, etc. and each essay does that in a uniquely thought-provoking way.AFEEF: What do you hope people take away from this work?MARWAN: I hope queer Arabs are able to take pride and learn from a project that centers their experience and humanity at its core. I hope queers in general get to widen their perspectives on a non-eurocentric experience. I hope the general Arab public gets to see queer people as an inseparable part of the fabric of Arab communities, and not some kind of foreign import. I hope Westerners who claim to care about Arabs are able to see how queer and Arab identities have co-existed since the dawn of time, and despite our challenges, we are proud of being Arab. I hope linguists learn from the creativity and wit of queer Arab slang. And I hope for the world to see our humanity, with all of its facets and contradictions, in the face of the zionist death machine that wants to annihilate us.AFEEF: What have you taken away from this work?MARWAN: I learnt that nothing is singular. Whether its queerness, language, gender, slang, Arab, etc. these are all notions that encapsulate a multitude of meanings, interpretations, contradictions and experiences. Attempting to overly define or limit any of them would ultimately lead to their demise. Accepting these multiplicities, and allowing for things to change and constantly morph is what keeps life exciting and rewarding."
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"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/WSA_EIP_Launch_Cover.jpg",
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{
"title" : "Miu Miu Transforms the Apron From Trad Wife to Boss Lady: The sexiest thing in Paris was a work garment",
"author" : "Khaoula Ghanem",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/miu-miu-transforms-the-apron-from-trad-wife-to-boss-lady",
"date" : "2025-10-14 13:05:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/Cover_EIP_MiuMiu_Apron.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Miuccia Prada has a habit of taking the least “fashion” thing in the room and making it the argument. For Spring 2026 at Miu Miu, the argument is the apron; staged not as a coy retro flourish but as a total system. The show’s mise-en-scène read like a canteen or factory floor with melamine-like tables, rationalist severity, a whiff of cleaning fluid. In other words, a runway designed to force a conversation about labor before any sparkle could distract us.",
"content" : "Miuccia Prada has a habit of taking the least “fashion” thing in the room and making it the argument. For Spring 2026 at Miu Miu, the argument is the apron; staged not as a coy retro flourish but as a total system. The show’s mise-en-scène read like a canteen or factory floor with melamine-like tables, rationalist severity, a whiff of cleaning fluid. In other words, a runway designed to force a conversation about labor before any sparkle could distract us.From the opening look—German actress Sandra Hüller in a utilitarian deep-blue apron layered over a barn jacket and neat blue shirting—the thesis was loud: the “cover” becomes the thing itself. As silhouettes marched on, aprons multiplied and mutated—industrial drill cotton with front pockets, raw canvas, taffeta and cloqué silk, lace-edged versions that flirted with lingerie, even black leather and crystal-studded incarnations that reframed function as ornament. What the apron traditionally shields (clothes, bodies, “the good dress”) was inverted; the protection became the prized surface. Prada herself spelled it out: “The apron is my favorite piece of clothing… it symbolizes women, from factories through to serving to the home.”Miu Miu Spring 2026 Ready-to-Wear. SuppliedThis inversion matters historically. The apron’s earliest fashion-adjacent life was industrial. It served as a barrier against grease, heat, stain. It was a token of paid and unpaid care. Miu Miu tapped that lineage directly (canvas, work belts, D-ring hardware), then sliced it against domestic codes (florals, ruffles, crochet), and finally pushed into nightlife with bejeweled and leather bibs. The garment’s migration across materials made its social migrations visible. It is a kitchen apron, yes, but also one for labs, hospitals, and factories; the set and styling insisted on that plurality.What makes the apron such a loaded emblem is not just what it covers, but what it reveals about who has always been working. Before industrialization formalized labor into factory shifts and wages, women were already performing invisible labour, the kind that doesn’t exist on payrolls but sits at the foundation of every functioning society. They were cooking, cleaning, raising children, nursing the ill. These tasks were foundational to every economy and yet absent from every ledger. Even when women entered the industrial workforce, from textile plants to wartime assembly lines, their domestic responsibilities did not disappear, they doubled. In that context, the apron here is a quiet manifesto for the strength that goes unrecorded, unthanked, and yet keeps civilization running.The algorithmic rise of the “tradwife,” the influencer economy that packages domesticity as soft power, is the contemporary cultural shadow here. Miu Miu’s apron refuses that rehearsal. In fact, it’s intentionally awkward—oversized, undone, worn over bikinis or with sturdy shoes—so the viewer can’t flatten it into Pinterest-ready nostalgia. Critics noted the collection as a reclamation, a rebuttal to the flattening forces of the feed: the apron as a uniform for endurance rather than submission. The show notes framed it simply as “a consideration of the work of women,” a reminder that the invisible economies of effort—paid, unpaid, emotional—still structure daily life.If that sounds unusually explicit for a luxury runway, consider the designer. Prada trained as a mime at Milan’s Piccolo Teatro, earned a PhD in political science, joined the Italian Communist Party, and was active in the women’s rights movement in 1970s Milan. Those facts are not trivia; they are the grammar of her clothes. Decades of “ugly chic” were, essentially, a slow campaign against easy consumption and default beauty. In 2026, the apron becomes the newest dialect. An emblem drawn from leftist feminist history, recoded into a product that still has to sell. That tension—belief versus business—is the Miuccia paradox, and it’s precisely why these aprons read as statements, not trends.The runway narrative traced a journey from function to fetish. Early looks were squarely utilitarian—thick cottons, pocketed bibs—before migrating toward fragility and sparkle. Lace aprons laid transparently over swimmers; crystal-studded aprons slipped across cocktail territory; leather apron-dresses stiffened posture into armor. The sequencing proposed the same silhouette can encode labor, intimacy, and spectacle depending on fabrication. If most brands smuggle “workwear” in as set dressing, Miu Miu forced it onto the body as the central garment and an unmissable reminder that the feminine is often asked to be both shield and display at once.It’s instructive to read this collection against the house’s last mega-viral object: the micro-mini of Spring 2022, a pleated, raw-hem wafer that colonized timelines and magazine covers. That skirt’s thesis was exposure—hip bones and hemlines as post-lockdown spectacle, Y2K nostalgia framed as liberation-lite. The apron, ironically, covers. Where the micro-mini trafficked in the optics of freedom (and the speed of virality), the apron asks about the conditions that make freedom possible: who launders, who cooks, who cares? To move from “look at me” to “who is working here?” is a pivot from optics to ethics, without abandoning desire. (The aprons are, after all, deeply covetable.) In a platform economy that still rewards the shortest hemline with the biggest click-through, this is a sophisticated counter-program.Yet the designer is not romanticizing toil. There’s wit in the ruffles and perversity in the crystals; neither negate labor, they metabolize it. The most striking image is the apron treated as couture-adjacent. Traditionally, an apron protects the precious thing beneath; here, the apron is the precious thing. You could call that hypocrisy—luxurizing the uniform of workers. Or, strategy, insisting that the symbols of care and effort deserve visibility and investment.Of course, none of this exists in a vacuum. The “tradwife” script thrives because it is aesthetically legible and commercially scalable. It packages gender ideology as moodboard. Miu Miu counters with garments whose legibility flickers. The collection’s best looks ask viewers to reconcile tenderness with toughness, convenience with care, which is exactly the mental choreography demanded of women in every context from office to home to online.If you wanted a season-defining “It” item, you’ll still find it. The apron is poised to proliferate across fast-fashion and luxury alike. But the deeper success is structural: Miu Miu re-centered labor as an aesthetic category. That’s rarer than a viral skirt. It’s a reminder that clothes don’t merely decorate life, they describe and negotiate it. In making the apron the subject rather than the prop, Prada turned a garment of service into a platform for agency. It’s precisely the kind of cultural recursion you’d expect from a designer shaped by feminist politics, who never stopped treating fashion as an instrument of thought as much as style.The last image to hold onto is deceptively simple: a woman in an apron, neither fetishized nor infantilized, striding, hands free. Not a costume for nostalgia, not a meme for the feed, but a working uniform reframed, respected, and suddenly, undeniably beautiful. That is Miu Miu’s provocation for Spring 2026: the work behind the work, made visible at last."
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