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HomeRead, Watch, Listen
Opinion

‘Darling, bring your husband next time’

Sharon Offenberger
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Published: 28 January 2022

Last updated: 4 March 2024

SHARON OFFENBERGER savours the LGBTI party in Tel Aviv that celebrated something rare in the Middle East - unadulterated freedom

I’LL PREMISE THIS story with a qualification about language. I’m sure my 15-year-old daughter would be unhappy with my use of binary pronouns for a sexually fluid community, “gay” instead of LGBTI, and any or all generalisations about Arabs, Jews or people in general which may come across in the story. 

She may be right, but the Middle East is neither politically correct nor socially courteous. Sexual preference is not an indicator of political viewpoints. Like everything else, sex, identity and emotion are processed in a way that don’t fall on the side of good manners. All Facebook profiles in the Middle East should automatically be a “hot mess”.

“We’re going to a party” my French friend said, “Meet me at an address in south Tel Aviv, which I’ll text you at 8pm”.  I had barely gotten my children into bed, when I was all dressed up and ready to rock with very low expectations. Dancing at 8pm? Clubbing (for lack of a better word) in Israel never begins before 1am.

In a suspicious-looking alley, used by garages to make ear shattering noise during the day, or possibly a set for the TV series Fauda, we entered an unsigned doorway without waiting in a queue. Into an air-conditioned warehouse space with almost no decoration, the room was full of men, dancing.

This was the secret not-so-secret LGBTI party in south Tel Aviv.

Israel has marketed itself as a gay mecca for the past decade, and Tel Aviv’s annual Pride parade became a go-to event on the international LGBTI calendar. Yet Israel still suffers from internal homophobia, particularly amongst all its religious groups.  The Jerusalem Pride parade occurs under tight security, especially after a teenager was stabbed and murdered there in 2015.

Pride parades in Israel’s Arab villages or its neighbouring countries are, of course, non-existent. In the Holy Land, it not uncommon to live an “official” life pursuing the correct steps in marriage, childbearing and family responsibility, and a secret life of everything that may be regarded as “sin” from drinking to premarital sex to infidelity.

It’s not easy to understand to an outsider in a region where family is considered paramount, even to one’s own needs.

Despite what many think, frequenting Tel Aviv’s nightlife does not make anyone less Palestinian. Virulent opposition to the occupation is not dependant on one’s love life, and nationality was never a barrier to flirting between Arabs and Jews, whether gay or straight.

In both Hebrew and Arabic, we refer to each other as “the cousins” when we are not being rude and hateful. In the Middle East people are allowed to marry their cousins, no?

Back at the party, a preppy-looking guy in crisp white Penguin shirt and belted blue chino shorts grabbed me almost as I entered, pulled me close and started dancing. “Don’t worry, I’m gay,” he reassured my ear.

“Duh,” I thought, and was nonetheless impressed by his civility as he grinded against me.

My friends gloated over how I was a 'Middle Eastern Bette Midler'. I didn't flinch.

The music was a fantastic Eastern Western fusion, the best I’d ever heard. The men were impeccably groomed and well dressed. Body hair removed and head hair transplanted as necessary. Beards that would have made Theodor Herzl proud.

Small groups of women enjoyed dancing alone without being hit on. Basic drinks, no fancy cocktails. Sweating out in the laneway where we would retreat into steamy summer nights for cigarettes. Yet, the party was on the conservative side compared to those I’d attended elsewhere. This was no Sleaze Ball in Sydney.

An announcement came over in Arabic and English, despite it being in Israel. There was going to be a show; no filming or photos allowed. Mobile phones were used for their original conversational purpose.  “Weinak?/Where are you?” could be heard over the music. More talking, less Instagramming.

When the drag queens came out, they appeared innocent and inexperienced which only added to their charm. I imagined them practising secretly in their rooms. It became clear that this party was special for the one commodity that was hard to come by in the Middle East - unadulterated freedom.

Arabs, Israelis, foreigners, gay men and women, transgenderim were all dancing together. And the 40-year-old Jewish mum from Melbourne.

Arabs, Israelis, foreigners, gay men and women, transgenderim (Hebrew, plural) were all dancing together. And the 40-year-old Jewish mum from Melbourne.

With the attention I received, my friends gloated over how I was a “Middle Eastern Bette Midler”. I didn’t flinch. I had been compared with Hollywood actors before, usually Meryl Streep or Winona Ryder from the movie Reality Bites.

The party would wrap up around 11pm. Those who received permits to attend needed to return before midnight, or risk far more than becoming pumpkins. We were spewed back onto the Tel Aviv streets with a secret in our hearts.

The reality of everyone’s lives would bite again the next morning. But for a few hours, everyone including me, shed identities which shape and constrict us in ways that are simply accepted as a fact of life. “That’s how it is” – kacha ze – in Hebrew. We don’t live in Sweden.

I left the party high and vowed to return every month, which I did for a while. I had a full-time job and two small children. In a hectic life, 8pm-11pm on a Friday was the only available appointment for stepping outside a routine life of work and motherhood.

“Ahlan motek (Hi Sweetie),” I greeted my new friends.

“Habibti (Darling). Bring your husband next time,” I was encouraged.

Photo: Partygoers at a club in Tel Aviv, 2006 (AP/Oded Balilty)

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About the author

Sharon Offenberger

Sharon Offenberger

Sharon Offenberger was raised in Melbourne and made aliyah in 2004. She spent over 15 years in various roles for the European Union, including managing the peacebuilding program, communications officer and spokesperson. She moved with her family in 2020 to Bellingen, NSW where she works as a writer and communications consultant.

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