In the bustling city of Jeddah, where the sight of opulent cars and grand photographs of the King is common, a clandestine world exists beneath the shimmering surface. Here, amidst the glamour, lies the silent struggle of those who dare to love against the norms.
Beneath the conservative veil, I found myself navigating a secret, forbidden world: the lesbian community in Saudi Arabia.
Forbidden Connections – Dating in the Shadows
Tinder and Bumble, veiled in anonymity, serve as covert meeting places for the LGBTQ+ community, but most profiles are anonymous—faces obscured, details carefully vague. Because here in Jeddah, to be gay isn’t just taboo; it’s a crime. Punishable by imprisonment, flogging, or even death, the weight of the law is a constant, suffocating presence.
The fear is palpable, woven into the fabric of daily life, dictating actions and shrouding identities. Tales of conversion therapy and mental hospitals serve as grim reminders of the dangers lurking in the shadows—a stark contrast to the façade of luxury and indulgence that adorns the surface.
As a journalist, I wanted to uncover this hidden world, despite knowing the dangers.
Beyond the Veil
On my second day, I matched with Waad, a name which translates to as ‘promise’. Our meeting at a public café—a simple act in any other part of the world—was illegal here. She insisted on meeting in a neighbourhood far from the more conservative areas, cautioning against places frequented by “Muslims who don’t understand true Islam.”
“The Qur’an doesn’t mention gays,” she told me. “It only punishes rape. Sahih al-Bukhari, not the Qur’an, is what people use to justify their hate.”
Waad was uncovered, her hair free of the hijab, though she later draped herself in the fabric before returning to her car. She spoke of moving to the United States—a place where, she believed, acceptance awaited. But for now, she was only out to her friends and her sister, whilst carefully closeted to her parents.
“If they found out,” she said quietly, “they’d force me to marry a man. But I love who I love—you can’t take out science.”
She described a world of constant vigilance: a Saudi gay couple had once been punished after their photo was shared online, and Waad herself had been sent to a doctor who made her write down that she wasn’t “really gay.” She called her visits to such therapists a “charade”—a requirement for survival in a society where the price of being out was too high.
“My therapist was one of the good ones, but even she suggested that I could fix myself by acting more feminine and finding a nice man.” Her struggles had pushed her to attempt suicide years ago. “When my mum found out, her first words weren’t about me. She just said, ‘I’m glad you’re alive… because otherwise, what would people say?’”
Amina's Privilege and the Brutal Reality
But for the wealthier members of society, being gay was treated somewhat differently. I first noticed this change when I met another woman called Amina, a wealthy Saudi girl with piercing confidence who picked me up in a car so luxurious I couldn’t identify the brand, offering me a single red rose.
Her profile had been cryptic, and her messages were curt, but unlike most others, she shared real photographs. When we met in person, she was uncovered, wearing revealing clothing and exuding an air of privilege.
Her life, she admitted, was easier because of her wealth. “I stopped wearing the hijab three years ago,” she said, “but all my friends still cover. My brother and sister suspect I’m lesbian, but my parents don’t know.”
Amina’s family were descendants of the Prophet Muhammad. She showed me photos of their grand home and the monthly balls her family hosted—extravagant affairs costing upwards of $20,000. Her family displayed the Kaaba’s ceremonial banner in their house as a marker of their royal lineage.
“My family has never shown me kindness,” she confessed. Twice, they threw surprise engagement parties for her, desperate to maintain appearances. “They’ll never know the truth about me,” she added. “And they don’t need to.”
Despite the seeming freedom, her privilege didn’t protect her from the deeper wounds of living in a society that criminalises her identity. One day, working as a facial reconstruction surgeon, she was sent to a mental hospital to visit a young woman whose face had been shattered after being beaten severely by staff.
“Her family brought her in after discovering she was gay,” Amina said. “The staff will keep abusing her until she dies; no one will stop them. I did what I could, but… there wasn’t much left to save.”
Layla's Hope and the Weight of Danger
Layla showed me videos she’d seen on social media of Saudi girls dating foreigners, and for all the secrecy, fear, and isolation, hope lingered in small, quiet ways. “This is what I want,” she said, her voice filled with longing.
Her Hinge profile had caught my eye: to the prompt, “What’s the most dangerous thing you’ve done?” she’d answered simply, “Go on dates.” With the ever-present threat of imprisonment, fines, flogging, torture, chemical castrations, and even death, her words carried a weight most couldn’t imagine.
As we spoke, Layla’s eyes darted nervously around the room. She told me to be careful—again and again. She explained that as a trans woman, things were especially dangerous, and even her dreams of leaving Saudi Arabia were met with fears of running into conservative Arabs abroad.
“My grandfather married three wives, including cousins. Why is that okay, but being like this isn’t?”
When her mum phoned, asking where she was, Layla ended our meeting abruptly. “Stay safe,” she said one last time before leaving.
Others shared aspirations of escaping to Europe or the States, drawn by the promise of freedom. But for many, leaving wasn’t an option. Survival meant secrecy—trusted friends, safe meeting places, and a carefully maintained facade. “It’s very safe here,” Layla had told me. “But not if you’re queer.”
Finding Love Against the Odds
As my time in Jeddah came to an end, I couldn’t help but reflect on the courage it takes to live and love in a place where being yourself can cost you everything. For the women I met, love wasn’t just an act of defiance—it was a lifeline, a fragile yet unyielding thread of hope in a world that sought to erase them.
Although the Saudi Tourism Authorities announced a couple of years ago, according to reports, that the LGBTQ+ community are welcome to the country, beneath the shadows of Saudi Arabia, where love is a crime, the promise of acceptance remains a distant yet tantalising dream.
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Amy Aed
Amy Aed is a Welsh journalist with over a decade of experience reporting from some of the most remote corners of the world. Her work focuses on telling untold stories that intersect culture, adventure, and social issues