An Earring in Tanzania

I came out to my doctoral dissertation advisor under unusual circumstances. It was August of 1988, the seventh month of my residency at the University of Dar es Salaam, where I was researching and writing on East Africa’s most famous playwright, Ebrahim Hussein. As an American with an uncertain but growing grasp of Kiswahili, I was a recognizable figure on campus – all the more so because I was sponsored by a popular Tanzanian professor in the Department of Literature, Joseph Mbele. We had become friends while both pursuing graduate studies at the University of Wisconsin.

My dissertation advisor and principal Swahili professor at Madison was a lovely, kind-hearted woman named Magdalena H. From July through August, she was also at the University of Dar es Salaam on an exchange program sponsored by USAID (and which I had facilitated due to contacts I had made while working in Washington, DC in the early 80s). Magdalena’s Swahili was flawless. Her charm and enthusiasm for the language redounded to me to a certain degree, and I profited socially from my association with her.

Naturally, we hung out together quite a bit and became friends in a way that wouldn’t have happened or would have developed much more slowly back in our home environment. And so, six weeks into her stay, she took me aside to tell me that there were “extremely negative” feelings about the simple hoop earring that I wore (and still wear) in my left earlobe. “People think the earring means homosexuality, and in this culture, homosexuality is out!” Then she ran off, perhaps due to the pressure of another social engagement, but also embarrassed by having to bring up the subject.

She felt compelled to do so because she feared it would restrict my ability to conduct my research. She wasn’t wrong, as I later found out. My sponsor, Joe Mbele, was also privy to negative assessments of my sexual orientation but hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage to say anything about it. Several acquaintances from the conservative Department of Kiswahili avoided having drinks with me at the faculty club because, as Magdalena put it, “they don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

I was being maligned, she told my detractors. She pointed to the fact that I was living with an expatriate British woman and her children as evidence that I was having an affair with her (there was nothing to the gossip; we were just good friends). Her reasoning was that I had innocently alienated people by wearing the earring for reasons of style, which sent out the “wrong” message.

“The complicating factor,” I explained to Magdalena when we met again, “is that in fact I am gay.” The surprise on her face was evident, but not a reflection of any homophobia. Anyway, I’d thought through my stance and had my arguments prepared.

“There are two reasons I’m not removing the earring,” I said. “The first is that the ill effects are so low-key that I haven’t noticed them. I feel I’m achieving my aims in research, writing, and learning the language. And I know how homophobic this society can be. Mzee Punch taught me that.”

I didn't need to explain to Magdalena that Mzee Punch was a student tradition, a mythical keeper of community morals. If a student or student group violated the self-imposed norms (sexist, elitist, heterosexist), they were “punched.” Abusive notices about the offenders went up on the cafeteria wall. 

Mzee Punch’s language was scurrilous and sophomoric – heavy-handed in its humor, bombastic in spite of its imperfect grasp of English, and supremely confident that it was expressing the values of the community. As a reflection of the crude conformism and blinkered pretentiousness of this elite-in-the-making, it was depressingly accurate. A cafeteria dress code was to be respected (female students were told that wearing kangas made them look like Manzese bar maids); women were expressly forbidden to attend high tea (“they should practice their cooking technology at home”); and homosexuals were the slime of the earth.

“There is a group of imbeciles, notorious skunks who published a punch-like handout accusing MZEE with stupid fairy allegations alien to MZEE’s grandchildren. These homosexual insipient rumormongers will be crucified to doom... MZEE warns these wide-assed homosexual bitches on heat to stop contemplating that MZEE is interested in their HIV infected blinking assholes.”

Yes, the homophobia was real and ugly, but strangely enough, my earring protected me. I was white, educated, and chummy with many professors. I couldn’t be beaten up in a back alley. “The earring keeps people from making homophobic remarks in my presence," I told Magdalena. "My mother would occasionally have to endure antisemitic remarks because she didn’t always have the courage to speak up. I saw her suffer under an antisemitism that, thank God, doesn’t emotionally affect me. I try to treat homophobia similarly. Any kind of hatred directed towards me as a member of a despised group hurts them more than it hurts me.”

“And what about the members of the Department of Kiswahili?” Magdalena asked.

“Let them hate me,” I replied, “as long as they shut up about it. I don’t want the esteem and friendship of bigots.”At this, Magdalena broke out in a wide smile and grabbed both my hands. (Back home, she would have hugged me, but had to moderate her actions in accordance with the prevailing cultural norms.) “Shujaa!” she exclaimed. [Brave man!]

I faked a modest response. “Hapana, mwalimu. Mimi ni gei tu.” [No, teacher. Just a simple gay.”]

— Robert Philipson

Read about the professorial foray that prompted this autobiographical essay in Shoga: An Indigenous African Identity That Predates By Centuries the Laws That Criminalize It.

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