Category: Community

Protest for safe space for sex work in Berlin

It is February 2025. A grey afternoon. People gather on Goebenstraße in Berlin with a banner, high-visibility vests and red umbrellas. About twenty people have come, sex workers...members and supportersSome of them are holding up signs. „Full decriminalisation now,“ they say, „Support your local sex workers.“.

They are standing in front of the office of the Berlin municipal housing company Gewobag to protest against the sudden closure of Café Julia, a night café for sex workers. „We have been planning this space for years, which is not only intended to offer advice and resources, but also to be a safe place for people who are repeatedly marginalised,“ says one of the speeches.

Café Julia was a dream that almost became reality. Funding from the Senate had also been promised. Cooperation with the Berlin City Mission, which would have run the corner building near Berlin's Frobenstraße during the day, had already been agreed. The sex workers wanted to open it at night, in line with the needs of street workers.

Kurfürstenkiez: The daily working life of sex workers

Frobenstraße is a side street in the red-light district of Kurfürstenkiez. Kurfürstenkiez has never been an easy place, but in recent years the pressure has increased noticeably. With rising rents and ever-new construction projects, hostility towards those who have to work in this area is also growing. Where neighbours used to greet each other or at least look away, today there are more frequent reports, complaints and night-time police checks. At the same time, there is a lack of low-threshold places that could provide security. While sex workers stand visibly every few metres on the busy Kurfürstenstraße to solicit their clients, the location on Frobenstraße is much more secluded. This street is the workplace of trans women.

A designated place in public space can have advantages. Customers who want to meet a trans woman know that they can get to know her there. They can support each other and kill time together while waiting. Visibility in this place means finding each other.

Visibility in sex work: between protection and violence

At the same time, visibility is a danger. In the book Trap Door: Trans Cultural Production and the Politics of Visibility, published in 2017 by Tourmaline, Eric A. Stanley and Johanna Burton, the visibility of trans people, which has increased in a completely new way worldwide since the 2010s, is described as a trap door. Not like a door you can walk through, away from one place and towards another, perhaps more beautiful place. But rather a trap that can rob you of the solid ground beneath your feet at any moment.

Sex workers on Frobenstraße are confronted with verbal abuse, threats and physical violence. They repeatedly report that groups of men deliberately drive past them in cars to throw bottles at them and shout insults. This is only possible because of their specific visibility, a hypervisibility that they experience as trans women who work in the sex industry and depend on public spaces as their workplace. Visibility without protection, without resources, is dangerous. The latest figures from Trans Murder Monitoring by the organisation TGEU (Trans Europe and Central Asia) show that sex workers account for 34% of trans people murdered worldwide this year.

Separate rooms for trans* sex workers: More than just a café

For this reason, Trans foughtSexworks, a Berlin-based group of transSex workers, for as long as they need, for a space that they can manage themselves and design according to the needs of their own community. The Gewobag property would have been within walking distance of the trans* streetwalking area and would have served not only as a café, but also as a place to do laundry and shower, as a refuge from violence and as a place for socialising. Everyday necessities for a dignified life that cannot be taken for granted by trans* sex workers.

It is not only poverty that makes it difficult for them to access safe spaces. Lack of documentation, racism, gaps in their CVs and transphobia also play a role. Even those who can afford to visit a café are not welcome everywhere or feel comfortable there. The stigma attached to prostitution permeates society as a whole. It makes spaces for those who are particularly hard hit small and rare.

Gewobag advertises the capital's „diversity“ online. Nevertheless, after agreeing to the project, it suddenly rented its premises to another interested party. Now a dental laboratory is to move in there. This company does not depend on the location near the red-light district. However, it brings a clean image to the neighbourhood.

Anyone looking for explanations will quickly suspect that Gewobag used Café Julia as a speculative wild card in order to achieve a higher rent. What really happened remains unclear.

When sex work disappears from the internet: censorship on social media

The rally to protest against the shattered dream of having their own space is one of the last major actions that transcould make sex work visible. The Instagram account, which has over 10,000 followerswhich was internationally networked and provided users with education, empowerment, donation opportunities and community, was blocked in August by the Meta-owned platform without warning and, of course, without justification. A request to review the decision remained ineffective.

Sex workers have always had an ambivalent relationship with social media. They were pioneers on almost every platform.Once established, they made themselves attractive to a broad audience through their content, as in the case of Tumblr or Twitter, and had a particular influence on financing models (example: Onlyfans). In 2022, the European Sex Workers Rights Alliance (ESWA) showed in a study that platforms systematically impose shadow bans on sex workers and delete their accounts.

„Censorship is not limited to images or sexual content. Even educational, political or activist posts are often flagged and removed. Terms such as „sex work“, „OnlyFans“ or „escort“ are automatically flagged by moderation algorithms – regardless of the context in which they are used. This means that simply recounting your own life experiences, advertising a legal service or posting about human rights can be grounds for deletion. This was written by Yigit Aydinalp, programme director at ESWA, in an open letter to Meta in May 2025.

This censorship also affects individuals, groups and associations in countries where sex work is legalised or decriminalised. The corporation is thus placing its own moral values above local laws and exporting the criminalisation of sex work from the US to Europe.

When an account is deleted, years of shared knowledge often disappear. Warnings about dangers, legal advice materials, information for migrants, art projects, expressions of grief and community history are then gone. Everything is deleted with a single click.

Sex workers cannot present themselves online as individuals, nor can they express their personalities, dreams and destinies. They are also not allowed to stand up for themselves or participate in political discourse.

Platforms, profits and rights of sex workers

Even in Germany, where sex work is legal under certain conditions, a few tech companies dominate the virtual space that sex workers can use. The platforms are characterised by high fees, poor service and prioritising the egos of customers over the safety of sex workers. Added to this are the stigma attached to prostitution in language and structure and a lack of opportunities for users to have a say. There is a lot of money to be made from them as long as hardly anyone is interested in the injustices they face.

Who talks about sex work – and who is silenced?

Paradoxically, the media, both social and traditional, are full of the topic of sex work. Sex sells, and selling sex sells twice as well. Talking about sex workers is permitted, rewarded, and has fuelled many a journalist's career. This year, too, the community was not spared a debate on the criminalisation of sex work in Germany.

It doesn't matter who has the better arguments or the lived experience. The space in which the debate is held only allows for one of the many perspectives on the topic: the perspective of those who do not share spaces with real sex workers. It's convenient to talk about a group that cannot respond. That way, you don't have to worry about precision, equality or respect for that group.

Despite everything: sex workers are creating space for themselves

On the way back from the rally, the red umbrellas look like small, defiant dots in the grey cityscape. Yes, Café Julia was prevented from opening. Yes, TransSexworks was silenced by Meta. And yet the group continues to search for opportunities for their self-managed space in the Kurfürstenkiez neighbourhood. And yet there is already a new Instagram account and, moreover, a new website that will enable documentation and networking independent of Meta & Co. in the future. This community cannot be deleted. There is no world without sex workers.

FAQ: Frequently asked questions about sex work, rights and safe spaces

Here we answer key questions about sex work, the working conditions of sex workers, and the challenges that trans people in particular face in this profession. The FAQs provide guidance and background information on rights, safety, and social debates.

Chemsex & seduction: the thrill of intoxication

The other day in chat, an attractive young man sent me a picture of himself: sitting casually at a table covered with white and other powders, he grins at the camera. A glass pipe and other paraphernalia. He invites me to his place. I say that I don't take drugs, but I still toy with the idea of going to see him because I'm horny, or rather, restless.

I think about all the nights and days, the weekends that lasted until Wednesday, when I was high myself. I've been clean for eight years. Why did I take drugs? The simple answer: because I'm addicted. The more complex answer has something to do with the fact that I'm gay, that drugs are part of gay history, that making contact with other men is – apparently – easier when a “social lubricant” is available.

Chemsex as a phenomenon: substances, terms, motives

When I was still using drugs, we called it PnP (“party and play”), and even today, especially in chat rooms, h&h (“high and horny”) is still used. Drug use seems to be as normalised as a glass of wine with dinner, at least in some parts of the scene. But is this phenomenon really something new? After all, “sex and drugs” was already the motto in the 1970s, when gay club culture was in its infancy. But how does chemsex differ from substance use when partying in a club?

Chemsex refers to the consumption of substances (“chems”) such as GHB/GBL, ketamine, mephedrone, crystal meth and monkey dust before or during sexual intercourse. The term is mainly used in gay contexts or for MSM (men who have sex with men). The substances are usually taken orally, nasally or by inhalation. Intravenous consumption is also observed, particularly with crystal meth.

The motives for chemsex are manifold: a desire to break down barriers, increase sexual performance or have a more intense sexual experience. The aim is to break down shame and taboos, create (apparent) closeness, intimacy or relationships, or deal with stress and insecurities about one's own body. The phenomenon is thus also understood as an individual and collective psychological defence mechanism to escape social and subcultural expectations.

Between self-optimisation and ecstasy

In his lecture “Intoxication and Sexuality” at Chemkon Berlin in March 2025, psychotherapist and philologist Dr. Dr. Stefan Nagel spoke about the relevance of ecstatic states: the higher the degree of self-control and external control, the stronger the desire to lose control.

As gay men, we are under a lot of external pressure, which we often internalise. In order to be accepted by society as a whole, we have to be “real men”, “normal” and strong, keep our emotions under control, and be productive and successful. In order to be accepted by other gay men, we have to be young and good-looking, work out, be sexually potent and promiscuous.

These demands lead to “minority stress” – we do everything we can to be perfect: we work longer hours, go to the gym more often, take Viagra so we can have sex for longer. It seems logical that with so much self-control, the desire to lose control arises. And that we resort to all kinds of aids to achieve this is also logical – especially when they are easily accessible and widely accepted. Both sex and drugs are “physically experiential, i.e. real suspensions of what we suffer from,” according to Stefan Nagel in his lecture.

Chemsex & intimacy: closeness, bodies, desires

Chemsex is not only an escape from something, but also a search for intimacy that we may otherwise lack. An intimacy that is intensified by drugs. Perhaps the boy in the chat room the other day also “just” wanted to be held and loved. Instead, all that came out of his mouth (or keyboard) was: “Cum on me.”

What heterosexuals see as the continuation of our species was, until recently, a death sentence for us gays. Since HIV can be kept in check with medication, barebacking went through a phase of fetishisation and is now the rule rather than the exception. Which is completely natural – I want to be as close as possible to the object of my desire (or love).

And this is precisely where the chemicals come in: they simulate a fusion, a complete dissolution of boundaries between two (or more) men. A quasi-absolute intimacy with someone I usually don't even know, but to whom I open myself completely under the influence of the perfect cocktail of drugs.

But does intimacy really mean merging? Or is it rather not knowing where I end and the other person begins? Being generous with my own mistakes and those of others? Showing myself to be vulnerable, sometimes even unattractive, and allowing for moments of failure? Intimacy would be when you laugh anyway, when you love me anyway, when you stay anyway.

The chemsex community: between safe space and abyss

The German Chemsex Survey – a large-scale survey of 2,024 people – showed that MSM are often affected by minority stress and that chemsex users often suffer from mental health issues. However, it was striking that men who engage in chemsex are less affected by internalised homonegativity than men who use other substances (such as alcohol or poppers) during sex or consume drugs without sex.

“Internalised homonegativity” refers to the internalisation of social prejudices – whereby queer people experience themselves as different, inferior or even defective. At first glance, it is surprising that chemsex users in particular reported less internalised homonegativity, as one would assume that chemsex is a coping strategy for dealing with negative feelings.

As a man who has been involved in the chemsex scene myself, I am not entirely surprised by this result. Especially when “slamming” (i.e. intravenous consumption) crystal meth, I experienced an immense sense of belonging to a very specific group: gay, HIV-positive, junkie, slammer. Or, as Prof. Dr. Daniel Deimel, one of the authors of the Chemsex Survey, puts it somewhat more positively: “Chemsex community as a safe space?”

Chemsex as a kind of communion for outsiders, then, pushed so far to the margins of society that we experience a sense of belonging when we find other men on those margins who are into the same things as us. And crystal meth in particular leads to a feeling of superiority. We feel unique because we are. We find pride in our brokenness.

When chemsex becomes a trap: from intoxication to problem

“Without taking anything at a chill? I couldn't do that.” Another attractive man, before we start kissing. Once again, I've ended up at a “chill”, one of those private drugs-and-sex events that are so easy to find in chat rooms. Even in my abstinence, I'm still attracted to the community outside of society.

Precisely because chemsex users experience this sense of community, it is difficult for men who perceive their consumption as problematic to find their way out of this context. This is compounded by the fact that it is already difficult to recognise that there is a problem when you are surrounded only by other consumers. In fact, similar to “sero-sorting”, i.e. only having sex with men with the same HIV status, “chems-sorting” takes place in the scene.

It is often a big step from recognising that there might be a problem to actually seeking help. Personally, I had to crash at home countless times after days of bingeing, alone and without my close-knit community, before I realised that I wasn't finding what I was looking for in chemsex. The search had become an addiction.

Ways out of chemsex: help, groups & new intimacy

For MSM who engage in chemsex, there are a wide variety of services available depending on their needs. Those who want to reduce the risks associated with their drug use can have their drugs tested – in Berlin, for example, at three different locations, including the Gay Counselling Centre. Drug-Checking Berlin also issues current warnings about certain substances on its website. Various websites, including Deutsche Aids-Hilfe, provide information on “safer use”, i.e. measures to minimise the risks associated with drug use.

If substance use becomes problematic, the Drug Emergency Service in Berlin offers support. The website of the German Centre for Addiction Issues provides a directory of addiction support services for all federal states. Gay men seeking advice can easily contact the Gay Counselling Service, Checkpoint Berlin or AIDS-Hilfe. Checkpoint's “Chemsex Check” offers guidance on whether there might be a problem. Aids-Hilfe organises discussion groups in various cities, including Mann-O-Meter in Berlin. Schwulenberatung Berlin has a weekly open queer addiction group. Here, experiences are shared in a relaxed and non-judgmental environment.

And for those of us for whom chemsex has actually become a problem, there is the option of detoxification as well as outpatient and inpatient rehabilitation at medical clinics or specialised institutions. The only clinics with programmes for chemsex users to date are the Salus Clinic in Cologne-Hürth and Haus Lenné in Berlin.

Those who decide to pursue a path of abstinence in the long term will find like-minded people in 12-step groups such as Crystal Meth Anonymous or Narcotics Anonymous. There, experiences of abstinence – referred to as “recovery” in the groups – are shared and a sense of community is fostered, often leading to close friendships. The focus is not only on how we can (re)discover a fulfilling sexuality while remaining sober, but also on how we can build lasting intimacy and thus a fulfilling life.

FAQs about chemsex – definition, experiences and therapy

Chemsex raises many questions: What exactly is chemsex, what is a clear definition of chemsex, what kind of chemsex therapy is available, and how do others deal with their chemsex experiences? I have summarised the most important points for you here.

With a film titled „Sauna,“ one might reasonably expect to see casual, non-committal sex. However, Norwegian director Mathias Broe is also interested in what needs remain unsatisfied – and how a relationship between men can cause offence even within the queer community.

More than just sex in the gay sauna

Diffuse light, which only allows the bodies to be guessed at, creates a dim atmosphere. It never seems to be light in Johan's life. At least, that is the impression conveyed by the first scenes. Where we are is made clear – at least to the knowledgeable audience – by the sound. Moaning, panting, loud breathing. Sounds that can be heard in any darkroom. You can literally smell sweat, poppers and lubricant. Whether it's a quickie in the basement of a gay bar, in the sauna cabin or a fuck with a Grindr date – Johan (Magnus Juhl Andersen) lives his sexuality to the fullest. Even his workplace is completely defined by it, because the young, self-confident man from the Norwegian countryside works at Copenhagen's only gay sauna, „Adonis“. There, he hands out towels at the reception desk, stuffs used ones into the washing machine and cleans the traces of semen from the glory hole wall in the morning.

Johan between the darkroom and the gay sauna

But as heavenly and promising as this hypersexualised world may sound to many, Johan feels that these endless, interchangeable sex dates are ultimately meaningless and therefore leave behind an indefinable emptiness. He repeatedly scrolls through the dating apps in search of the next guy, the next thrill. „You won't find friends on Grindr,“ says his colleague in the sauna.

How the gay sauna becomes a stage

Director Mathias Broe, who also collaborated on the screenplay (an adaptation of a novel by Mads Ananda Lodahl), sketches this dilemma in a few, but all the more poignant snapshots. He neither judges nor overdramatises this sex-driven lifestyle, nor does he stage it provocatively. Instead, in this first chapter of his feature film debut, he depicts an attitude to life and a world that will be familiar to many gay men. And probably only a queer director could so casually and naturally incorporate an anal douche into a plot or capture the smacking sound of lubricant.

Love instead of anonymous encounters in the gay sauna

But with his next online date, almost everything in Johan's life changes. The young man named William, who stands at his door, is a little unsure and shy, but very cute. When the two finally get physically closer, William asks him not to touch his chest. A moment of irritation, then Johan realises: his date is a trans man. He could have known if he had really been interested in his sex partners and had actually read their dating profiles. Johan overcomes his initial uncertainty and asks William (played by trans actor Nina Terese Rask) to stay. Something about William fascinates him; he feels a closeness and growing intimacy that he has not experienced in his previous sex dates – or perhaps has not allowed himself to experience.

Mathias Broe tells the story of how this encounter, which was actually planned as a one-night stand, develops into an intimate romance, entirely from Johan's perspective. Johan is equally intoxicated and overwhelmed by his feelings. The sex scenes are full of passion, explicit and yet restrained at the same time.  But a new world opens up for Johan in other ways too. There is Willam's frustrating and humiliating battle with the authorities for access to gender reassignment surgery and hormones. And there is Willam's queer circle of friends and their supportive community, as well as their venues and parties, which are very different from the gay cruising spots that Johan has mainly frequented up to now.

Limits of tolerance in the gay sauna

But this clash of cultures and sexual identities does not go as smoothly as Johan had imagined in his infatuation. William is not welcome as a guest in the sauna and is thrown out. „Men only“ here means cis men only. But it's not just at his workplace and among his circle of friends that Johan's liaison is met with incomprehension and even outright rejection. He himself also reaches his limits in balancing this relationship. Don't expect a classic love story with a cheesy happy ending here. That would also contradict the realistic approach of director Mathias Broe, who, with „Sauna“, calmly reflects the fragile tolerance within the queer scene and its debates.

The community, says Broe, is subject to constant and diverse political attacks from the right. „This makes it all the more important for him to tell a relatable story about love while highlighting the specific facets of queer experiences, in the hope of contributing to a better understanding.“

The two main actors convey very authentically and impressively that this can be difficult even for two people who seem to be made for each other, who desire and love each other. But perhaps William and Johan first need to figure out for themselves who they really are and what they want for themselves and their lives. Can there still be a happy ending for the two of them? Fortunately, Mathias Broe leaves that open. Reality is usually more complex and complicated than the simpler feel-good films would have us believe.

„Sauna“. Director Mathias Broe. With Magnus Juhl Andersen, Nina Terese Rask, Dilan Amin. DK 2025, Danish-Swedish original version with German subtitles.

From the beginning of November in the Queer film night. Regular cinema release: 20 November.
Link to the trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skc7j4iG1rI

A trans woman's report on self-determination, trust and solidarity

Before I even started PrEP, I wanted to understand what this tablet actually does. PrEP protects the body from a possible HIV infection. The medication blocks the virus before it can settle in the body. It is not a guarantee, but it is an effective precaution.

Medical start with PrEP: HIV tests, values and responsibility

Before I started, my blood values were checked, HIV test, kidney and liver values, hormones. I remember waiting for the results. This silent trembling between hope and fear. The values were unremarkable. Creatinine 0.81, GFR over 60, so stable kidney function. Liver unremarkable. Hormones in the target range, estradiol 141, testosterone 1.80. No evidence of infection. Everything in the green zone. I was ready. Ready to take responsibility, for myself, for my body, for the people I share closeness with.

Everyday life with PrEP: routine, emotions and self-determination

I took PrEP every day for a month. Without exception. I never forgot a tablet. I wanted to know what it felt like, not just medically, but emotionally. As a trans woman who takes hormones every day anyway, this was nothing new. Medication is part of my everyday life. But PrEP was different. Not part of my transition, not a step outwards. But something inward. Something to do with trust. The tablets are big. Honestly, it was a little overwhelming at first. I took a deep breath, swallowed and at some point it became routine.

Something very special. I have experienced so many times that others wanted to make decisions about my body. Doctors, experts, authorities. With PrEP, it was my decision again for the first time. My body, my protection, my trust. For so long, my body was a political terrain. With PrEP, it became a safe place. For me. And for others. Physically, hardly anything has changed. Just a headache now and again. Maybe it was the weather, maybe the medication. I don't know. But the decisive factor wasn't physical. It was something else. Something emotional.

Closeness and care: How PrEP creates security in relationships

I have no fear of contact with people who are HIV positive. Maybe in the past, yes. I grew up in a world where HIV was associated with fear. With guilt, with stigma. But that was a long time ago. I got to know people, listened and learnt. Especially in sex work, where trust, protection and responsibility are so closely intertwined. PrEP has changed this feeling. It has given me security. Not just for myself, but also for the people I was intimate with. If you really think about people, if you take their safety as seriously as your own, then closeness changes. PrEP doesn't just reduce the risk of infection. It takes some of the weight off intimacy. And that is perhaps the real prevention.

Work and risk: Why many trans women need PrEP

Many trans women around the world are in sex work, and that is no coincidence. Discrimination, poverty, rejection on the labour market, lack of documents, lack of security, invisibility, anti-trans laws. All of this pushes many into areas that others avoid. And at the same time, these spaces are often the only ones where trans women are seen, desired, but not always respected. PrEP has a different meaning in this reality. It is not just protection from a virus. It is protection from a system that constantly defines us as a risk. When society tells you that you are dangerous, self-protection becomes a form of dignity. A form of resistance.

Access and care: Hurdles in the healthcare system for trans women

I have seen colleagues who live in this uncertainty. Many want to protect themselves but don't know where they can get PrEP or don't trust doctors because they too often feel that they are not meant to be there. Yet they are the ones who need PrEP the most. And get it the least. I not only had to fight for my gender, but also for my access to protection. My first visit to the doctor for PrEP was friendly but awkward. He didn't know what to do with me. Asked if I was having sex with men despite hormones. „Men.“ Whether that was even necessary. I had to explain that protection has nothing to do with identity. It's about life, about care.

Many trans women do not have doctors who take them seriously. They have to put together their own healthcare, with knowledge from the community, with mutual support. PrEP thus also becomes a symbol. An expression of collective care in a society that often leaves us to our own devices. My current doctor is very different. He is very enlightened, very sensitive, questioning and not overbearing. Apart from the fact that I also get my hormone treatment there. The practice itself is queer and trans, and you can tell. You can feel that you're not a second-class or even a first-class patient. A little unsponsored surreptitious advertising. ViRo Schillerkiez. Thank you for simply being normal.

More than medicine: PrEP as self-determination, solidarity and care

Trans women are often seen as a risk in medicine. As a statistic. As a category. But rarely as people who take responsibility, who care, who protect themselves and at the same time think about others. When a trans woman takes PrEP, it's not just medical. It's also political. It is an I take control of my body. I take what is rightfully mine. I protect myself because I want to live. Not because I'm a risk. I know that many trans women are living with HIV. And that this topic is often hushed up in our community. There are so many who are doubly stigmatised.

For their gender. For their HIV status. Being HIV positive and trans are not mutually exclusive. It just means that you have to fight against prejudice twice. I am HIV negative, but I know how it feels when your own body is seen as a risk. Maybe that's why I understand how much love there is in this little pill. For me, PrEP is also a sign of solidarity. An I see you. An I want you to feel safe. I have never been afraid of HIV-positive people. But I know the fear of my own vulnerability. And PrEP has helped me to turn this fear into confidence.

Thinking PrEP politically: visibility, self-determination and prevention culture

I often think about how PrEP is read politically. For cis gay men, it was a liberating step, a symbol of sexual self-determination. For trans women it is too, but on a different level. It is not just protection, but visibility. We are part of this culture of prevention, even if we are often missing from studies. I would like us to be seen not just as a risk group, but as people who bear responsibility. That our stories of care, love and trust are told in the same way as our statistics.

I see PrEP as part of a larger movement. One that says that caring can be radical. That safety should not be a privilege. And that solidarity sometimes starts with a little blue pill. Today, I often think about how much I demanded of my body. How much it has endured. And that I finally wanted to give it something in return. Maybe that's the real reason why I took PrEP. Not just to protect myself, but to keep myself going. To get closer to myself.

FAQ about PrEP

This FAQ section summarises answers on PrEP for trans women: effectiveness against HIV, intake, tolerability, access and how prevention strengthens self-determination and care.

About the author Joelina Yavaş

Joelina Yavaş is a trans woman, author and queer Muslim activist. In her texts, she writes about bodies, vulnerability and self-determination and about the ways in which trans and multiply marginalised people reclaim spaces of safety and closeness.

Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/drjoelina.bsky.social

Instaprofile: @drjoelina and the public one: @joelina_j 

My block - Trans & defiant: https://ko-fi.com/joelina

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