IDAHOBIT 2025:
Taziri El Omrani

"I’ve only been in Belgium for six years," says Taziri El Omrani halfway through our conversation. She smiles as she says it, but the sentence carries weight. What does it mean to learn how to live, speak, and move again as an adult in a world that isn’t your own — when your voice in the world you left was constantly pushed aside, but never truly disappeared? And how can a network like Habibi offer an answer in the search for that breathing space?

Taziri is a human rights defender, journalist, community builder, artist, and rebel. She lives and moves along the intersections: between cultures, between identities, between systems. But above all: between people.
As the first female TV reporter in Misrata, she broke the silence in a war zone. Today, she lives in Belgium, where she co-founded the Habibi network—a community of and for queer people with a migration background. But who is Taziri, behind the microphone, behind the megaphone?

“I’m someone who cares. For others, for the world, for the pain I once carried. That pain still travels with me. Sometimes it fades, but it remains part of who I am.”

She doesn’t call herself a heroine. More a seeker. A girl who grew up in a conservative town, a woman who kept asking questions. Why did she have to wear a headscarf at five years old? Why was silence the norm, even after sexual abuse? Why wasn’t she allowed to exist freely in public spaces as a girl? “My resistance began when I was five. And the fire never went out.”

In that context, self-expression was a forbidden act. “I’m still learning how to express myself,” she says. “Through dance. Through painting. Through writing. It’s a journey—a rediscovery.”

From frontline to foundation

During the Libyan revolution in 2011, she and her family took shelter in a house with four other families, hiding from the war. The men went to the front; the women stayed inside. “That wasn’t enough for me,” she says. “I wanted more than cooking.”

She wrote texts that ended up in a newspaper. Not long after, she walked into the only local radio station as a nineteen-year-old—the first woman ever to do so. “I wanted to help society break through stereotypical images and labels.”

Today, she lives in Belgium. “It feels like I was born again. I’m six years old in this country. Everything is new: language, system, culture.” But the activism remained. “What I did there, I do here: question boxes. Disrupt narratives. Seek safety for those who are vulnerable.”

Rebellious gentleness

For the first time in this interview, Taziri says it out loud: “I’m queer.” She pauses. “I’ve never said that in public. But now I do.”

“It’s scary to say it. But also necessary. Not just for me. Also for others. Being queer and Amazigh or Libyan—it’s possible. We exist. We’re allowed to have multiple identities at once.”

She knows how important it is to make that space visible. “I want to pave the way for others. So someone knows: I don’t have to split myself. I can exist as I am. Fully.”

But queerness isn’t something you carry alone. It requires space and recognition. And since she found that nowhere—she built it herself, together with others.

Habibi as home

That need for space helped lead to the founding of the Habibi network, a safe place for queer people with a migration background. “We weren’t given space, so we made it ourselves.”

“Habibi is, for me, a place where care doesn’t have to be spoken—it’s in being together, in the glances, in the shared silence. We’re building something that holds us together. Not despite our vulnerability, but because of it.”

She remains aware of her position. “I’m still a refugee, I have no nationality, I don’t speak the language perfectly. All of that affects how I move through public space. But together, we can do more.”

“Because only when we come together can we flourish,” she says. “We can only contribute to society if we are also supported ourselves. Community isn’t a luxury, it’s a lifeline. And Habibi is like a plant that finally takes root and lets us bloom. A place where I don’t have to explain who I am. Where care is natural. Where we are each other’s shoulder.”

Her dream? “That Habibi becomes a fully-fledged organisation, with its own projects, resources, spaces. Not just in Ghent. Also in other cities where queer migrants often feel alone.”

According to Taziri, it’s not enough to make existing structures a bit more inclusive—we need to dare to dismantle what has long been considered ‘normal.’ “‘Normal’ is often just what we’re used to, not what’s just,” she says. “As long as we hold on to one dominant view of gender, sexuality or culture, we’ll continue to exclude people. We must dare to let go of that idea—to make space for other ways of living, loving and being.”

Visibility isn’t enough

IDAHOBIT, the International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia, Intersexism and Transphobia on May 17, calls for visibility every year. For Taziri, May 17 is not a celebration, but a day of reflecting.

“It’s a reminder. To share our stories. To listen to each other’s needs.” She sees progress but remains vigilant. “There are more rights for women and queers, but they aren’t anchored. We have to fight every single day for space. For safety. For justice for Palestine, Sudan and Congo."

Continuing to meet each other

According to Taziri, we live in a society that increasingly thinks in boxes—and enforces them. “Through algorithms, social media, political polarisation, we see less and less of each other. Everything outside our bubble is seen as a threat. That’s dangerous. We need to keep our eyes open. And keep meeting one another. That’s why communities like the Habibi network are essential.”