Fragile subjectivities: constructing queer safe spaces

Abstract

This paper uses framing theory to challenge previous understandings of queer safe space, their construction, and fundamental logics. Safe space is usually apprehended as a protected and inclusive place, where one can express one’s identity freely and comfortably. Focusing on the Jerusalem Open House, a community center for LGBT individuals in Jerusalem, I investigate the spatial politics of safe space. Introducing the contested space of Jerusalem, I analyze five framings of safe space, outlining diverse and oppositional components producing this negotiable construct. The argument is twofold: First, I aim to explicate five different frames for the creation of safe space. The frames are: fortification of the queer space, preserving participants’ anonymity, creating an inclusive space, creating a space of separation for distinct identity groups, and controlling unpredictable influences on the participants in the space. Second, by unraveling the basic reasoning for each frame and its related affects I show how all five frames are anchored in liberal logics and reflect specific ways in which we comprehend how queer subjectivities produce/are produced through safe space and its discourse.

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Fragile subjectivities: constructing queer safe
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Gilly Hartal
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SOCIAL & CULTURAL GEOGRAPHY, 2017
https://doi.org/10.1080/14649365.2017.1335877
Fragile subjectivities: constructing queer safe spaces
Gilly Hartal
The Department of Geography, McGill University, Montreal, Canada
ABSTRACT
This paper uses framing theory to challenge previous understandings
of queer safe space, their construction, and fundamental logics. Safe
space is usually apprehended as a protected and inclusive place, where
one can express one’s identity freely and comfortably. Focusing on the
Jerusalem Open House, a community center for LGBT individuals in
Jerusalem, I investigate the spatial politics of safe space. Introducing
the contested space of Jerusalem, I analyze ve framings of safe
space, outlining diverse and oppositional components producing this
negotiable construct. The argument is twofold: First, I aim to explicate
ve dierent frames for the creation of safe space. The frames are:
fortication of the queer space, preserving participants’ anonymity,
creating an inclusive space, creating a space of separation for distinct
identity groups, and controlling unpredictable inuences on the
participants in the space. Second, by unraveling the basic reasoning
for each frame and its related aects I show how all ve frames
are anchored in liberal logics and reect specic ways in which we
comprehend how queer subjectivities produce/are produced through
safe space and its discourse.
Subjectivités fragiles: construction d’espaces sûrs pour
les gays
RÉSUMÉ
Cet article utile la théorie de l’encadrement pour remettre en question
ce que l’on entendait jusqu’à présent par espace sûr pour les gays, sa
construction et sa logique fondamentale. Par espace sûr on entend
habituellement un lieu protégé et inclusif, où l’on peut exprimer
son identité librement et confortablement. En se concentrant sur
l’Open House de Jérusalem, un centre communautaire pour les
LGBT à Jérusalem, j’enquête sur les politiques spatiales de l’espace
sûr. En présentant l’espace contesté de Jérusalem, j’analyse cinq
cadres d’espace sûr, qui soulignent les composantes diérentes et
oppositionnelles qui produisent cette construction négociable. Le
débat comprend deux parties : tout d’abord, je tente d’expliquer
les cinq cadres diérents pour la création d’espaces sûrs. Ces cadres
sont: la fortication de l’espace gay, la protection de l’anonymat des
participants, la création d’un espace inclusif, la création d’un espace
de séparation pour les groupes d’identités distinctes et le contrôle
des inuences imprévisibles sur les participants dans cet espace.
Deuxièmement, en éclaircissant le raisonnement de base pour chaque
cadre et les eets qui y sont liés, je montre comment les cinq cadres
© 2017 Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group
KEYWORDS
Safe space; LGBT space;
queer geographies; LGBT in
Israel; sexuality and space
MOTS CLÉS
espace sûr; espace LGBT;
géographies gays; LGBT en
Israël; sexualité et espace
ARTICLE HISTORY
Received 22 May 2016
Accepted5 May 2017
CONTACT Gilly Har tal gilly.hartal@mail.mcgill.ca, gillyrachely@gmail.com
PALABRAS CLAVE
Espacio seguro; espacio
LGBT; geografías gais; LGBT
en Israel; sexualidad y
espacio

2 G. HARTAL
sont tous ancrés dans des logiques libérales et reètent les manières
spéciques dont nous comprenons comment les subjectivités gays
produisent / sont produites grâce à un espace sûr et son discours.
Las subjetividades frágiles: la construcción de espacios
gais seguros
RESUMEN
Este artículo utiliza la teoría del encuadre para desaar los
conocimientos anteriores del espacio gay seguro, sus construcciones y
lógicas fundamentales. Usualmente, se entiende como espacio seguro
a un lugar protegido y abierto, donde uno puede expresar su identidad
libre y cómodamente. Centrándose en el Jerusalem Open House, un
centro comunitario para personas LGBT en Jerusalén, se investiga la
política espacial del espacio seguro. Dentro del controvertido espacio
de Jerusalén, se analizan cinco marcos de espacio seguro, esbozando
componentes diversos y de oposición que producen este constructo
negociable. El argumento es doble: primero, se intentan explicar cinco
marcos diferentes para la creación del espacio seguro. Los marcos son:
la forticación del espacio gay, la preservación del anonimato de los
participantes, la creación de un espacio abierto, la creación de un
espacio de separación para distintos grupos de identidad y el control
de las inuencias impredecibles sobre los participantes en el espacio.
En segundo lugar, al desentrañar el razonamiento básico de cada
marco y sus afectos relacionados, se muestra cómo los cinco marcos
están anclados en lógicas liberales y reejan formas especícas en
las cuales se comprende cómo las subjetividades gais producen/se
producen a través del espacio seguro y su discurso.
Introduction
Safe space is an always contested and ambiguous term within LGBT and queer discourses.
In this paper, I aim to expand this eld of discussion of queer safe spaces, making it more
reexive through discussing distinct framings of the term safe spaces, revealing some overt
and covert logics, meanings and goals. Focusing on the Jerusalem Open House (JOH), an
NGO and a queer community space in Jerusalem, this paper oers an analysis of the concept
of safe space in geographical queer discourse, and shows how dierent framings of safe
space are subtly produced, accentuating diverse interpretations and nuances. The main
questions address the ways the concept of safe space is produced by/produces how we
currently think about LGBT subjectivities.
The ve safe space frames which are articulated in this article are: fortication of the queer
space, preserving participants’ anonymity, creating an inclusive space, creating a space of
separation for distinct identity groups, and controlling unpredictable inuences on the par-
ticipants in the space. These frames are anchored in liberal rights discourses and reect a
contested meaning of the term safe space in the queer context, which could reect a failure
to understand exactly what a safe space is (expectations), and how it should be achieved
(practice).
The Roestone Collective (2014) have called for the analysis of safe space as a ‘living con-
cept, identifying tendencies and variations in its use, and recognizing its situatedness in
multiple contexts’ (p. 1347). This article responds to that call by introducing the ve distinct
frames for the concept of queer safe spaces.

SOCIAL & CULTURAL GEOGRAPHY 3
Rooted in Erving Goman’s work (1974), framing is an endeavor to describe and analyze
‘what is it that’s going on here?’ (p. 25). Frames help elucidate everyday experiences and
situations, and suggest what is important and salient in a specic cultural context, by high-
lighting particular denitions of knowledge, occurrences, and discourse. Snow and Benford
(1988, 1992) contend that ‘frame resonance’ determines the mobilization potential of a frame
and its eectiveness. Frames are cultural components, and, as such, they are always chal-
lenged by other frames. Those frames that resonate with the wider cultural frame are more
acceptable, creating a wide shared understanding of meanings.
Using frame theory is productive in that it claries diverse meanings of queer safe space
and its understandings for dierent subject identities (i.e. lesbians, transgenders, etc.), while
not implying that this is the meaning of what safe space ought to be at that particular
space–time. Frames are an analytic tool to interpret the ways these dierentiated under-
standings of queer safe space construct the LGBT social, cultural, and physical space.
Thus, this paper has two objectives: First, I aim to explicate ve main frames for the con-
struction of safe space, their interaction, integration and points of contrast, thus emphasizing
the necessity for a more nuanced terminology. Second, by carefully unraveling the basic
reasoning for each frame and its related aects, I will show that even though there are fun-
damental contradictions between the frames, the liberal logics on which all ve frames are
established create queer subjectivities as fragile, weak subjects, in constant need of protec-
tion from unsafe space.
I begin with a discussion of key theories regarding queer safe space and its negotiation
followed by a short methodology section. Then, I introduce the contested space of Jerusalem,
mainly with regard to its LGBT presence and struggles; I analyze the framings of safe space
as illustrated at the JOH, outlining how this negotiable construct is produced before nally
discussing its resonance with liberal logics and construction of subjectivities.
Negotiating queer space, constructing safe(r) space(s)
Since the 1990s, it has been commonly accepted within geographies of sexualities that space
is actively produced as heterosexual (Binnie, 1997) and heteronormative (Bell & Valentine,
1995). The function of diverse overt and covert mechanisms of spatial control indicates
ongoing suppression of non-normative sexualities, governing and silencing LGBT desires
and embodiments in space (Valentine, 2000).
Despite this seemingly coherent image of space, geographers and specically feminist
geographers (Massey, 1994; McDowell, 1999; Monk & Hanson, 2010; Rose, 1993) have shown
that space is rather negotiable and can encompass conicts and splits. These conicts con-
struct meanings and open up new ways of (re)constructing and being in space (see e.g.
Massey, 1991; Skeggs, 1999; Valentine, 1996). Feminist geographers (Pain, 1991, 1997, 2001;
Pain & Koskela, 2000; Valentine, 1989) have suggested shifting the analytical prism, exploring
not the ways in which women’s experiences in the city are formulated by their understand-
ings and experiences of fear and risk, but the ‘mutual constitution of gendered identities
and spaces’ (Bondi & Rose, 2003, p. 234), further problematizing women’s fear and its con-
nection to risk within the discourses on urban safety. Much of the current thinking on the
construction of safe space is aected by this body of knowledge, suggesting a mutual con-
struction of LGBT subjectivities and their experiences in space, specically queer space.

4 G. HARTAL
Unlike heterosexual space, LGBT space is imagined to be safe for LGBT individuals – a
space devoid of sexism, LGBT-phobia and violence (Nash, 2011). Doan (2007) claims that
‘overt action create[s] a safe place for people who identify as queer’ (p. 57). The LGBT space
is portrayed as one of tolerance and acceptance, where dierence is ‘celebrated’. In actuality,
in some cases LGBT spaces reproduce power relations which are mostly based on the het-
eronormative constitution of identities (Nash, 2010; Oswin, 2008), recreating hierarchies and
exclusion (Brown, Browne, & Lim, 2007; Oswin, 2013).
Since the understanding of what is meant by safety is at the heart of the controversy, it
is pertinent to outline its denitions and emphasize the unequal access to safety. A safe
space is supposed to be a protected place, facilitating a sense of security and recreating
discourses of inclusion and diversity. It is a metaphor for the ability to be honest, take risks,
share opinions, or reveal one’s sexual identity (Hartal, David, & Pascar, 2014). Safety in this
sense is not merely physical safety but psychological, social, and emotional safety as well.
Queer safe spaces play a major role in constructing LGBT space (Hanhardt, 2013). The
term safe space reects the environment it ought to be and sometimes serves as a prereq-
uisite for creating queer spaces. However, as Quinan (2016, p. 362) notes it ‘often goes unex-
plained and sometimes unquestioned’, remaining an ambiguous term describing multiple
settings such as spaces where (sometimes marginalized) subjects can be their authentic
selves, in which subjects can be expressed (heard, creative) and feel at home. Such settings
vary in scale and can include community centers, home spaces, leisure spaces, bars and
clubs, pride parades, neighborhoods, and more. For example, Gieseking (2016) while
researching New York, traced diverse negotiations of neighborhood and bars as safe spaces,
claiming that lesbian and queer women’s abilities to navigate New York are specic to sub-
jective experiences of race, class, gender, and age. Boulila (2015) claims that being denied
lesbian subjectivity can be seen as a form of making a space unsafe, while a comfortable
space is one in which subjects can ‘extend into space and take part in the reconguration
of that space’ (Boulila, 2015, p. 149). Therefore, safe spaces discourse omits an intersectional
understanding leading to a specic identity around which safe spaces are formulated (Fox
& Ore, 2010).
Another denition regards safe spaces as paradoxical and relational spaces, ‘responding
to an interaction with an insecure world’ (The Roestone Collective, 2014, p. 1326). This de-
nition recognizes that creating a safe space, even if only temporarily, requires a deep under-
standing of the context and subjectivities of individuals. Consequently, a more nuanced
analysis of power and its manifestations is needed, as well as a discussion of the intertwining
of power, relationality, and subjectivity. Over and above reections highlighting the medi-
ation of power into safe space discourses and spaces, there is a discursive conation of safety
with comfort. This amalgamation is taken up by Held (2015) who asks what it means to feel
comfortable and safe in a gay village, associating belonging with feeling secure, as both are
important in creating a sense of sexual identity (see also Noble, 2005; Skeggs, Moran, Tyrer,
& Corteen, 2004). Boulila (2015, p. 135) claims comfort can be ‘understood as a framework
for agency’; and Myslik (1996, p. 165) concludes that a safe space is produced through ‘emo-
tional and psychological safety that comes from being in an area in which one has some
sense of belonging or social control’. Although queer belonging is considered an attainable
goal, in their discussion of educational environments Stengel and Weems (2010, p. 505)
conclude that ‘what we count as “safe” is an imaginary construction reliant on ritualized forms
of control’, which resonates with Ahmed (2006) who suggests that power marks some bodies

SOCIAL & CULTURAL GEOGRAPHY 5
as ones who belong and others as out of place, implying that radical conceptions of safe
spaces are needed. While Whitzman (2007) asserts that conict is inherent to processes of
dening safer space, Anzaldúa (2002, p. 3) takes this consideration of power mechanisms
one step further:
[T] here are no safe spaces. […] To step across the threshold is to be stripped of the illusion of
safety because it moves us into unfamiliar territory and does not grant safe passage. To bridge is
to attempt community, and for that we must risk being open to personal, political, and spiritual
intimacy, to risk being wounded.
Separatist spaces were formulated as a means of creating community and a safe space for
women (Barnard, 1998; Frye, 1993). Discussing separatist spaces, Browne (2009) suggests
that ‘an engagement with marginalized and alternative spaces of dierence […] allow for
positive aectivities and productive tensions that do not neglect relations of power’ (p. 541).
These kinds of negotiations over the creation of safe space frames are at the heart of this
article.
Deploying certain discourses of queer safe spaces not only reects upon specic power
locations and queer subjects’ intersectional identities but hints at its grounding within the
core reasoning fundamental to liberalism. Specically, LGBT preoccupation and even obses-
sion with safe spaces is unfolding within a context of (Westernized) LGBT politics bolstering
LGBT public visibility and advocating for it. Visibility, as a political goal, is part of a wide
understanding of individual liberty, anchored in identity politics as a means to attain rights
(read: normalization) for LGBT subjects (Richardson, 2005). Within liberal thought, personal
identity is considered an epicenter for representation, a tool for the creation of cultural
meaning and social acknowledgment. Moreover, identity politics is a liberal democratic
component, in which the state serves as a mediator of the dialog between dierent cultural
groups (Calhoun, 1994).
Identity politics is dened through Western culture’s understanding of the self as an indi-
vidual, who has liberty from the principle of majority rule and a limited government. Within
LGBT politics, Michael Warner (1991, p. xix) coined it the ‘Rainbow Theory’:
[…] a fantasized space where all embodied identities could be visibly represented as parallel
forms of identity. This ethnicizing political desire has exerted a formative inuence on Anglo-
American cultural studies in the form of an expressivist pluralism that might be called Rainbow
Theory. It aspires to a representational politics of inclusion and a drama of authentic embodiment.
Unlike identity which is considered a violent construct, Butler (2004) outlines subjectivity as
a relational construct, constitutive of identity, entailing the (ethical and political) interde-
pendency of subjects:
But perhaps we make a mistake if we take the denitions of who we are, legally, to be adequate
descriptions of what we are about. […] it fails to do justice to passion and grief and rage, all of
which tear us from ourselves, bind us to others, transport us, undo us, and implicate us in lives
that are not are own [sic], sometimes fatally, irreversibly. (Butler, 2004, p. 20)
This understanding of relationality calls for a new analysis of the ways safe spaces are for-
mulated through identity politics, requiring a consideration of queer subjectivities through
the construction of safe spaces and the liberal reasoning they entail. Staeheli and Mitchell
(2008, p. 106) assert that ‘dierences in the kinds of rights and their deployment shape not
only the nature of political conict, but also the kinds of publics and even the kinds of cities
that are created’. In this paper, I will use frame analysis to unravel diverse understandings of
queer safe space, showing that although these frames reveal major contradictions, they are

6 G. HARTAL
anchored in liberal logics and reect specic ways in which we comprehend how queer
subjectivities produce/are produced through safe space and its discourse.
Methodological note
This article explores the diverse meanings and framings of queer safe space. It focuses on
the LGBT activist space at the JOH. Data collection draws on ve months of ethnography at
the JOH between January and May 2010, accompanied by 10 in-depth interviews with central
activists. The ethnographic method enabled spatial, aective and embodied eld notes (Till,
2009), that were scrutinized and interpreted at later stages. The interviews were conducted
with leading current and former activists at the JOH. All interviews lasted between two and
ve hours, and were recorded and transcribed. The transcriptions were sent to participants
for their approval.
Interviewees gave written consent for the use of their real names in this article, as they
are all well-known local public gures who wanted credit for their statements. Moreover,
the LGBT activist community in Israel is small and the majority of the local activists were
interviewed. Because activists are familiar with one another, there was no point in using
pseudonyms since their statements are recognizably their own.
In order to locate and determine themes, all the collected data were thematically coded,
noting repetitions of ideas and meanings (Hannam, 2002). Overlapping themes were estab-
lished regarding meanings of LGBT safe space, and the diverse usage of the term, which
serves as the basis of this paper.
My location as a researcher at the JOH was informed by a dual positionality (Misgav, 2015).
Even though I wasn’t a stranger to the queer activist scene in Israel, I began this study at the
JOH positioned as an outsider. After a very short while I gained the activists’ trust, I was given
the keys to the front door and the code for the alarm system, a very meaningful gesture in
the unsafe environment surrounding the JOH. Soon after I was asked to apply to the JOH’s
board in the upcoming elections, and subsequently was elected and served as a board
member. Thus, I was both a researcher and a fellow activist, ethically and politically commit-
ted to the JOH, making me ‘an intimate insider’ (Taylor, 2011). At the same time, I was dedi-
cated to my research. This delicate situation required me to undergo critical processes of
self-reection regarding the consequences of my involvement, my relationships with the
activists and the JOH sta and my commitment to the JOH’s goals and the Jerusalem LGBT
community.
Jerusalem (un) safe space
Jerusalem, Israel’s capital city, is a contested city which has been characterized as a space of
ongoing violence (Adelmane & Elman, 2014; Hepburn, 2004). The city reveals the profound
ssures in Israeli society – religious, ethnic, national, political, and gendered (Fenster, 2005;
Hasson, 2002; Yacobi, 2012; Yacobi & Pullan, 2014). It has been portrayed as a condensed
space, constructed by physical connes such as enclosed neighborhoods and the separation
wall, which reect social, political, and national boundaries. The city center has accumulated
a dense social fabric, which holds together a diverse population.
Contrary to Tel Aviv, which is portrayed as a global city, Jerusalem is characterized as a
national city, symbolized by ‘holiness […] static, eternal state’ (Alfasi & Fenster, 2005, p. 352).

SOCIAL & CULTURAL GEOGRAPHY 7
Although there are dierent attitudes toward the LGBT presence in Jerusalem, as expected,
the city, which is often portrayed as carrying religious components (Adelmane & Elman,
2014; Vinitzky-Seroussi, 1998) and where most residents are Orthodox, is not welcoming of
LGBT individuals.
New legislation in 1988 revolutionized the status of LGBT individuals in Israel, abolishing
the penal code that prohibited homosexual intercourse (Harel, 1999). Since then, LGBT sub-
jectivities are increasingly present in public space. These changes also enabled the emer-
gence of new advocacy, support groups, and social movements, in addition to the legal and
political work being done (Kama, 2011). Although not always reected in everyday spatial
politics, this legislation was followed by many subsequent legal achievements (Gross, 2015),
making the Israeli establishment generally tolerant toward LGBT individuals.
The increase in tolerance from the Israeli state is in stark contrast to that of the Jerusalem
municipality. For example, hostile attitudes were apparent during the publicized protests
against holding World Pride in Jerusalem in 2006. Antagonism toward LGBT individuals has
also been noticeable in the form of many violent incidents. Years of discrimination, in terms
of municipal support, as well as the refusal of the municipality to secure or even allow a
pride parade in the city, or its reluctance to hang rainbow ags on the streets on the day of
the Pride Parade accentuate intolerance toward LGBT individuals. As a result, scholars have
observed a heightened sense of spatial alienation and estrangement among LGBT individuals
in Jerusalem (Fenster & Manor, 2010), culminating in a general feeling of unsafety for LGBT
individuals.
This feeling was reinforced at the 2005 Jerusalem Pride Parade, when Yishai Schlissel, an
Ultra-Orthodox Israeli, stabbed three marchers, and then again in 2015, when the same
person, just three weeks after he was released from jail, stabbed Shira Banki, a 16-year-old
girl, to death and wounded ve other marchers during the Jerusalem Pride Parade.
The JOH was established in 1997, with the aim of becoming a safe, empowering, and
high-prole space for the LGBT community in Jerusalem. It is the only community space for
LGBT individuals in Jerusalem, home to an HIV test clinic, many social groups including youth
groups, an LGBT library, psycho-social services, a play-space for young kids and various
cultural events. Most importantly, it organizes the annual pride parades in Jerusalem alone
and copes with local dilemmas, focusing on LGBT visibility in an intolerant space and
responding to the Palestinian and ultra-Orthodox communities living in the city.
Since its inception, the JOH has hoped to simultaneously be an open and safe space as
well as a public visible space. This desire was motivated by its Jerusalem location, as depicted
in an interview Jerry, one of the JOH founding activists, gave to a local newspaper:
From the beginning, there were groups who hesitated about going into the JOH […] the parents
[of LGBT individuals] group said from the beginning that they would never meet inside the JOH,
and so we should look for a dierent [safer] space for them, which is what we did. Same goes for
the youth group […] and the Orthodykes [a social group for Jewish-Orthodox-lesbian/bisexual/
transsexual women] and other social groups. Once a group of religious and Orthodox gays was
established, they said the same […]. And they do not hold their meetings inside the JOH and
we are not against it and we are not ashamed of it. We understand that this is a part of these
groups’ needs, that for their perseverance and sustainability, they have to be careful not to be
exposed, not even to other gays. (Goren, 2002, paras. 25–27)
Located in the city center, with a ag hanging out the street facing window, the JOH is a
visible place that stands out within its conservative surroundings (see Figure 1).

8 G. HARTAL
Paradoxically, the JOH’s visibility is what makes it an insecure place, even though it is the
only designated social (non-commercial long-lasting) LGBT space in Jerusalem (see Hartal,
2016). In a complex city such as Jerusalem, diverse groups have dierent needs in order to
create and preserve their safety. As noted in Jerry’s interview, religious women, LGBT youth,
and parents of LGBT people all wish to maintain their safety. As this article will show, these
groups frame safety dierently, producing a layered terminology, inspired by the tense social
and spatial context of Jerusalem.
The Jerusalem contested urban space constitutes an interesting terrain for the investiga-
tion of understandings of safety, and specically the construction of queer safe spaces, due
to formal and cultural discrimination against LGBT individuals, and LGBT people’s perceptions
that it is an extreme violent space for them (Adelman, 2014; Wagner, 2013). This lack of safety
as well as LGBT marginalization in Jerusalem accelerated an explicit discourse regarding safe
spaces among local LGBT activists. Since these meanings resonate with wider conceptual-
izations of safe spaces in other queer locations, they are applicable to various social spaces.
Thus, this case study can shed light on queer safe spaces discourse in the wider context,
helping understand how diverse meanings of safe space are narrated.
Framing queer safe spaces
The ndings reveal ve major frames in the creation of safe spaces. While there is some
overlap regarding the reasons for creating a safe space and the protection it entails, in this
section I will explore each frame separately, to underscore the various needs and practices
articulated by the activists. After introducing each frame, I will outline its basic reasoning
and related aects, in order to discuss the complexity, nuances, and logics embedded in
queer discourses of safe space.
Fortication
The decision to hire a guard for the front door of the JOH during opening hours was one of
many repercussions of a shooting that occurred on the night of 1 August 2009, at the BarNoar,
a Tel Aviv space for LGBT youth. A man broke into the discreet yet unguarded space, killing
Figure 1. Left: street view of the JOH (Photograph: Ebtesam Barakat). Right: the JOH social space
(Photograph: Gilly Hartal).

SOCIAL & CULTURAL GEOGRAPHY 9
two and wounding10 others. The shooting in the center of Tel Aviv shocked many and was
perceived as a landmark in Israeli LGBT history, leading to structural changes in local LGBT
organizations as well as to ideological and strategic shifts in LGBT politics (Gross, 2015). At
the JOH, the shooting provoked a discussion regarding safety, and consequently a contractor
was hired to provide security services (the services of such a contractor are common practice
at commercial and organizational spaces in Israel, where security services are mandatory).
Sivan, the administrative coordinator of the JOH at the time described the aftermath of
the BarNoar shooting:
I don’t feel safe when we have activities in the JOH without a guard […] before [the BarNoar
shooting] we didn’t have it [the guard]. We would just look through the peephole at the door
and open. […] It is mostly a reaction by the youth groups and their facilitators, saying that it is
good that there is a guard now, and that the youth feel safer with the guard.
The guard is presented as someone who provides a feeling of security to the people inside
the JOH, specically the youth group attendants. Noam, the chairwoman of the JOH,
described the change made by the presence of the guard:
[…] during the weeks of the preparations for the pride parade we had regular threatening calls
on the answering machine at the JOH […]. And there were cops around the house and more.
This year [2010], it’s generally quieter; I think we didn’t even have one stink bomb […]. Last
year, going up the stairs [to enter the JOH] was a nightmare, it was crazy – the stink bombs
throughout the week of the parade […]. One time a girl opened the JOH’s door and threw a
stink bomb inside, and it was awful being inside […]. Not this year. This year we have a guard,
so it is dierent, it is less [dangerous].
The guard is perceived as reducing the violence during the lead up to the pride parade and
the parade itself, preventing the ‘awful’ feeling Noam described as being inside the JOH
unguarded.
The JOH’s guard works for a security company, sits outside the JOH, by the always locked
door. He checks the bags of each person entering the JOH, and asks them questions regard-
ing their reasons for entering, making sure they are there for the activities and that they
have not come to attack or harm the JOH’s attendees. The guard’s examination, along with
his gaze, subject those entering to an experience of being scanned, not only physically
checking whether they carry a weapon or a stink bomb – but also psychologically, checking
their identity, to see if they belong (i.e. if they are LGBT, allies or otherwise). The guard labels
each of the people he lets in as an LGBT individual, marking the border between heterosexual
and LGBT space. His job is to distinguish between the safe space inside the JOH, and public
Jerusalem space, which is marked as unsafe for LGBT people. This dichotomy between public
and private spaces which is anchored in liberal logics reinforces sexual discipline (in both
spaces) (Duncan, 1996), illustrating how such binary constructions reproduce political rela-
tions and reconstruct the power structure (Benhabib, 1995).
Looking at social groups’ negotiations of emotions in the lesbian spaces, Held (2015) reects
on racist experiences of lesbian women being refused entrance to certain lesbian venues,
feeling that their bodies were ‘read’ as dierent. Likewise, the space near the JOH’s door is
rendered a space of selection, lled with the guard’s power to decide who will enter (i.e.
belong) and who presents a threat. This combination of power and liminality made the
experience of passing through the door an uncomfortable and even a threatening one, since
the guard’s gaze forced on the attendees an external identication by an armed stranger.
The possibility of being refused entry formulated a sense of unsafety that I, as a researcher
and an activist, like many other JOH’s activists, felt every time I entered the JOH.

10 G. HARTAL
One of the main reasons for having a guard is the youth group. During youth group
meetings, all other activities at the JOH are stopped in order to facilitate an isolated space
for LGBT youth, which the JOH sta considers is safer for them. The guard is seen as an extra
protective layer. As Yonatan, the JOH director at the time said:
We are careful […]. Of course we want to protect them [queer youth] from all that is outside as
well as from the dangers within.
Yonatan presented the youth as in need of extensive security, to prevent their exposure to
violence, and to minimize their fear within the JOH. The emphasis on the guard’s role as a
protective layer for queer youth brings up the ambivalence of placing a guard at the entrance
of an LGBT space, with the intention that this will make the space safer. Schroeder (2012) looks
at the ways safe spaces for queer youth are constructed by adults and argues that such
spaces work both to constrain and restrict queer youth. This duality of safe space formulated
by adults for queer youth was well illustrated in Sivan’s account of the problems arising from
having a security company guard at the entrance to the JOH:
[The security company] sends the strangest people, whose basic communication with the world
is awful, or who sit all day inside because it’s too cold, or because they want to connect to the
web, and one who browses the net and watches porn while he’s in the JOH, one who’s always
late …
Watching pornography in an LGBT community center is considered a contributing factor
to undermining the safety. Pornography is framed as an anti-women and violent industry,
generally degrading and contributing to an improper sexual education. Specifically, its
emphasis on heterosexuality and the invisibility of a positive LGBT presence are per-
ceived as harmful. Moreover, it makes the guard’s presence sexually threatening, a form
of sexual harassment of the women entering the JOH. This also emphasizes that the
guard is not doing his job. While his duty is to protect the individuals entering the JOH
from violence, in actuality, he creates additional security problems and even poses a
threat himself to some. Paradoxically, the guard, whose job is to protect, accelerated
feelings of insecurity.
This frame of safety reveals that closing a space and setting up a guard does not neces-
sarily make the space safer. Even though the public space of Jerusalem is perceived as unsafe
for LGBT individuals, the guarded organizational space of the JOH produces a duality, in that
what is safe for some might inadvertently induce unsafety for others.
The intention of the fortication of the JOH was to enable both activists and attendants
of the JOH a non-threatening space for their activities, motivated by liberal logics pertaining
to the right to asylum. The fear of violence that initially prompted this fortication increased
the potential of fear and violence leading to a complex outcome.
Anonymity
Current Western LGBT subjectivities are constituted through the spatial metaphor of the
closet (Brown, 2000), which is produced by an epistemology of concealment. This concept
indicates a need for a hiding place, a small limited safe space for the negation of LGBT indi-
viduals’ social and cultural marginality (Sedgwick, 1990). For many LGBT individuals, their
‘real’ home, private sphere and family life do not provide a safe location or a space of accept-
ance and comfort; many conceal their LGBT identity, or face homophobia and violence. The
closet can be seen as a wide cultural frame in which LGBT subjectivities are produced. The

SOCIAL & CULTURAL GEOGRAPHY 11
JOH aims to provide a place for comfort, a place where LGBT individuals can feel safe, without
undermining their anonymity in all other places.
Even though the Open Clinic, a JOH project promoting HIV/AIDS testing, is open to anyone
who wants to be tested, it is also framed as a safe space. On the JOH’s website this is how
the Clinic is described:
In a city where conservative culture deters at-risk populations from receiving HIV/AIDS testing,
the Open Clinic has created unprecedented accessibility to HIV/AIDS testing for the city’s resi-
dents, whether they identify as LGBT or not. Founded in 2007, the clinic provides the only free,
anonymous, rapid-result HIV/AIDS testing service in the city. Created by the community, for
the community, it oers a medical ‘safe space’ where clients receive care and counseling from
professional sta that is sensitive to their needs and concerns and free of prejudice. The clinic
has shown a remarkable ability to reach at-risk populations, including ultra-Orthodox men, new
immigrants and Palestinians. […] The Clinic also serves as the JOH’s health-related advocacy
branch, dedicated to the notion that access to appropriate health care is a fundamental human
right. (‘JOH Open Clinic,’ n.d.)
During the opening hours of the Clinic, the JOH is closed to other activities and visitors. Even
I, as an ethnographer and later on as a board member, was not allowed to stay in the JOH
during the hours the Clinic operated.
In order to emphasize the importance and uniqueness of the Open Clinic in oering safety,
Benjamin, the Clinic coordinator described his personal experience in a Jerusalem hospital
clinic:
I remember the rst time I went for an HIV test […]. I went to a clinic and the doctors were reli-
gious and the nurses ultra-Orthodox. As soon as I came in for the test I lost my condentiality.
The nurse stood in the middle of the waiting room with double gloves because of the hazardous
and contagious material, and called out loud: ‘anyone here for an HIV test?’ Okay, ouch …
Benjamin recounts a violation of his anonymity by the medical sta, leading to a feeling of
shame encapsulated in his phrase ‘Okay, ouch’. He highlighted the importance of awareness
and the understanding of the cultural baggage that HIV/AIDS carries, calling for the respect-
able and anonymous treatment of patients throughout the testing process. He contrasted
the test he went through at the medical center with the Open Clinic, positioning the openness
of the JOH, marking it as a serious, anonymous space that maintains the privacy and dignity
of patients, discouraging the fear of stigma and shame attached to HIV/AIDS. The need for
a safe space characterized by these traits is derived from the cultural essence of the AIDS
discourse, specically the association of HIV/AIDS with plague and the link between infection
and the mistaken conation of the possibility of being infected with an LGBT identity.
In Israel, anonymous HIV/AIDS testing is not subsidized by the Health Ministry, as dened
in the Health Ministry Director-General’s By-Law:
If the test results are not negative, the doctor shall explain to the patient that the results are
not nal and that they must conrm his identication (rst and family name and identication
number) […]. Anonymous tests will not be funded by the Health Ministry. (Health Ministry
Director-General’s By-Law, August 25, 2011, p. 7)
The medical establishment frames anonymity as a threat to the ability to track and control
infection. Benjamin depicted the trouble this causes for the JOH:
The main issue for us is that we are on one hand allowed to not disclose the names of patients
and their addresses, ID number etc., if they request an anonymous test. But if they are positive,
the name that they give and the telephone number that they give, we must surrender to the
Ministry of Health. Normally there is no such thing as completely anonymous testing.

12 G. HARTAL
The ministry’s frame, reecting the meta-cultural frame of HIV/AIDS, is portrayed as reluctant,
suspicious of anonymity and the dangers of losing control over HIV positive individuals. Even
at the Open Clinic (which is dened by the Health Ministry as a Point-of-Care Testing [POCT]
site, approved for quick and/or anonymous testing), anonymity is restricted due to inspection
and the ministry’s regulations, endangering those whose results are positive for HIV.
The outing of HIV positive individuals, which is charged with negative stigma, is fraught
with possibilities for shaming. The exposure of the potential of infection to a stranger’s eye
is unsettling and undermines the safety of the clinic. Just by coming in for the test, individuals
are risking the possibility of being tagged as infected with a shameful disease, compromising
their liberal right to privacy. The Open Clinic manages this shame by closing the doors of the
JOH during the clinic’s opening hours, regulating risks and trying to keep the Open Clinic as
anonymous as can be under the circumstances.
Unlike the fortication frame which requires closing the space down, the anonymity frame
encompasses constructing a space where no questions are asked. Thus, the reasoning behind
this frame of safe space is based on the right to privacy, and is related to aects like fear (of
stigma) and shame. These aects, unlike the fear of violence, do not call for fortication but
instead require the creation of obscurity and a space of invisibility. Consequently, visibility,
which is fundamental to LGBT politics, is seen as risky, generating complex discussions for
the JOH activists.
Inclusivity
During the ethnography at the JOH, a community discussion was scheduled regarding the
possibility of founding a new clinic for transgender people. The discussion was well attended,
with over 20 activists from Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. The goal of the discussion was to bring
up transgender individuals’ experiences of discontent and conict with the health admin-
istration, and to determine medical needs not properly addressed. Part of the discussion
highlighted the topic of safety. This is how a safe space for transgender people was described
by one of the discussion participants:
The basic thing we need in a clinic is for it to be a protected space […]. That is the basis of it all,
that safety is a part of the service to the community […]. There need to be strict rules, known
and available to everyone, determining what this safe spaceis. [The rules should reect subjects
such as] how will I be treated, who can I bring with me …
The participants lay the responsibility for creating and maintaining a safe space for trans-
gender people at the JOH on the JOH sta. Spatial safety is articulated as a space where
transgender individuals would not feel estranged or tagged as Other. Safety in this sense is
described using the grammar of belonging, a sense of comfort (Fenster, 2005) and non-ob-
jectication. The framing of safety thus is anchored in a liberal logic that considers dignity
and privacy as core rights.
This grammar is not surprising considering Israeli transgender activists’ critique of the
Israeli health administration, which they consider unfriendly and unwelcoming (see Marton,
2013; Sinai, 2013). Moreover, this call to create a space of belonging for transgender individ-
uals within LGBT space correlates with ongoing discussions on transgender safety within
LGBT spaces, where claims are made that transgender people are continually excluded,
marginalized, and face high levels of violence within queer spaces (Doan, 2007; Namaste,
1996, 2000).

SOCIAL & CULTURAL GEOGRAPHY 13
During the discussion at the JOH, another community member raised an additional aspect
of the creation of safe space, with regard to the establishment of a new clinic for transgender
individuals:
[…] I see safe space as a space which is not only trans-friendly, but as a space with high sensitivity
[…], a space that accepts the variance of bodies.
The goal is to construct an inclusive space, in which transgender individuals can bring up
medical issues and get treatment without having to face degrading attitudes or constantly
fear violence, shame, or stigma. The construction of this space within an LGBT space adds a
specic aspect to articulating transgender safety as distinct from gay, bisexual, or lesbian
safety, reinforcing the subtleties of gender identities.
This discussion did not lead to the establishment of a transgender clinic because of a shared
understanding of the web of complexities such a clinic would have to deal with on a daily basis,
as well as the shared thought that it would be impossible to create such a space within the
framework of existing resources. The discussion, most of which I am unable to bring here since
nearly all the discussion attendants specically asked me not to quote them, highlighted their
fear of violence and shame in many encounters with the health administration as well as with
LGBT organizations, reecting an ambivalent sense of belonging to the LGBT community.
The frame of inclusivity is based on the formation of agreed upon policies and guidelines
for communication as its basic practice, as a means to contest fear of violence, stigma, and
shame and in order to constitute belonging. Its reasoning is rooted in the liberal right to
dignity and privacy and the right to be treated as a human being; criticizing practices of
lesbian, gay, bisexual but mostly transgender objectication.
Separation
Separatism is one of the practices for creating safety for marginalized communities (Sibley,
1995). Lesbian feminists, in particular, are motivated to create alternative zones to segregate
themselves from patriarchy and oppressive sexual and gender hierarchies (Barnard, 1998;
Browne, 2009; Frye, 1993; Morris, 2005; Valentine, 1997). Safe conditions provided by such
spaces contribute to women’s cognitive and emotional freedom of exploration, discussion,
and thought (Lewis, Sharp, Remnant, & Redpath, 2015). Although there are many who cri-
tique separation as a means to achieve safety (Barnard, 1998), portraying it as rife with
internal conicts, power relations, and identity politics (e.g. Browne, 2009), since LGBT spaces
are frequently unwelcoming for them, this practice remains common among lesbian feminist
groups (Podmore, 2001, 2006).
At the JOH, for example, the closed women’s group is designated just for individuals
identifying as women (including transgender women). Unlike the youth groups, their meet-
ings do not take place in the back community-room but in the front living-room. The women’s
group is not framed as an activity requiring closed doors, and other activities can simulta-
neously take place in other rooms at the JOH. Its isolation is constructed through social
boundaries, not physical ones. The main reason for this dierence, as I was told by the JOH
sta, is that the participants in the women’s group are all over 21 and mostly out of the closet.
Moreover, the group is characterized as a cultural group, rather than a self-help or support
group. Thus, the separation is due to a fear of symbolic violence, encompassing the freedom
to say what one wants. The safe space that is formed, immersed in liberal logics, aims to
constitute participants’ belonging.

14 G. HARTAL
Separation, as a kind of symbolic boundary construction, is a common practice at the
JOH, and most of the social groups there segregate themselves from other groups by for-
mulating rules specifying who belongs and who does not. It is rooted in identity politics
discourses (Warner, 1999), which see identity and the forging of collective identity as an
essential tool in the process of LGBT liberation (see Bernstein, 1997; Richardson, 2000). The
creation of such segregated spaces is based on a logic maintaining the liberal right to cultural
life and the freedom to say what one wants within those spaces. Also, the act of separation
within LGBT spaces is motivated by a desire for visibility, making a distinguishable space in
which specic identity groups can operate.
Control
Controlling the surroundings is an additional frame of safety. Even though the idea of con-
trolling a space in order to formulate it as safe can be partially seen in all of the above frames,
I want to discuss it separately to tease out its nuances regarding external and internal inter-
ferences, disturbances, and risks. A discussion relating to a Tantra workshop (an Eastern erotic
sexuality workshop connecting mind and body), which was supposed to take place in the
desert illustrates this frame. Although the workshop got canceled (due to lack of safety),
the discussions it raised delineate the central understanding of this frame among the
activists.
Yonatan, the JOH director, raised interesting issues regarding the workshop’s safety:
Generally, the idea is to try and have a workshop indoors, inside the JOH where we can control
all the parameters […]. Inside the JOH we knew how to apply the boundaries of the space […].
The desert [on the other hand] is a place we cannot control… the contents, what would such
a weekend look like… We thought it would be the right thing rst to have a pilot, a two-hour
workshop here [at the JOH], since here the rules are clear as to what we can and cannot do.
Yonatan presented the will to have a Tantra workshop inside the JOH as a pilot for the out-
doors workshop. During the pilot program, the walls of the JOH would serve as protection
from voyeurism, from the gazes of strangers and the unpredictable.
The Tantra workshop is focused on sexuality. Taking queer sexuality issues outside the
JOH’s walls potentially exposes the participants to cultural shame with regard to sexuality,
and specically sexuality in the public space. The desert, where the workshop was supposed
to take place, is narrated as a dangerous and unpredictable space, mostly because the bound-
aries are not clear ones, not as explicit and denite like walls and a locked door. Thus, even
though the workshop was supposed to take place in an isolated place in the desert, never-
theless it is presented as one full of surprises, as not safe enough. Ironically, the JOH, which
is located in the city center of Jerusalem, a populated space, and one intolerant toward LGBT
individuals to boot, is described as safer than the desert. Established on the liberal right to
privacy, what makes the JOH a safer space for the Tantra workshop pilot is that it is a con-
trollable space, a space that can be regulated and monitored to protect the participants and
block outsiders’ gazes. The call for a gradual process in which activities would leave the JOH
closed space represents the fear of losing control due to the loss of substantive boundaries,
which seem essential for the creation of an LGBT safe space.
This attempt to control the surroundings to create a safe space was also illustrated by an
exhibition opening at the JOH. 13 January 2011 was the opening event of an exhibition
titled ‘A Proud Family’ by Boris Modylevsky. This was not the rst time the JOH had served

SOCIAL & CULTURAL GEOGRAPHY 15
as an exhibition space, and management of the event seemed to be routine for the JOH
activists and sta. Sivan, the administrative coordinator, nished organizing the space, and
then waited for the audience. Just a few minutes later, the room was crowded and Sivan
went up to a person lming the event, informing him that he would need the specic consent
of whomever he wanted to lm. The photographer then went one by one, asking everyone
if it would be alright for them to appear in the lm. The answers varied.
The need for consent from every member of the audience exemplies the desire to control
the visibility of the individuals in the space. Specically, this is an attempt to recreate strict
boundaries and control the exposure of LGBT sexuality in the public space by blocking the
camera’s gaze. Visibility and exposure is framed as uncontrollable, creating fear of stigma
and the potential to induce LGBT shame.
The policy and main practice of the control frame is the creation of clear boundaries by
closing the space and regulating it. The basic reasoning for this practice is anchored in the
liberal right to privacy and the freedom to say what one wants, enabling participants to
maintain their anonymity, but be included in a space separated by engineered social prac-
tices. This frame also indicates that visibility can at times be a risk factor in forming an LGBT
safe space in that it uncontrollably reveals who is in the space, and thus may conict with
the inclusivity, fortication, and separation frames.
Final thoughts: fragile subjectivities and (un)safe spaces
Investigating the construction of queer safe space requires scrutinizing both internal power
relations as well as the construction of socio-spatial relations. In this article, I have identied
ve distinct frames, oering diverse perspectives on safe spaces and their meanings for LGBT
individuals. Even though these frames seem to emerge from separate groups within the
JOH, it is essential to keep in mind two things: First, all frames co-exist in one location, facil-
itating a limited number of activists who not only know each other and work together, but
are inuenced by each other’s politics; Second, since organizational resources are always
limited, and in this case – extremely limited, none of these groups are exclusively free to
construct the space as their own, and mainly react to, criticize, or adopt other group’s per-
ceptions, discourses, and goals regarding the shared space. Therefore, the frames presented
in this paper are used as a tool to highlight nuances in queer safe space discourse, and reect
the way an LGBT community space is constructed/constructs queer subjectivities.
The rst frame calls for fortication due to LGBT individuals’ fear of violence. This leads
the JOH sta to lock the doors and post a guard at the entrance. This guard’s presence,
holding the keys and checking anyone who wishes to enter, created safety. At the same time,
the guard is external to the JOH’s social fabric, fomenting new kinds of dangerous behaviors
and recreating unsafety. The second frame calls for anonymity and is most apparent in the
construction of the HIV/AIDS clinic. Anonymity is a tool to manage aects such as shame
associated with HIV/AIDS, and is necessary for maintaining dignity within a human rights
discourse. In such a discourse revealing a person as being HIV positive is an act of shameful
labeling. Anonymity enables the space to be alienated, making it safer for patients who do
not want to identify themselves. However, the discussion about the establishment of a clinic
for transgender individuals, the third frame, calls for a creation of a space of belonging. This
reects the need for a respectful and inclusive space, in which transgender individuals would
be able to reveal their dierences and get assistance from the medical establishment. The

16 G. HARTAL
fourth frame concerns separation and centers on the construction of social boundaries,
forming internal relationships of inclusion and exclusion based on identity. These are appar-
ent in the separation of the women’s group, an exclusive group solely for women who are
attracted to women. The fth and nal frame reects the need to create a controlled envi-
ronment to prevent exposure to outsiders’ gazes. The Tantra workshop provided a view into
an attempt to create restrictions and limitations designed to control the space and its bound-
aries. By compartmentalizing the space and creating ‘safety bubbles’ within it, a feeling of
safety was negotiated.
Table 1 presents these major elements of the framing process.
While there are some overlapping aspects between the ve frames, there are also con-
tradictions. The fortication frame creates concrete boundaries and check-ups, leaving out-
side whoever doesn’t want to be identied, while the anonymity frame demands obscurity
and non-identication. The control frame contradicts inclusivity, specically because of the
Jerusalem context. In this inammable situation, controlling who joins the JOH’s activities
or who enters its doors automatically leads to labeling and to the exclusion of some indi-
viduals who are thought to be potential threats. For example, when an Ultra-Orthodox person
comes to the JOH they are immediately marked as homophobic, as someone the guard
needs to keep away, while this person could be an LGBT individual seeking advice or wanting
to take part in community events.
Contemporary discussions of space in queer geography that explore the relationship
between sexuality, place, and space are diverse in theory, politics, and scope. Much of this
literature concentrates on the socio-cultural constructions of space (Brown et al., 2007),
acknowledging the ways that social groups negotiate their everyday embodied politics,
de-centering traditional constructions of space. Using categories that emerged from the
JOH activists’ discourses, this paper revealed dierent framings of LGBT safe spaces. These
framings call into question certain assumptions: What are safe spaces comprised of (practices
and policies)? Who are they safe for and when? And what are they safe from? Moreover, since
the creation and understanding of safe space is always contested and ambiguous, by dis-
cussing its practices and meanings in various LGBT groups who share a space I am making
the underlying overt and covert logics, meanings, and goals more reexive.
What is apparent is that all frames are based on human rights concepts, particularly the
right to privacy, culture, and freedom of speech. The basic reasoning for creating a safe
space is enmeshed in the liberal logics that underlie identity politics. Still, a noteworthy
distinction should be made between two perspectives on this rights discourse: on the one
Table 1.Elements of LGBT safe space framing processes.
Frame Policies and practices Basic reasoning Related aects
Fortification Physically safeguarding the
space
The right to asylum or sanctuary Fear of violence
Anonymity Constructing a space where no
questions are asked
The right to privacy Fear of stigma and shame
Inclusivity Agreed upon policies and
guidelines for communication
The right to dignity and privacy,
non-objectification
Fear of violence, fear of stigma
and shame, constituting
belonging
Separation Segregation of a group’s
time-space through social
boundaries
The right to cultural life,
the freedom to say what one
wants
Fear of symbolic violence,
constituting belonging
Control Creating clear boundaries by
closing the space
The right to privacy, the freedom to
say what one wants
Fear of stigma and shame

SOCIAL & CULTURAL GEOGRAPHY 17
hand, viewing LGBT visibility as empowerment, creating usable regulations and guidelines,
and on the other, viewing LGBT visibility as a risk, constructing a semi-invisible space. This
distinction stems from the aective dierentiation between violence and shame. While the
fortication, inclusivity and separation frames are motivated by the perception of visibility
as empowerment, the anonymity and control frames are prompted by thinking of visibility
as a risk.
However, the production of queer safe space within human rights logics not only main-
tains power relations (Browne, 2009), but also creates spaces of normalization (Skeggs, 1999),
rendering the idea of a free space for the construction of alternative culture an obscure and
unachievable utopia. While safe space is often discussed through accounts of homophobia/
heterosexism, it is rarely considered through intersectionality (Fox & Ore, 2010). Delineating
the ve dierent frames, this paper oers a contemporary perspective on the investigation
of queer safe spaces within the eld of spatial queer politics.
In conclusion, there will always be conicts within processes of creating safe spaces. Even
though these safe spaces vary widely, they all utilize identity politics and employ liberal
discourses when introducing their reasoning and aects, and when establishing practices
and policies for creating safety. These practices, aects and understandings of safety reex-
ively maintain LGBT individuals as fragile subjects, in need of protection from unsafety that
may emerge at any time.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Orna Sasson-Levy, Lital Pascar, Tair Karazi-Presler, Chen Misgav and Tanya Zion-Waldoks
for their comments on previous drafts of this article. Thanks to Ebtesam Barakat for the help with the
photographs. Finally, thanks to three anonymous reviewers for their insightful comments.
Disclosure statement
No potential conict of interest was reported by the author.
Funding
This work was supported by the Israel Science Foundation [grant number 59/16].
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