On a Friday night in Beirut, the stage lights of Metro al-Madina swept across a packed theater, illuminating Alexandre Paulikevitch as he stepped forward in a white dress and corset. The Lebanese dancer, age 43, moved to the strains of classical Arabic music, his lipstick and eyeliner shimmering under the spotlight. The audience, a sold-out crowd, watched in rapt attention—some smiling, some singing along, many filming on their phones. The scene was one of celebration and defiance, set against a backdrop of mounting social and political pressures in Lebanon.
Paulikevitch’s performance on September 13, 2025, was more than a dance recital. It was a bold challenge to entrenched social and gender norms. His undulating movements, a style long associated with women in Middle Eastern dance, have become a lightning rod for controversy. According to the Associated Press, fundamentalist Christian and Muslim groups have accused him of “promoting homosexuality,” a charge Paulikevitch flatly rejects. “I’m not promoting anything, I am just dancing. If you want to come watch me, come,” he declared from his changing room, minutes before the show began.
The threats against Paulikevitch were not idle. Groups like the right-wing Christian Soldiers of God and Sunni Islamist factions had previously targeted him, and security forces even called the venue before the show to express their concerns. In response, Metro al-Madina’s management brought in extra police protection—armed officers stood outside, ready for trouble that, in the end, never materialized. The only people who showed up were the enthusiastic audience members, eager to witness a performance that had already sparked heated debate across Lebanon.
Paulikevitch’s art draws on a long, complicated history. As reported by Devdiscourse and the AP, male dancers in the 19th and early 20th centuries—particularly in Egypt—were once celebrated for their expressive movements. Today, however, such traditions are often marginalized or condemned. Paulikevitch sees his work as a tribute to these forgotten forms, pushing back against what he calls the “narrow and exoticized Western perception of Middle Eastern dancing.” He dismisses the idea that his performances are merely “belly dancing,” insisting that they encompass a much broader and richer local heritage.
But in Lebanon, even a relatively tolerant country by regional standards, breaking with tradition can come at a high cost. The country’s LGBTQ+ community, while more visible and organized than elsewhere in the Middle East, still faces significant challenges. Over 20 years ago, Lebanon saw the founding of Helem—the first non-governmental organization for queer rights in the region. Some nightlife venues, like Metro al-Madina, have become safe havens, hosting drag shows and welcoming LGBTQ+ patrons. Yet, as the AP notes, crackdowns on free speech and queer expression have intensified in recent years, sometimes erupting into violence. In the summer of 2023, for example, Lebanon’s culture minister tried to ban the movie “Barbie,” claiming it “promotes homosexuality and transgenders.” Right-wing groups have mobilized against rainbow displays in bakeries and schools, and in one notorious incident, Soldiers of God members stormed a Beirut bar during a drag show, attacking patrons and forcing others to hide in a bathroom.
Paulikevitch is no stranger to such hostility. He has a history of activism, having participated in protests for labor rights, against domestic violence, and during the 2019 uprising against Lebanon’s banks and political elite. He has faced attacks—and was once imprisoned under Lebanon’s ambiguous laws criminalizing sexual activity “against nature,” which some interpret as targeting same-sex acts. During the 2020 protests, he was among a group of activists beaten and arrested by riot police outside the Central Bank. Despite these ordeals, Paulikevitch remains undeterred. “We dance because we have no other option. We dance because whatever happened and whatever is happening to us, this is our resistance,” he told the audience after his first number, his white dress billowing as he addressed the crowd.
For Paulikevitch, dance is inseparable from politics. “Me putting this makeup and putting (on) my dresses is a political act, (whether) I want it or not,” he explained. “Doing what I do is resisting, is giving the possibility for others to be inspired, to say it is possible. I’m paying a high price, but ... maybe, maybe I can inspire someone.” His performances, he says, are not about imposing an agenda but about claiming space for freedom and self-expression. “They think if one looks a certain way, that means they have an agenda to convert society. If the society was going to convert, it would have happened hundreds of years ago.”
Lebanon’s current turmoil adds another layer to the story. Since 2019, the country has been mired in economic collapse, with its banks failing and state institutions decaying from decades of corruption. More than half the population—roughly six million people—now lives in poverty. The devastation from last year’s war between Hezbollah and Israel has only deepened the crisis. Against this backdrop, Paulikevitch’s insistence on performing seems almost quixotic. “With everything that’s happening now, especially now—the killing, the strikes, the extermination, and the insanity that we are living through—is this the time to focus on me?” he wondered aloud while applying his makeup before the show. “Who’s paying attention to me? I don’t understand where this gravity is coming from, which is why I refused to stop my show, because something doesn’t add up.”
Yet, as Paulikevitch points out, the culture wars in Lebanon echo broader battles over identity and freedom playing out across the globe. In the country’s fractured sectarian political system, attacks on LGBTQ+ expression have become a rare point of unity for otherwise divided groups. Still, Paulikevitch refuses to be cowed. Addressing his critics directly, he said: “I have a problem with you the same way you have a problem with me, but the difference between us is that I respect you. Even if your beard or your appearance bothers me, I respect and accept you as you are. You can’t see me as I’m not getting near you, (so) why do you have such a problem with me?”
As the music faded and the applause swelled, Paulikevitch’s message was clear: art and resistance are intertwined, and the struggle for freedom is far from over. “Doing what I do is resisting, is giving the possibility for others to be inspired, to say it is possible,” he said. For now, at least, the stage in Beirut remains a place where that possibility is alive—and where, despite the risks, hope for a more open future still flickers.
