For many, Pride Month represents resilience and fighting back at society’s negative perceptions of queer people worldwide. Since the 1969 Stonewall uprising, a pivotal moment in the struggle for gay liberation, legions of people have found their niches in celebrating themselves and individuals just like them, bringing the importance of queer communities further into view. NAFS is one such platform.
The brainchild of Drew Demetry, NAFS has been spotlighting and celebrating queer SWANA creatives since 2019, unearthing untold stories about these communities in the process. Through parties, radio and events, it brings people together to connect and form bonds, anchored by their queerness and curiosity for their heritage. As a result, NAFS has been featured at London’s Southbank Centre and on the likes of Voices Radio and Foundation FM. We spoke to NAFS founder Drew Demetry to find out more about the platform, his discoveries about the queer SWANA world and why the dance floor sustains queer culture.
What does Pride Month mean to you? How do you celebrate it?
Drew Demetry: Pride Month was born out of riot and resistance. It’s meant to be about liberation, freedom and fighting for equality for all. Unfortunately, we’ve taken several steps back in what queer liberation truly means. Many have forgotten why this month is commemorated in the first place. We live in a time where glitter is thrown on the same shit systems of oppression and called progress. But just because it sparkles doesn’t mean it doesn’t stink.
True queer liberation must go hand in hand with the liberation of Palestine, Sudan, Congo and indigenous people, the rights of our trans siblings and all those being oppressed. Our struggles are interconnected. We’re all fighting the same beast. As for celebrating, I celebrate my queerness every single day, week, month, year. I don’t need a designated month to celebrate it; it is who I am.
Tell us about NAFS, what inspired its creation and how it has been building that community.
I started NAFS after over a decade working in London’s creative industries, where I faced ongoing racism and homophobia. Often with no accountability. What began as an online platform showcasing queer SWANA artists quickly evolved into something bigger: music, poetry, literature, performance, and community. The SWANA histories are rich, our culture beautiful. But much of it has been silenced.
NAFS became a way to spotlight and celebrate that, to bring our people together. Whether through dancefloors, live performances or Arab classics sung at the top of our lungs together. NAFS isn’t about creating a singular vision. The queer SWANA diaspora isn’t monolithic. We have different tastes and needs. NAFS hosts club nights, art exhibitions, self-defense classes, book clubs, healing workshops and spaces where everyone can find themselves reflected.
What kind of stories do you hope to continue to tell via NAFS?
The truth. The truth of what it means to be queer and SWANA, both in our homelands and in the West. Our stories are often erased, diluted, sexualised or ignored but we’ve always existed and always will. Some stories are joyful, some are painful and some are just about everyday life. But all of them deserve to be valued.
What are some of the key learnings you’ve taken about the queer SWANA world from the work you do?
That we’re complex and full of contradictions. Strong and soft, angry and kind, fierce and full of joy. We have opinions and we hold space for each other with deep care. There’s collective grief but also collective healing and those who align with our values support each other fiercely.
As a proud representative of queer communities, how important is the dance floor to you?
The dance floor is a sanctuary. It’s where I’ve found freedom, where I’ve sweated out pain and joy. I grew up memorising music video choreography and recreating it in clubs with my friends, it was always about expression, release and connection. Closing your eyes and letting the music move through you is euphoric. The dance floor is where strangers become lovers, friends, kin. It’s transcendent. It’s medicine.
“The dance floor is a sanctuary. It’s where I’ve found freedom, where I’ve sweated out pain and joy.”
How do you summarise the impact of queer communities on modern nightlife around the world?
Queer communities are the blueprint. We’ve shaped music, fashion, art and global pop culture, often without credit or safety. And yet, our spaces are constantly under threat. More queer venues are closing and what’s left is being invaded by people who don’t respect the energy these spaces were built on. Allies are welcome, but entitlement isn’t.
What role does parties and the dance floor play in cultivating these communities?
Parties and dancefloors are more than nightlife. They’re sites of resistance, joy, release and remembrance. They’re where we mourn, heal, celebrate and exist without apology. These are the places where queer community is not just formed, but sustained.
How do you think queer communities are informed by what happens in music and culture today?
Queer communities have always been both the architects and the mirrors of culture. Music, fashion, and politics flow through us. We set trends, we shift conversations, we build movements. But in today’s landscape, it’s crucial that we stay critical: Who is profiting off our culture? Who is being erased in the process? And how do we reclaim our narratives? We live our truths daily, often in resistance to the status quo. That lived experience continues to shape the music and culture around us in radical, powerful ways.
What would you say are some of the best or up and coming queer parties/events right now?
I have to say NAFS events. Not just because I run them, but because they’re built with intention. We don’t follow trends. We make space for emerging talent and foster connection whether it’s through dance, poetry, or grief circles. Life isn’t always a party and we reflect that. Sometimes we need to cry and grieve together, and that’s just as valid as celebration.
What do you want to see more or less of in London’s queer nightlife scenes?
We’re seeing more hyper-curated, clout-chasing, performative and exploitative events that feel disconnected from the community. At the same time, there’s a strong counter-current of grassroots collectives like ours and other community nights who are building spaces with intention, love, and political consciousness. I’d like to see more of that.
What have been the most exciting aspects of engaging with queer nightlife scenes for you?
Seeing people fully themselves. Watching someone take the mic, the stage, or the dancefloor and just be. That moment when you catch someone’s eye mid-song and you both belt out the lyrics. Those are the moments that make it all worth it. The joy, the connection, the sense of home.