Friday, June 9, 2023

"From exes to friends"/ "Ms. Adichie: There's no single story on trans women" (LGBTQ)

June is Gay Pride month and that's why I'm posting these articles about LGBTQ.  When you read this, I hope you will have empathy and compassion for them:


Mar. 3, 2017 "From exes to friends": I found this article by S. Bear Bergman in the Globe and Mail:


When Jay McGillivray was critically ill and in intensive care last year, her daily companions and caregivers in the hospital were mostly her exes – including Joyce Brown, her closest friend and, for most of the 1980s, her romantic partner.

To many straight people, this kind of story may seem startling. Heterosexual models regarding ex-partners tend more toward “everything you own in a box to the left” than “that’s what friends are for.” The idea of remaining intimate with an ex-partner, of creating a familial long-term relationship with someone after the romance is over, feels foreign. But among lesbian, gay, bi, and queer people there are many such stories – stories of ex-lovers who have become close, intimate friends over time.

As boyfriends, David Demchuk and Asif Kamal first lived separately, then in different wings of a large building. Three years after their breakup, Demchuk moved just down the hall from Kamal. Their lives are entwined to the extent that they discuss retiring near each other, as well as sharing meals and trading talk of their present-day relationships.

And when queer poet Andrea Gibson tells people that she and her ex-partner have recently purchased a home together, the news is often met with intense surprise – sometimes so intense that she doesn’t get to add that both of their new partners live there, too.

The question of why LGBTQ people often stay so close is compelling, and also somewhat contested. Gibson, who lives in Colorado, put very plainly what others alluded to. “We’ve lost so much family. A lot of queer people, we can’t count on the families we were born into,” she said. “When we meet people that really get us, that are on our side? We’ll do a lot more work to keep those people in our lives.”

Demchuk is a Toronto writer whose current partner also lives in the same downtown Toronto building as he and Kamal, but in yet another apartment – one he shares with his ex, a woman.

 Demchuk, who was interviewed with Kamal, spoke frankly about the reality of getting older. “We need each other,” he said. “I have health issues. My will and end-of-life wishes are with my partner and with Asif. Absolutely not my family of origin.”

Kamal joined in. After they broke up, Demchuk remained an important presence in his family’s life as well. “Before my father died, he had Alzheimer’s, and I was caring for him and supporting him,” he said. “I said to David, listen. I have life insurance. If I make you the beneficiary, will you take care of my dad [if I die]? David said yes. Immediately, yes.” This was four years after they’d ended their seven-year relationship.

While this kind of post-relationship connectedness might feel like a rule to some, there are plenty of exceptions. Jessica Miller, a home organizer in Toronto, isn’t interested in being friends with her exes and she feels some judgment because of it. “I am a queer Jew and I mostly date queer Jews, and that’s a subset within a subset,” says Miller. “Every year on Shavuot, I will run into every Jewish woman I have ever dated. And I will be cordial, but I am never very happy about it.” Still, she says, there’s a social expectation that she will be glad to see them.

In 2013, photographer and filmmaker Michele Pearson Clarke started a photo project called It’s Good To Be Needed, a series of portraits of ex-lovers who have not remained friends, holding hands. It was motivated in part by a need to address the feeling of “double failure,” as she put it, of having “first failed to stay married and then failed to stay friends like ‘good queers’ do.”

Oakland University researchers Justin Mogilski and Lisa Welling recently completed an 860-person study to discover why people wanted to be friends with their exes. 

They found many cited practical reasons, like convenience and access to sex, as the biggest motivators.

That study, however, only included people in “cross-sex” friendships – that is, straight people and a small sprinkling (about 3 per cent) of bisexuals. While the work illuminates heterosexual behavior, it fails to address queer community norms and how LGBTQ experiences of breaking up might diverge from their heterosexual counterparts. 

It’s a knowledge gap that’s replicated in other academic studies, creating an absence of understanding about unique factors that sometimes make things hard for queer exes.

Take the issue of intimate partner violence or abuse, which is usually framed as an issue of female victims escaping male abusers. For LGBTQ people leaving abusive relationships, the social expectation of friendly exes can be especially alienating. 

The victimized partner may have to repeatedly defend their decision to stay away from the abuser. Eric (who, to maintain anonymity, preferred not to give his last name) left his abusive relationship with a male partner but didn’t feel ready to tell friends why he’d broken it off, because he “didn’t want to be seen as a drama queen,” he said. 

Later he found out that the same man had been abusive to several other boyfriends. Eric eventually moved to avoid having to negotiate social situations that might include his ex.

Even in breakups – straight or queer – that are less felonious, many find a cooling-off period invaluable. 

Gibson, who tours frequently, noted that being apart from her exes while she traveled probably contributed to the ability of both parties to recognize what they missed and loved about each other. Early on, Demchuk and Kamal had an unspoken agreement that discussing other lovers was off-limits. Now, though, the two often share joys or complaints about their current partners.

When MacGillivray was ill, none of her cousins or children, with whom she’s very close, lived near enough to her to come to the hospital to visit every day, except her young daughter Lita.

The only adult who made it daily was her ex. “That was Joyce,” she said. “Every morning, every night. And others with her; five of my exes. They all knew who each other were, they all banded together for me. But Joyce, she’s my compass for 35 years now. I tell anyone I get into a relationship with that Joyce and I don’t have sex, but we have deep, deep love.”

And if they’re not comfortable with that?

“Then it doesn’t go any further,” said MacGillivray, implacably. “Joyce is non-negotiable.”

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/relationships/from-exes-to-friends-the-lasting-bonds-of-many-lgbtq-relationships/article34110401/


CounsellorMD
9 days ago

If, as discussed here, these people are talking of retiring together and share meals and confidences daily while living next to each other, they are behaving like life partners, not exes, whether they are having conjugal relations or not. To call them "exes" is absurd.


3 Reactions


Neo_Classical Liberal
8 days ago

I'm curious how the order of letters was established in LBGQT. Why are Ls first and Ts last?

1 Reaction


Craig S
7 days ago

They basically just get added in chronological order. Back in the 1970s and 1980s, people generally just said "lesbian and gay", or "L/G". Bisexuals got added on in the early 1990s -- "lesbian, gay or bisexual", or "LGB" -- and then the T for transgender started showing up in the late 1990s and early 2000s as transgender people started becoming more visible. 

And much more recently, as more and more people started identifying as "queer", the Q was tacked on at the end. Basically, the letters don't get rearranged; each new letter just gets added on to the end of whatever the acronym was before.



Craig S
7 days ago

In reply to:

I'm curious how the order of letters was established in LBGQT. Why are Ls first and Ts last?
— Neo_Classical Liberal

Basically, it's just the chronological order in which each group reached the tipping point where they were large and visible enough to warrant adding another letter to the acronym. In the 1970s and 1980s, people usually just said "lesbian and gay" or "L/G". In the early 1990s it started becoming "lesbian, gay and bisexual", or "LGB", because bisexual people were becoming increasingly visible in the community; then in the later 1990s and 2000s, transgender people were becoming more visible and active and it became "LGBT". Then, in the 21st century, it became more and more common for younger people to identify as queer instead of lesbian, gay or bisexual, which is why you see the Q so often now. Basically, as each group becomes large and visible enough that the acronym isn't adequate anymore, the next new letter gets added on to the end of whatever the existing acronym used to be.


2 Reactions



BarryDennison
6 days ago

In reply to:

I'm curious how the order of letters was established in LBGQT. Why are Ls first and Ts last?
— Neo_Classical Liberal
"Ladies first"! :)


Hide 3 replies


Earthman1000
6 days ago

No house to split, kids to fight over, strangulating support payments? Well, of course they can remain friendly.


KStroik
6 days ago

Andrea Gibson uses they/them pronouns, not she/her, I believe. :)


Mar. 17, 2017 "Ms. Adichie: There's no single story on trans women": Today I found this article by Morgan M. Page in the Globe and Mail:



Morgan M. Page is an artist, writer and activist who lives in Montreal.

Who has the power to decide what stories get told? This is one of the central questions acclaimed Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie grappled with in her viral TED talk on the dangers of what she calls the “single story.” In it, Adichie cautions against reducing the complex lives of marginalized others – including African women and immigrants – to stereotypical narratives.

Her insightful analysis gained many fans, among them megastars like Beyoncé (who sampled Adichie on her 2013 self-titled album) and, perhaps, some not-quite-so-famous trans women like me.


Recently, while promoting her new book Dear Ijeawele, Or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions, Adichie found herself in hot water. During an interview with Britain’s Channel 4, Adichie expressed discomfort about trans women being considered women.

“If you’ve lived in the world as a man, with the privileges that the world accords to men, and then sort of switched gender, it’s difficult for me to accept that then we can equate your experience with the experience of a woman who has lived from the beginning in the world as a woman,” she said.

There is much to unpack in this statement. Adichie is telling a single story about trans women: that, before our transitions, we lived our lives accepted as men and moved through the world with male privilege. 

Many trans women bristle at this tired narrative, both because it is used to delegitimize our womanhood, and because, for many of us, it simply isn’t true.

I was a visibly gender non-conforming child who transitioned young, in the days before international conversations about transgender youth, such as those currently in the news due to a slew of anti-trans “bathroom bills” in the United States, which would prevent trans people from using the public washrooms of their choice.

My experiences of gendered and sexual socialization don’t match those of the men that I know who are cisgendered, including my own brother. I was bullied and ostracized for my femininity, to the point of having to change schools twice and eventually dropping out at age 16.

Actor Laverne Cox, of Orange is the New Black, tweeted similar experiences in response to Adichie’s comments. “My gender was constantly policed. I was told I acted like a girl and was bullied and shamed for that,” she wrote. 

“My femininity did not make me feel privileged.” Whatever male privilege I’m supposed to have had didn’t protect me from being harassed, assaulted, and sexually assaulted – all before the age of 18 – experiences that are all too common among trans women, even before we transition.

It’s difficult to reconcile the concept of male privilege with my experience, because the violence I was subjected to came as a direct result of not being considered male. 

White privilege played a big role in couching the impacts of these events, keeping me housed and fed even in the direst of times, in ways trans women of colour often are not.

While not all trans women have the early transition experience I had – and having it doesn’t make me any more a valid woman than those who transition later in life or in different ways 

– my experiences do illuminate how Adichie’s single story about trans women holding male privilege simply does not reflect the vast diversity of trans lives.

Adichie is a masterful writer and thinker who has taught us all the dangers of single stories.

One hopes that she will take her own lessons to heart and listen to trans women tell our own. We’re more than happy to share them with her, woman to woman.


http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/relationships/ms-adichie-theres-no-single-story-about-trans-women/article34297048/

There are 19 comments:


I do not like them Sam I Am
4 days ago
Just so I don't make any mistakes, is a "trans woman" one who started out as woman or one who finishes off as woman?

8 Reactions


The media lies - to YOU
2 days ago
I wonder this too.


helenagorgeous
4 days ago

I wish she would have simply said, 'that's not an issue I am really knowledgeable enough to speak about'. I also think it's important to remember what context she is speaking from and something isn't sitting right with me as I watch North Americans line up to school her, especially white ones. How about signal boosting a Nigerian trans woman's response to her? 

When cis or straight people of colour make mistakes around LGBTQ issues, the privileging of responses from white critics risks reinforcing racialized power dynamics and erasing POC voices.

9 Reactions


Don227
4 days ago

Hello Helena, I think that if you tried to speak your mind simply and directly, without all the jargon, you might have something worthwhile to say. I found it got lost in all the jargon, though.

5 Reactions



Mr. Nick Rivers
3 days ago

Agree with the comment about jargon. If you want to further your cause in the mainstream, you won't get far using abstruse language and assuming everyone will get it.

To that point, a voice is not something capable of being erased; that term implies some palpable destruction. This sort of inapt stretching of language (I notice the new New Left likes to do this with the term "violence" as well) degrades that language and robs it of any efficacy it might otherwise have had. This is not a propitious tactic. Quite the opposite, in fact.

1 Reaction



helenagorgeous
3 days ago

Abstruse, eh? Your second paragraph illustrates a problem I often see on the 'New Left': we only take issue with the jargon of others. Nowhere is jargon more mandatory than in conversations about gender. I didn't create that problem; I've learned the vocabulary after getting scolded when describing my own experiences by folks who reinvent the language we use to describe ourselves every year on tumblr. 

Perhaps I felt obliged to use 'jargon' because this article employs it in spades, with everything from 'marginalized others' to 'stereotypical narratives' to 'male privilege'. Adichie herself is arguably being taken to task because she doesn't use the same 'jargon' that dominates North American conversations about gender.

Is it so wrong for someone to say that they would rather see a non-white, non-American author critiqued for a comment about trans women by a trans woman who isn't white? It sure is propitious to bypass engaging with someone's point by nitpicking about their language.


3 Reactions


Mr. Nick Rivers
3 days ago

It's not nitpicking to point out that if people can't understand what you're saying, then saying it won't take you very far. That seems a rather fundamental critique to me.

Furthermore, nobody is forcing you to use these linguistic contrivances. It sounds like those you claim have scolded you were guilty of doing exactly what you lament in your final sentence. And yet, rather than pressing for substantive engagement, you've simply rolled over to their demands .

3 Reactions


helenagorgeous
3 days ago

And how is my language any harder to understand than your own 'linguistic contrivances', or the language Page uses in her own article? Why does it surprise you to see an article like this elicit a comment that uses the same kind of language? Do you go to the business section to lecture commenters on articles about economics for using the kind of 'abstruse' language used in those articles? If this issue truly matters to you, why not turn your sneer toward Page for her own use of jargon? If you want to lecture someone on using incomprehensible language, maybe don't use so many 10 dollar words to do it.

2 Reactions


Mr. Nick Rivers
2 days ago

My original comment was a more general point about new New Left jargon that could apply equally to you, the author, and anyone else with an obstinate allegiance to their private dictionary.

As to your example, most people can see why items in the business section have some relevance to their own lives. As such, in order to better engage with these items, it might behoove people to familiarize themselves with the jargon. Those who fail to do so might put themselves at a palpable disadvantage in financial affairs. Business jargon often tends to be quite lazy and is therefore easier to parse.

As for my own language, I am using relatively well-known terms that I find to be more precise and fit for purpose. Nevertheless, anyone with an Internet connection can unearth the meaning of an unfamiliar word in a matter of seconds.

2 Reactions


Mr. Nick Rivers
2 days ago

None of the above seems applicable to the causes and jargon of the new New Left.
Schisms within that movement, and many of the causes themselves, are not clearly relevant to the lives of the many. Thus not learning the jargon comes with little or no cost to the majority. Yet the architects of these causes and schisms seem to suggest that the ordinary person ought to care and educate themselves about these causes. (Perhaps the most arrogant and absurd refrain one hears from this camp when challenged is that it's not their job to educate you on these matters.) Being unable to make the case for that asserted relevance without retreating to academic jargon, which is not readily accessible in a brief online search and in fact probably took years to learn, reeks of obfuscation.
I'll close by pointing out the irony that you have continued to do the very thing you purport to criticize me for: bypassing substantive engagement to nitpick language choices.

1 Reaction


firef0x
2 days ago

In reply to:

Abstruse, eh? Your second paragraph illustrates a problem I often see on the 'New Left': we only take issue with the jargon of others. Nowhere is jargon more mandatory than in conversations about...
— helenagorgeous
" It sure is propitious to bypass engaging with someone's point by nitpicking about their language."
Not only is it propitious, but it is frankly mandatory. Some of the language invented for these causes registers as laughable and barely is credible (i.e. triggered, micro-aggressions, etc).


firef0x
2 days ago

In reply to:

I wish she would have simply said, 'that's not an issue I am really knowledgeable enough to speak about'. I also think it's important to remember what context she is speaking from and something...
— helenagorgeous
" the privileging of responses from white critics risks reinforcing racialized power dynamics and erasing POC voices."
You take issue with people who ask you just what it is you mean by the above?
You sound triggered.
Nick Rivers was being diplomatic about this phrase. I don't know what is more deplorable: the nonsensical bits that sound copied and pasted from a social sciences course or you believing this tripe.


helenagorgeous
2 days ago

I'm not personally triggered, but I am beginning to think that my criticism 'triggered' Nick Rivers as he continues to use 10 dollar words to selectively attack me for the social science language that the author and I both use.


helenagorgeous
2 days ago

In reply to:

None of the above seems applicable to the causes and jargon of the new New Left. Schisms within that movement, and many of the causes themselves, are not clearly relevant to the lives of the...
— Mr. Nick Rivers

This would all be fine and good if you consistently applied your jargon principle to both me AND the author, whose style of language I merely echoed in my response to her. It's hard not to conclude, from your selective contempt, that you simply really identified with the article, or know/like the author, and you can't stand to see it criticized.


Mr. Nick Rivers
2 days ago

At no point have I applied it exclusively to you. That is a gross misreading of my points, in total ignorance of my most recent post.
I have rather leftists proclivities, but the teachers and the students of twenty-first century progressivism risk letting the rich ideas and theories they've inherited die on their watch, partly because of their tortured misuse of language. While this obstinate use of bewildering neoligisms is not their worst offence, it underlies all their practical failures, especially the failure to attract new adherents and build a broad movement.
This is a troubling failure and society will be worse off for it. That is principally what I'm inveighing against, or at least that is what motivates my critiques; claiming you're the only target is a wee bit self-important.


helenagorgeous
2 days ago

So what do you think of Page's language then? What's your analysis of her article itself?


Mr. Nick Rivers
2 days ago

You clearly are already well aware of what I think about the language.
As for the article itself, I'll grant that it is light on the more nonsensical jargon you often find in articles dealing with this sort of theme. However, it's a typical reaction to a perceived deviation from the new orthodoxy in progressivism: the idea that if you believe in one tenet associated with the new New Left ideology then you must believe in the rest.
Anybody who doesn't live up to that assumption, who has the temerity to dissent from or even question the sanctity of any of these tenets, must bear the brunt of a lecture on why they are ignorant for even holding such thoughts in their mind. It's a mentality redolent of the Cultural Revolution.
While this article certainly isn't the most vehement lecture of that sort, it's of the same kind. And it's this divisive mentality—this idea that any dissent, disagreement, or query is an apostasy necessitating re-education—that is sabotaging the left from within.



helenagorgeous
2 days ago

This was very much a vehement lecture and the closet thing to a 'calling out' that I've ever come across in the Globe and Mail. Adichie didn't use the dominant North American gender studies vocabulary to talk about trans issues and earned herself an international scolding. This has been all over the media all week. Nothing Page says here hasn't already been said by people better positioned to say it according to her own progressive community values. And I can see how my point alienates you, but it should make sense to Page, because I mirrored her own community vernacular.


Hide 15 replies


JC12345
2 days ago

Excellent article Ms. Page.




"Burden of proof" (LGBTQ immigrants)

June is Gay Pride month and that's why I'm posting these articles about LGBTQ.  When you read this, I hope you will have empathy and compassion for them:


May 5, 2017
"Burden of proof": Today I found this article by Zosia Bieslki in the Globe and Mail:


When they reach Canadian soil, gay refugees fleeing repressive, homophobic regimes face a maddening challenge. Fearing being beaten, jailed, tortured or killed in their home countries, they hide their sexual orientation all their lives.

In Canada, they face a 180: to secure status as a persecuted minority, they are asked to prove their sexuality on the spot.

This means furnishing refugee boards with detailed documentation of their same-sex relationships – intimate texts, letters, photographs and other romantic artifacts they may have erased, or never manufactured, for their own safety. Other gay refugees have no boyfriends or girlfriends to show at all, having remained single out of fear.

Without proof, gay refugee claimants’ credibility is shot. How do they convince Canada to give them sanctuary?

On May 1, Canada will begin to address the unique circumstances that this highly vulnerable population faces with the country’s first ever guidelines entirely devoted to LGBTQ refugee claimants. 

The guidelines set out best practices and expectations for decision makers sitting on refugee boards nationwide.

“Before this, we’ve had to rely on board members having good judgment, having good discretion,” said Sharalyn Jordan, an organizer with Vancouver’s Rainbow Refugee, which assists LGBTQ claimants. “This makes me very hopeful that we will start seeing more consistent, more just decisions.”

The guidelines warn against stereotyping and against applying standards from Canada to claimants from other countries. They highlight the impact that trauma has on people’s memories. 

And they urge decision makers to weigh evidence in the context of ongoing persecution: Would it be safe for a lesbian in a homophobic regime to walk back into the police station where she was jailed, without charge, to ask for her police records so Canadian officials could pore over them later?

“This is intended to promote a greater understanding of the diversity and complexity of the situation of sexual and gender minority individuals,” Anna Pape, a spokesperson for the Immigration and Refugee Board of Canada, said of the new guidelines, which involved consultations with LGBTQ advocates, researchers, refugee lawyers and social workers.

Around the world, sexual minorities face terrifying discrimination and threats to their lives. The latest horrific reports have come from Chechyna, where gay men have been rounded up in pogroms, tortured and killed, with Canada doing little so far to help them.

Flouting human rights norms, approximately 73 countries and states worldwide outlaw gay sex, 13 of them with a death penalty, according to a 2016 report titled State-Sponsored Homophobia, authored by researcher Aengus Carroll and published by the International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans and Intersex Association (ILGA).

“When someone comes to Canada and says, ‘Don’t send me back to my home country, I’m going to be persecuted, tortured or killed,’ we need to take that very seriously. If we get the decisions wrong in these cases, we are not only breaching international law, we’re exposing individuals to severe risk,” said Sean Rehaag, a professor specializing in refugee law at Toronto’s Osgoode Hall Law School.

Some 2,234 refugees claimed asylum in Canada on the basis of their sexual orientation between 2013 and 2015, according to Prof. Rehaag. Of those claims, 70.5 per cent were successful – a figure higher than the overall grant rate to all refugees of 62.5 per cent.

Fraudelent claims remain extremely rare: just 2.2 per cent of all refugee claims were declared to have no credible basis or to be fraudulent in 2013, Prof. Rehaag said.

Canada’s new guidelines are a step in the right direction. Still, it remains incredibly difficult to fairly determine a person’s sexual orientation. In other cases, the homophobic attacks are so gruesome that Canadian decision makers find them implausible – and the claimant not credible as a result.

“It is not a case of board members being overtly homophobic or transphobic but … of ethnocentric criteria being applied,” said Rainbow Refugee’s Prof. Jordan, who teaches psychology at Simon Fraser University. “Assumptions that Canadians have about lesbian, gay, bi, or trans identities and the ‘coming out’ model – that people will be in relationships and seek out community as soon as they arrive – these myths and stereotypes don’t fit for somebody who is fleeing persecution.”

The Globe spoke with five gay refugees from all over the world about being exiled and finding their way to Canada.

Chris, 31, Montego Bay, Jamaica

  • In Jamaica, same-sex sexual acts are illegal and anal intercourse (described as an “abominable crime” in The Offences Against the Person Act) is punishable by up to 10 years in prison.
  • Filed for refugee protection in January 2015 and was granted permanent resident status March 2017; settled in Vancouver.
“I had a different feeling toward men,” Chris said, recalling his childhood. “In Jamaica, you have to speak like a man. You have to do things boys do: climb trees and play football, soccer and cricket. I, on the other hand, liked to chill with the girls and play with hair and dolls.”

In high school, Chris’s classmates bullied him, called him feminine names and pushed girls to ask him out on dates, as a test. Feeling unsafe, the young man stopped attending school.

When Chris was 14, his father also grew suspicious, threatening to kill him if he found out he was gay. Chris moved out to his cousins’ home, but eventually they began to harass him too. A high school teacher took him under her wing, inviting him home for dinner.

He had a particularly traumatizing encounter in 2006, when a group of men approached him at a bus stop on his commute home from work. “They said to me that ‘I walk like a girl,’” Chris recalled. “They started beating me. I had to run for my life.”

The same year, he lost his job at a chicken processing plant after his colleagues began intimidating him, suspecting he was gay. “It took a big toll on me,” said Chris. “I loved that job so much I would get up and still put the uniform on every morning and just walk around the house. I was going crazy.” He said he was unable to leave his home for two years.

A robbery at gunpoint in 2010 was the breaking point. Chris decided to move away, taking a job in the Cayman Islands. He began his first relationship with a man, only to face harassment here too: homophobic vandals smashed his windshield and carved “faggot” into his car.

Chris remained in the Cayman Islands for four years, though by 2014, the threats had intensified and his work permit was denied. Facing a forced return to Jamaica, Chris fled to Vancouver in Dec. 2014. Three months later, he got his refugee board hearing, which lasted 20 minutes: he secured permanent resident status last March.

The terrifying events he’d survived back home took hold in the form of severe depression. That’s when Chris started to ride public transit buses. “I rode buses for eight hours a day and talked to bus drivers. I said, ‘I want to be a bus driver.’ I would ask questions about how to make the turns and what to expect.”

In 2016, Chris got the job. “Even if I’m having a bad day, once I get my first passenger then I’m good,” he said. 

“I’m a people person and for too long I’ve had my voice taken away from me. To see happiness on people’s faces when I help them, that’s what I want.”

Bus driving in Canada hasn’t been without incident. “I’ve been told by a passenger that I’m a monkey and that I should go back to Africa,” Chris remembered through tears. Other passengers have spoken loudly about refugees being a burden on Canada. Chris’s internal retort to this is, “You’re being driven by a refugee right now.”

With enough trauma in his life for several lifetimes, Chris has attempted suicide six times. Therapy and outreach groups in Canada have helped, though he is lonely. He still speaks to his mother, father and siblings, sending money back home. His sexuality is off the table: “If my mother finds out, it will break her heart really bad. But if my dad finds out, he’ll swim here across the ocean and end it.”

A small light flickered on when a cousin living in Canada reached out to Chris via Facebook recently. “He came to me and said, ‘I know you’re gay. It’s our tendency to try and hide it. I know when you’re lying.’ My cousin and his wife are very accepting. He’s been living here for 20 years.”

Yvonne Niwahereza Jele, 30, Kabale, Uganda

  • While a 2013 “anti-homosexuality act” that proposed jailing gay Ugandans for life was annulled in 2014, the country’s penal code continues to criminalize same-sex sexual activity, which remains punishable by a prison sentence.
  • Refugee claim denied July 2016, granted a ministerial relief in October 2016. Now applying for asylum based on humanitarian and compassionate grounds; settled in Toronto.

Jele began a secret, lesbian relationship with her best friend when she was 13. “It was so not allowed,” she said. “We were teenagers and we risked it anyway.”

For years, the young women continued seeing each other furtively, until Jele was 20, when her father walked in on them kissing. He grew wild with rage. “He shoved me in one of the closets in the walkway of our house and left me there, bleeding and swollen,” Jele said. There she would remain, starving and dehydrated, for six days.

After letting her out, her father delivered her to a man she’d never met before, a grocery store manager. The marriage was marked by brutality: “He would force himself on me, do whatever he wanted,” she said.

Jele had two daughters, now 2 and 7. Against all odds, she continued seeing her girlfriend in clandestine meetings, often at hotels, never taking any receipts that would serve as a trail. “I just needed that little bit of me,” Jele said. “I was scared but I thought we could pull it off.”

Her husband discovered her affair in 2013 and called police. Jele was jailed for three days, stripped naked, beaten and doused in cold water to force her to stay awake. Having nowhere to go after being released, Yvonne returned to her husband, who grew more abusive. 

An escape route presented itself in March 2016: Jele worked in tourism and was asked to travel to Philadelphia. She decided to run.

Once in the United States, with $500 in hand, she took a cab to Baltimore and then a 15-hour Greyhound bus ride to a refugee centre she’d read about in Detroit. “The whole time I was on the bus I was like, ‘Does this place exist? What if you get there and there’s nothing? You’re in America. Nobody knows you. You don’t know anybody,’” Jele recalled. “I told myself, ‘Be brave.’”


Behind a nondescript door, the refugee centre did in fact exist. Here, Jele slept, ate and got advice from other refugees. They told her to head north to Canada, to her brother who lives here. The Canadian refugee board ultimately did not support her claim, taking issue with a dearth of evidence for her lesbian relationship. “There’s no way that you can document your life in a scary country where you’re not allowed to be who you are,” Jele explained.

As Jele faced deportation to Uganda, the immigration minister granted her a relief. She now has one year to prove she is employable, can pay taxes and is in fact a gay woman. 

A girlfriend (and an affidavit from such a girlfriend) would help her case, though love is the last thing on her mind. “The hardest part is getting board members who actually understand how life in places besides Canada actually works,” Jele said. “Canada, especially Toronto, it’s like a piece of heaven for me. When I describe things that happened to me back home, even to my friends, it’s like a movie to them. They think it’s unbelievable but it’s reality.”

Since November, she’s been developing programs for at-risk youth at a community health centre. She hopes to follow up her undegraduate degree in community psychology with a Master’s in clinical psychology. Permanent resident status would allow her to sponsor her young daughters.

“It takes forever to leave that place,” Jele says of Uganda. “I feel like I’ve been fighting forever. I hope I’m close to the end.”

Justin Negara, 29, Bali, Indonesia

  • It’s legal to be gay in most parts of Indonesia, but local decrees criminalize same-sex sexual relations in South Sumatra and Aceh Province. As well, federal health regulations stigmatize gay people by stipulating that a “healthy sexual life” is free from “sexual orientation dysfunction or deviance,” and STDs.
  • Applied for permanent resident status in April 2015 and awaiting final outcome; settled in Vancouver.
Negara knew he was gay by the time he was 10 years old: “I didn’t fit in with a lot of the boys,” he said.

The bullies descended on him in junior high. One particularly bad memory is seared into Negara’s brain: “They put me in front of the class and they started undressing me.”

Negara distanced himself from friends and classmates, keeping what he knew to himself: a revelation of his sexuality would damage the family name. In 2006, while studying tourism and hotel administration an hour and a half away from home, Negara had sex with a man for the first time. “I had to admit to myself that I’m gay,” he said.

That year, the young man came out to his family, a terrifying day he remembers vividly. His father grabbed a knife from the kitchen and began chasing him: “He said, ‘No son of mine is gay. I prefer not to have one.’”

Negara escaped to the United States later that year, arriving to Canada in 2008 as a visitor. Here, he would meet his first husband, a partner who turned out to be abusive, Negara said. Nevertheless, he would remain in Canada illegally for another seven years, avoiding anyone in uniform.

In July 2014 came another blow: Negara learned that he was HIV positive. Now he knew returning to Indonesia was no longer an option. “It’s unspoken censure,” said Negara, referencing the stigma around homosexuality and HIV – and the Sharia law that reigns supreme in the country’s Muslim regions. 

Another complication: employers he described in Bali who require blood tests, which would reveal his status. Negara noted that while Bali boasts gay tourism, it is a world intended for tourists, not locals with HIV: “You’re shunned to death with no treatment.”

At the Canadian walk-in clinic, Negara panicked, fearing he’d be sent back home to die. The nurse who delivered his diagnosis referred him to a social worker. 

She asked him why he wasn’t applying for refugee status. He took her advice and applied in January 2015, just as he was divorcing his husband.

Today, Negara works with Vancouver’s Rainbow Refugee, which assists LGBTQ newcomers. He listens to their stories, many of which are being spoken out loud for the first time. 

“I promised myself when I was touched by the social worker who literally saved my life that this is what I really want to do,” he said.

Negara now attends hearings with gay refugees, helping them navigate the system. He believes immigration officials are slowly becoming more respectful of this cohort. Unlike in the past, Negara is hearing fewer invasive, unethical questions like, “Are you a top or bottom?” or “Are you a giver or receiver?”

“It’s too personal,” he said.

Negara’s sexuality remains unspoken when he chats online with his brother or calls his mother back home. Even though he and his mother are close (Negara refers to her as “my best friend” and “my guardian angel”), he senses that conservative family members disapprove. As for his father, he passed away last year, taking the anger with him. 

Negara is philosophical about his family’s intolerance, saying, “Your experience is limited to what you know.”

In British Columbia, Negara is moving forward. Wedding plans are afoot with a new partner of two years. “At the end of the day,” he said, “we all want to be treated as humans.”


Evan Murtadha, 34, and Samar Al Busiri, 33, Basra, Iraq

  • While Iraq’s penal code does not prohibit same-sex sexual relations, a repressive regime effectively outlaws such unions: Militias, police, local courts and local Sharia judges have been known to threaten gay women and men, punishing same-sex sexual relations with severe penalties – including execution – according to ILGA.
  • Received refugee status from the UNHCR in February 2015 and permanent resident status in Canada in May 2016. Settled in Ottawa in May 2016, moving to Toronto in September 2016.
It is impossible to be openly gay in Iraq, so Murtadha and Al Busiri circumvented the rules, meeting in 2013 through a private Facebook group intended for LGBTQ Iraqis looking for relationships and friendships. Since neither woman was single, they remained friends for three years.

Before the two began dating, each was outed as gay to family, with Murtadha’s father threatening to kill her. The women fled separately to Lebanon in 2015.

Here, they began a relationship in earnest. They applied for refugee status from the UNHCR and the agency rigorously vetted their stories, cross-referencing intimate details with each woman to determine whether they were both telling the truth. Each was asked about the other’s strengths and weaknesses, likes and dislikes. “What does she mean to you?” officials interrogated, before accepting their stories.

The women moved in together, to a single room in all-women student housing. They hid their union, pretending to be sisters waiting for visas to join their husbands in Canada.

“We were something weird and odd: two Iraqi girls without their families and they are not wearing hijab and are living alone,” said Al Busiri. “We were scared somebody was watching, somebody was listening. We had to be careful not to call each other ‘honey’ or ‘baby’ or not to hold each other’s hands.”

The lies didn’t protect them from men who’d hit on them in the street for sex. The worst night came in December 2015, when the women stepped out to buy a loaf of bread. Four men on motorcycles encircled them – grabbing and beating them, tearing their clothes and dragging them by their hair. “More than 20 people surrounded us, watching and laughing,” Murtadha recalled.

The situation had become dangerous: the women sent photos of their injuries to LGBTQ advocates in Canada, who forwarded the material to the Canadian embassy in a bid to speed through their application. It would be another five months till they got a flight date to Ottawa, in May 2016.

Private sponsors from a group called Rainbow Haven met them at the airport. “They were holding balloons and signs that said ‘Welcome,’ so we cried. They hugged us. So many of them, they were crying also,” said Murtadha.

Their private sponsors found them an apartment, helped them with government documents, English language and job training, set up bank accounts and doctors’ and pro-bono or at-cost dental appointments.

The integration also involved translating particular Canadianisms, “teaching them that in Canada people say ‘bless you’ when you sneeze, and that they say ‘sorry’ all the time and that it doesn’t mean they’re apologizing but that it’s a way of speaking. Also, what is a ‘double double’?” said Patti Lenard, a University of Ottawa associate professor of moral and political philosophy, who helped sponsor the women.

The most important part of sponsorship, Lenard said, is making gay refugees feel that they are normal, that they can say they’re gay in self-description rather than in shame, and that nobody in Canada will care.

“Our families, our friends, our society didn’t see us like this,” said Al Busiri. “Living there made us feel, ‘Are we good? Maybe we born in the wrong way.’ All of these things make you think life isn’t worth to be lived. 

But [the sponsors], they introduced us to their families and children, they put us in their houses. We felt loved, respected. We felt that we have new family here.”

The two are now estranged from their families in Iraq. “They don’t accept our choice,” Murtadha said. “Their traditions and religion are more important than the happiness of their sons and daughters.”

Today, she works as a proposal co-ordinator and Al Busiri in information technology. The women are learning things they were forbidden to do in Iraq, pleasures like driving, biking and swimming.

They go out for dinner, drink cocktails and hold hands at the table – “simple activities, yes,” said Murtadha, “but they are representing the meaning of freedom.”