Booshtee

I am stuck in traffic, immersed in the morning landscape of Addis … cattle around Kera crossing the street, street vendors selling anything from tissue papers to fake designer sunglasses and a few people begging.

Then, I hear booshtee (faggot) loudly hurled and I instinctively lower my windows. I look for the person hurling the insult and realize he is too far away from me. I don’t know what I aimed to do, anyway: What could I possibly say that would make him reconsider from using that slur? How would he hear what I say? What would he think of me defending a potential faggot (or one who acts as a faggot)?

I cannot help it. I search for the person that the slur was directed at and although I cannot see that person, I try to understand what it is about him that initiated that particular slur: His mannerisms, his gender expressions? Or maybe it was not about sexuality and gender?

The morning landscape has completely changed for me. Hearing that slur is difficult regardless of geographical location, but it is always harder when I hear it in Ethiopia. It is made hard by the very fact that no one questions it, speaks against it or challenges it in a meaningful way.

Every time I hear it and it goes unchallenged by anyone but me, it makes me realize what a lonely space I occupy.

Impromptu Conversations #1

I have a sister who currently calls North America home. As cool as she has become about us homos, I never let an opportunity slide that can be used for a bit of needling. I have tremendous respect for her as she has come a long way. I remember the days when we would have day long discussions about homos – she a seasoned homophobe who sided with the homophobes and who was afraid of her little sister being badly influenced by Westerners; and me teetering at the door of the closet, constantly taking a peak and trying to ascertain a time safe enough to come out.

After at least a year of me testing the waters, she proved to have more courage. I still remember the day she called and said something along the lines of … “You know if you ever need a safe person to listen to you, I am here. I know I can be difficult, but I am willing to listen without judgement and maybe learn”. Years later when we started having open conversations about my homoness, she proved to be one of those few Ethiopians who can listen to my frustrations about my experiences of being a homo in Ethiopia. She now even challenges her Ethiopian friends on their homophobia.

Our impromptu conversation – resulting from a news item on  Pink News  that I shared on Viber – is yet another reminder that visibility is crucial to building bridges, to turning a homophobe into an ally. And that challenging homophobia is a never ending task.

 

Call me coward

Although it has been out since 2012, I finally summoned the necessary courage to watch Call Me Kuchu, a documentary about the struggle for queer rights in Uganda. I knew it would be a difficult film to watch – the story of our African queer activists rarely ends well.

I remember the brutal murder of queer activist David Kato five years ago. I remember the passage of the “kill the gays” bill. I remember the large number of people who marched on the streets of Uganda in support of the bill. I vividly remember the newspaper that printed on its front page pictures and names of supposed homos with a simple message: “Hang them!” I remember that I followed the news as if my life depended on it.

But yet … I selfishly wanted a reprieve from re-remembering.

Watching the documentary, I think of my inability to live openly as a queer person and I am reminded of the similarity of our battles. But our similarities end there. My fellow Africans in Uganda are brave enough to stand-up for their rights despite the brutal consequences. I am simply a coward who silently lets the majority trample on my rights. Yes, during better days, I justify my lack of courage by arguing with myself that we need to build a community of sorts before we attempt to organize. I know change does not happen in a vacuum.

But yet … I find myself yearning for the courage of a David Kato, a Naome Ruzindana.

“Enough is enough,” says one of the activists during Kato’s funeral when a preacher starts condemning queer people and lamenting about how Kato died before he could repent. Another says, “Whatever they are saying, they’ve killed David – they’ve not killed us. We are still living.”  These poignant moments propel me forward – despite the unbearable tragedy, the activists are able to summon their courage even in the face of death. I want to learn from them to be brave enough to risk everything for the right to live freely. The struggle for our rights requires sacrifice. I know this.

But yet … I still cannot bring myself to act, to risk anything of value.

I find myself at a crossroads and as Pat Parker, the Black lesbian feminist writer so eloquently articulates in her poem “I’m So Tired”

“I’m beginning to
wonder if
the tactics
of this revolution
is to
talk the enemy to death.”

The closet and I … very random thoughts

For someone who believes in being true to one’s ideals and is committed to fighting injustice wherever I witness it, being closeted is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.

I tell so many lies just by not telling this one big truth. But is my truth worth dying for? The answer to that entirely depends on the amount of homophobia I have had to swallow on a specific day.

Often times I don’t feel that this blog goes far enough. The daily torture of being a closeted homo in Ethiopia is enough to drive me mad. There are moments when I want to “yell it on top of [my] lungs and risk dying”. I often ask, to borrow the words of Audre Lorde, “What’s the worst that could happen to me if I tell this truth?”

I am aware that speaking this truth is akin to putting a nail through my own coffin. But by not speaking, I end up doing the same – slowly dying from the inside.

And I realize before I am even done articulating my ideas that I am back exactly where I started – in the closet, with a never-ending internal debate about the closet and I.

Flirting … or not

The heteronormative spaces in Addis don’t really do it for me so I avoid going out. I occasionally (and reluctantly) go out when friends and family persist. It is one of those occasions and I make my way to a friend’s house for a small gathering. The same friends urge my rhythemically challenged self to dance to a Tigrinya song, I oblige since I can get away with clapping and going around a circle. As I am on the dance floor making a weak attempt at dancing, a woman moves behind me and starts dancing with me. She has overheard the conversation about how horrible a dancer I am so she assures me that I am doing great. She starts playfully trying to teach me a move or two. She is an incredible dancer and I tell her as much. Tigrinya songs are long and after about 10 minutes, I thank her for the dance lesson and join the friends.

About 15 minutes later, she comes over as I am sitting talking to a male friend. She tells the friend, “I really like her. I want you to introduce her to me.” She does not wait for him to make introductions. She shakes my hand. She tells me her name, where her parents are from and asks after mine. We are from the same ethnic group. Excitement. She asks a few more questions. She is holding my hand throughout the entire conversation. She then tells our mutual friend “I really want to get to know her,” I smile politely as she turns around and tells me, “I want to get your number before you leave”.

I am astounded. Is she flirting with me? I would ordinarily know how to read this. But this is Ethiopia so I simply cannot comprehend how she could be so obvious about flirting with a woman. Surely, the consequences of hitting on a woman in Ethiopia cannot escape her. Is she a straight woman who just really wants to get to know me … as just a friend? Perhaps, it is my queer tinted glasses that make me see what she is doing as flirting?

I leave soon after. Even flirting with a woman who is shamelessly flirting with me seems like an unsure bet. The joy of basking under the attention of a beautiful woman lost by over analyzing… .

Refusing erasure

My coming out in Ethiopia is usually preceded by weeks of contemplation. Some of the questions I ask myself might include: Would this person be OK with my queerness? What do I know about their politics? Would they out me to other people? Would they “report” me to the police? Would they be tempted to forcefully take me to church to subject me to a ritual intended to cleanse the devil out of me? Would they make efforts to commit me to a mental institution?

I only come out to people when I am 100 percent convinced that the answer to the above questions is a definite “no”. In the past three weeks, I have come out to two people and the decision for doing so was not thoroughly considered. It was a hasty decision that was based on the content of our discussion. The ideas I wanted to explore would not have been as adequately expressed nor understood if I had hidden my homoness.

Coming out in such an unapologetic manner has helped me (re)discover the joy and sense of lightness that comes with naming your truth without having to perform a million calculations.

My complete disregard for caution was both empowering and scary. Empowering because it made me realize that living in Ethiopia has not completely “erased” my inclination to be honest and that the tendency to be proudly out could in fact be summoned to the forefront rather easily. Scary because that is exactly what has the potential to land me in trouble.

Warmth

While walking around in a European city, I see two women holding hands in public – their adoration obvious in the way they keep stealing looks at each other.

I smile, warmed beyond belief by the simple gesture. I feel alive, free.

Body searches and a sense of ease

After traveling to a neighboring country and upon arriving at the hotel where I will be staying, I notice a body search spot at the entrance of the hotel. Body searches have become the bane of my existence. The very sight of them, often leads me to sigh in frustration and exhaustion.

The requisite man and woman are standing at the entrance. As always, I am dreading the reactions – confusion, stares, judgments and whispers – of my searchers. I slowly place my phone and my keys in the traditional basket that they offer. As always, I want to delay the moment of confusion. I know that once I go through the body search, I will be a marked woman. The whispers, the stares and the conversations will keep following me for the duration of my stay.

I walk through the metal detector. The man comes to search me. I walk towards the woman and put my hands up. She takes a quick double take and starts searching me. Her colleague is watching open-mouthed. He averts his eyes when I look toward him. I wait for the whispers to start. They don’t. I wait for them to try to engage me in a conversation or to make comments about my gender expression. Other than a polite “welcome”, they don’t say anything.

For my entire stay at the hotel, although I sometimes catch their eyes following me, I don’t hear any whispers. Each of my forays into the hotel is followed by a search by various women who make no attempts to start a conversation about my gender expression and who do not whisper with their male colleagues after searching me.

As a socially conservative country with the same sort of limits on gender expression and sexuality as Ethiopia, I have no doubt that those assigned with the task of searching me are baffled by my gender expression. They are just able to keep it from affecting how well they do their job. I envy their professionalism. The sense of tension that precedes any body search experience ebbs a little while I am in their country.

And I find myself wishing for this sense of ease in Addis Ababa. I wonder how much less frustrating Addis would be if I did not have to deal with random people who feel entitled to ask questions, to whisper, to mock, to make judgments and to offer unsolicited advise.

But, of course, Addis does not disappoint.

I walk into a supermarket a few hours after arriving in Addis. A man tries to search me, I tell him I am a woman and walk towards the woman standing next to him, she stares without making any movement, the man gets closer, I again tell him that I am a woman, and they both continue to stare. I start walking away. The man calls after me and insists that I need to be searched. I ignore him and continue walking away. The people who are in line behind me start whispering.

This is home. A luta continua …

Obama, Queers and Ethiopia

“Obama not come ethiopia b/c you ar GAY..” posts a fellow Ethiopian on Facebook. Though badly written, it effectively reflects the general sentiment around President Barack Obama’s expected visit to Ethiopia.

Since the announcement of his visit to Addis Ababa, it has proved impossible to escape discussions about Obama. At a gathering at a home of a friend, someone mentions Obama’s upcoming visit. Although they all express their anger, one person’s reaction in particular best illustrates the atmosphere. He says, “Why do I care whether a Bushiti (faggot in Amharic) visits or not?”

At a popular restaurant in town, I overhear a group of young people discussing the scheduled visit. One person says, “Obama knows the people do not want to hear him talk about these gays and so he will respect us by not talking about them.” Most of them agree Obama will defer to “them” by not talking about “us”.

The conversations are endless and the settings vary. But without a doubt, Obama’s scheduled visit has unleashed a virulent homophobia on the streets of Addis Ababa. The climate for us homos will indeed get worse as the dates for Obama’s visit gets closer.

Most Ethiopians don’t care if the reason for his visit, according to the announcement by the White House, is to underscore American efforts to work with “sub-Saharan Africa to accelerate economic growth, strengthen democratic institutions, and improve security.” In the minds of many of my fellow Ethiopians, Obama is coming to promote the gay agenda. Based on overheard conversations in Addis Ababa, the agenda includes spreading the disease of queerness, turning normal Ethiopians to homos and corrupting the minds of Ethiopians into accepting homoness as a “normal” variation of human sexuality.

Obama is being vilified as a Satan whose sole purpose is ruining the God/Allah fearing people of Ethiopia. Of course, those of us who are already “ruined” are to be found nowhere in these discussions.

I have yet to be involved in a single discussion. I have occupied the periphery in these ongoing conversations – both eager to hear people’s take on his visit and hoping for a voice of sanity amidst the madness.

Upon first hearing about his visit to Kenya and then Ethiopia, I was excited that the first Black president of the US would visit my part of the world. I love my country and truly felt that good things could come out of his visit – mainly, increased investment and a possible change to the American media narrative of Ethiopian’s as starving and famine stricken people.

I admittedly anticipated a certain amount of discussion about queerness would enter into the news about his visit. U.S. Secretary of State John Kerry had included queers in his speech when he visited Addis Ababa in May 2014 and I assumed that people would refer to that address to dissuade Obama from bringing up queers or their rights.

For the past few years, many Western leaders have spoken out against homophobia and have pushed for inclusion of queer people. Many have spoken for an end to the criminalization of consensual same-sex sexual relationships and for respect for all kinds of gender expressions.

I can even see why some might think this is a form of colonization – the West yet again telling us what to do and how to do it. And us Ethiopians rightfully take the utmost pride about the fact that we have never been colonized. What we fail to see is that homophobia is not a value that we should aspire to hold on to. Someone telling us to respect another’s humanity should not lead to an argument about colonization; it should lead us to the conclusion that respecting the rights of our queer citizens is rather about basic and simple human decency.

In any case, Obama will soon be in my fair city. As a homo, I am not holding my breath waiting for him to liberate me from the madness that permeates my fellow Ethiopians. Obama may or may not say anything about queer rights. In fact, I am not sure that his saying anything would actually change people’s opinions or the way us queers are treated in this country.

But it would place us Ethiopian queers at the center. For once, a head of state would be speaking positively about us. And while that would anger many Ethiopians, I – as an Ethiopian homo – would be delighted.

Pride and Homage to My Allies

So … I have known this person for a while. Although I explicitly did not come out to her, I thought she already knew my homoness. In certain circles, I just assume that my gender expression gives away my queer identity. I assume people’s assumptions about the gender expressions of the stereotypical lesbian would lead them to read me as a dyke.

It was not until a month or so ago that I found out that she did not know about my homoness. She was teasing me about someone who she felt was constantly calling me and when I said, “You know I don’t play for his team” she said she does not know that for a fact. And when I asked how she could failed to read me as a lesbian, she said, “Shit, I didn’t want to assume. Maybe you are just a tomboy or maybe you are bi”.

Since about two weeks ago and upon finding out about my recent breakup, she has been advising me that the “best way to get over somebody is to get under somebody”. And has been actively trying to get me under somebody – one of her friends who has asked about my sexuality.

When I told her about my one-woman pride at Meskel Square and talked about wanting a few people in the picture, she volunteered to get a group of people. She suggested that I could stay in the back, while the allies could hold a banner to openly and visibly show their support.

Later that evening, she read my blog and emailed me her comments. Part of my response to her included the line, “It should go without saying … but thank you for being supportive/accepting and all that”. She emailed back with “it should go without saying but you shouldn’t have to be in a position where thanks are owed to people for treating you like a person”.

She had to leave town for a few days and so was not able to attend my pride. However, she sent me a message and requested that I Photoshop her image into the pride picture.

I want to do better. This is my homage to her (and, by extension, to all my allies). “At the risk of seeming ridiculous,” and to quote Che Guevara, “… the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love. … We must strive every day so that this love of living humanity will be transformed into actual deeds, into acts that serve as examples, as a moving force.”

Her unequivocal support has left a mark and she has served as my moving force. A force that I hope will galvanize me to leave my closet door ajar.

Even as I stand by myself in Meskel Square, although more than one person had offered to stand with me, I don’t feel alone. I am proud because I know that I have many who are standing – albeit not physically – with me. In solidarity.

Be proud, my fellow queers. And, although it should indeed go without saying, thank you my phenomenal allies.