Call me Sultan. It is not my real name. I am 32 years old and a member of LGBTQI+ community from Afghanistan.
Like all queers in Afghanistan, I didn’t know about my true identity. Growing up, I was told there were only two sexes: male and female. I knew of no knowledge, no information that indicated people like me existed.
I was 12 when I discovered my Otherness, that I was different from those around me. It started with a conversation I had with one of my classmates in grade five. Ibrahim was in love with a girl named Shiba. All day, he thought of how he would propose his love to Shiba. One day, I asked, “Ibrahim, how is it possible for you to like a girl?” I continued, “I don’t like girls, I only like boys. I love handsome, fit boys with fancy hair styles.”
Ibrahim looked at me in astonishment, finally responding, “You have a disease by the name of ‘Bacha Baz’ That is why you don’t like girls.” He told me I was sick because I had no feelings for girls. I even went to a doctor and asked for treatment. But treatment was nowhere to be found and I couldn’t force myself to fall in love with a girl. Slowly, as I grew up, I started to learn more about my identity and that I am not sick.
I was 16 when I fell in love with a boy in my neighbourhood. His name was Baktash. He owned an internet club near my school and his brother attended my school. One day, he offered me and his brother a weekly stipend if we would clean his business. One day after finishing my chores, I sat at a computer and searched “How can a man love another man” and “How to propose to a man that you love him.” As I was reading the result, Baktash approached me. Horrified that he may have seen what I was reading, I closed the browser. But he just smiled, opened the search history and saw the content I had been looking at. He told me that I was normal, only that I liked boys. He said that he likes me.
I felt relieved, knowing that I am not the only one who likes men. I fell in love with Baktash. I saw him frequently and the days I couldn’t see his face, I felt like something was missing.
Since our relationship was a taboo and treated as a crime, we couldn’t tell anyone about our relationship. Finding places to be together was difficult – we couldn’t always go to each other’s house and the club didn’t have any private places. When the darkness of the night took over, we would meet on the street near my house. One evening, while Baktash was holding me in his arms, my father spotted us as he returned from the mosque. When I got home, my father nearly beat me to death. Raiding my privacy, he went through my phone calls, text messages, Facebook, and Viber. After that, my father tried to control all my activities, though I still found ways to meet Baktash.
Our relationship lasted two years. When I graduated from high school, he ended our relationship. I begged him to continue but he said that he did not want to be in contact with me anymore. He blocked me on Facebook and Viber. Finally, he threatened to expose me if I showed up near his house or tried to contact him.
After Baktash abandoned me, I formed a relationship with my cousin who was a bodybuilder. I was 21 and, thanks to the internet, knew a lot about my identity. I knew that nothing was wrong with me, but it was my society that was wrong for not accepting me for who I am.
Three years later, my cousin married a girl and moved abroad. I felt alone and depressed. I felt my whole life was gone. I was 24 when I decided to take my life in December 2016. I swallowed a bottle of digoxin and 84 sleeping pills.
I woke up with an intense headache, fever, and severe heartburn. My family, not knowing I was trying to kill myself, took me to Sardar Mohammad Dawood Khan hospital for treatment. One of the doctors who pumped my stomach was a friend of my uncle and told him that it was suicide attempt. Thankfully, my uncle didn’t share it with anyone except my mother who came to me 10 days later, asking why I did it.
“Is it because of a girl?” she asked. Unable to control myself, I broke down, crying. I didn’t know how to tell her. She promised to keep my secret so I summoned all my courage and told her that I love boys and that I loved my cousin. Of course, it wasn’t easy for her to accept what she was hearing. All her life, she was taught that LGBTQI+ people do not exist or if they do, their existence is a sin. It was hard for her to stomach my truth. She hugged me and said, “Let me find you a girl and marry you, this problem will definitely be solved.”
And I knew that my problems were far from any resolution. Even before the Taliban, we were persecuted and discriminated against because of our identities.
But eventually, I met my current life partner, whom I call Behesht. We met in 2018 and now we both are living in fear for our lives.
Many LGBTQI+ individuals I know have failed to flee the country and are unable to support themselves in Afghanistan. Many are unable to leave their homes to earn a living as their existence is criminalized under the Taliban regime.
Sultan is a LGBTQI activist from Afghanistan.
