From a burka to a rainbow of beads
Pride is an opportunity to celebrate diversity and embrace love. Everyone is incredible and unique, so let’s shine by being ourselves, accepting each other, and loving genuinely. Those beliefs might cost dearly.
I came out as queer in 2022. I knew I might lose many people around me, but the burden of hiding my identity was heavier than the possibility of losing those who wouldn’t accept me for who I am.
In October 2021, I arrived in Ireland and was placed in a refugee camp in Dungarvan. After all the trauma of leaving my country, I tried my best to stay strong and build a new life in Ireland. I noticed that refugee kids were constantly playing the battlefield video game PUBG, so I asked the manager if I could tell stories and play movies for them. The management agreed, and we started having storytelling and movie sessions once or twice a week in November.
Our first session in early November was amazing. Even the kids’ moms joined us. Their praises were heart touching. Khala Mariya*, a Syrian mother with five kids, told me, “Basira, you are an angel and saving us from our kids’ noise, and you are saving their eyes and ears from PUBG game wars.” Another Syrian woman, Omi Khalid, shouted, “We ran away from war, but our kids are interested in the PUBG war. Thank you for this program.”
However, everything changed on December 7, 2021, when BBC recognized me as one of the 100 most influential women for my activism for LGBTQ+ rights. The news went viral in multiple languages, including Persian and Arabic. Suddenly, parents stopped their children from attending my sessions, thinking I would teach them about homosexuality. It was an absurd idea, but their reactions to the BBC story and their interactions with me felt like knives stabbing my heart.
One Saturday evening in mid December,I printed the stories and prepared the projector for our scheduled storytelling and movie evening session. When I went to the hall, I didn’t see any kids. I went to the laundry room and found Sajida* and Khala Asma*. I asked them where the kids were, and Sajida* said, “You will teach them homosexuality and their rights. Their moms won’t let them come anymore.” I laughed and asked, “Who said these nonsense things? The management knows the movies and stories I share are inspirational and motivational for kids.” Khala Asma* said, “All their husbands have seen you in the media promoting homosexuality.” Sajida* asked, “Are you really homosexual?”
My mind couldn’t process what was happening. I felt stuck, not knowing how to respond. I smiled and said, “Sorry, I’m in a hurry. We’ll talk later.” As I immediately walked out of the laundry room, my whole body was burning, and my heart was beating so fast that I couldn’t control it. I took the stairs to my room, but every step felt like it took a year, and my feet felt like lead weights. Finally, I reached my bedroom, closed the door, and cried uncontrollably. I can’t remember how it happened, but I found my hands covered in blood from the broken pieces of my room’s mirror.
After that evening, it was very hard for me to go downstairs. The refugees’ behaviour changed dramatically. Even my closest friends in the camp started mocking me. I would smile or laugh, but deep down, their words were more painful than stones and lashes.
In January, 2022, Afghan women in that refugee camp had a gathering. I joined them. Some of the mothers were complaining about their children. I suggested they use contraception to avoid having more kids, as a way to reduce their complaints. Mujiba* looked at me and said, “Yeah, we need to become lesbians like you and divorce our husbands.” They all laughed. Aliya* added, “A woman without kids is like a tree without fruit. The beauty and honour of a woman are in having a husband and lots of kids.” I replied, “It is you who complain all the time, not me. On the contrary, I love them and never complain.” Shaima* laughed and said, “Maybe you want kids but can’t give birth because of your body.” Mujiba* interrupted, “Yeah, Basira, you never told us which part of LGBTQ you are and what you have between your legs.” I couldn’t handle the discussion, so instead I went silent and just smiled. My soul was as fragile as glass those days and their words hit me like stones. It was the last time I talked to them.
The abuse I faced was much worse on social media. Everyone was texting and sending voicemails – either cursing me for being queer and supporting LGBTQ+ human rights or expressing crude curiosity about my queerness and what I have between my legs. Those voicemails and text comments were like Taliban bombs, with my tired and desperate mind feeling like poor and abandoned Afghanistan.
I kept some of them. Qalandar*, one of my teachers at university, texted, “The beauty of a female is in being feminine and the honor of a male is being masculine, I never thought you can be this much cheap and worthless I always thought you are a muhajiba (with hijab) polite and hardworking girl. How were you drowned in this shameless swamp?” *Qoqos*, a former colleague who worked with UN agencies in Afghanistan, left a voicemail: ““Hello Paigham, I don’t know what to call you – bro or sis? I was assuming you are a hardworking girl, an asset of our new generation but you let the side down.”
To protect my peace of mind, I blocked many people, including my closest friends, from my life as well as my social media accounts. Blocking negativity and getting rid of negative people didn’t solve the problem. Even if we distance ourselves, those people will continue harming us. When they realize they can’t harm us directly, they try to smother our loved ones into a dust storm of suffering. Shah Agha back in Afghanistan took screenshots of the BBC story and showed them to the Taliban. In February 2022, the Taliban arrested my father and my elder brother and detailed them for two weeks. They were accused of fostering a homosexual girl and supporting Western values against Islam and Afghanistan. They were only released with the help of my father’s friends offering guarantee letters, as well as my father and brother’s repentance in front of the Taliban and neighbourhood witnesses. However, the harassment from our neighbors didn’t stop. They stoned our windows, and when my mother stood up to them, they beat her, breaking her arm and injuring her head.
I managed to secure a job as a hospital cleaner and saved enough money to ask my family to move to a major city where they wouldn’t be known. It’s incredibly cruel when we get hurt, insulted, and tortured for being true to ourselves. It is more painful when our loved ones suffer because of our identity and sexual orientation. Wearing a mask and hiding our reality might keep us safe from cruel people, but deep down, lying and being a fake is a heavy burden. I came out. Even though it cost me dearly, I am ready to face any consequences for being honest and real.
We are unique and amazing when we are real, practice our cultural and religious traditions freely, and when we enjoy being ourselves with our identity. Life is beautiful when we celebrate diversity, support honesty, and love unconditionally. Pride is an opportunity to celebrate the beauty of colours, diversity, and love. There might be people who still haven’t realized the beauty of love and react harshly to diversity and love but we can contribute in a positive way by teaching them with patience, love, and genuine support.
Being true to yourself may not bring you many friends, but it will bring you genuine ones. Be proud of yourself and cherish those you love!
Basira Paigham is a writer and an Afghan queer and women rights activist.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the individuals.
