Translator: Małgorzata Ciborska
Reviewer: Dina Bezsmertna When I was little, I would occasionally hear
someone mention "those people," those men and those women who allegedly didn't take any interest
in the so-called opposite sex. I once asked my mom
what it actually meant, and she explained
that just like her and my dad - a woman and a man - fell in love and got married, there are some people who fall in love and start a family
with persons of the same sex. The word "gender"
wasn't really popular at that time. Her explanation did not include
adjectives like "disgusting" or "sinful," or nouns like "sickness" and "perversion." And for this, I am eternally grateful. I lay awake at night sometimes, thinking, "OK, what would it feel like
to be a lesbian?" Why did I not know anyone who's gay? What would be the difference
between loving women and loving men? I tried to imagine this experience, just like I sometimes dreamt
of having superpowers - flying around, saving the world. As you may see, my visions turned out
to be somewhat prophetic because at some point in my life I realized that this thing
I've been wondering about is actually happening to me: I am gay. As for the superpowers, well,
I became a human rights activist - the closest thing to Wonder Woman
you can get to in this reality. Self-acceptance wasn't easy. It rarely is, if you trust
the experience of my friends and all the international research. Even though my parents never
voiced any homophobic opinions, once I realized who I was,
I became extremely keen on hiding it. I spent four years of my life
scrupulously analyzing my childhood, looking for theories
that would support my conviction that my lesbianism is a result
of some hormone-related process or the fact that I simply
hadn't met the right guy. I swore, time and time again,
that I would stop looking at women, I even tried to date a man. Nothing happened, nothing changed. I realized that even throughout my desperate attempts
to cure myself from my sexuality, I kept experiencing crush after crush
on women around me, and I also realized that my interest for women is
much deeper than simply sexual. Women are my world;
they're who I'm most comfortable with, they are who I want to study and explore. I am socially, emotionally
and sexually attracted to women in the most consistent way. When I was 20 years old,
I met my first girlfriend. Having your feelings
reciprocated for the first time is like drinking a serum
that gives you superpowers. I was extremely happy, and I chose to come out for the first time
when I was that happy. You see, sometimes the urge
to share your happiness may be much greater
than the urge to share your grief. So one day, when my best friend was online and knowing that I couldn't bring myself
to tell her face to face, I typed, "Listen, you're my best friend,
and I think that you should know this. I met someone, we're dating,
I'm extremely happy and - well, it's another woman." Silence. Later on, she called me a sinner,
said we would never have babies, said that I had to change my lifestyle, and said there was still
redemption for me. There were coming out experiences
with positive outcome. Two friends at that time
strongly supported me, but somehow, this particular incident
left a very deep trace. I did lose my best friend
that day, after all. Looking back at this experience,
I realize that it actually prevented me from accepting myself,
for a couple more years. Having sacrificed my joy,
my sleep and my first relationship to guilt and self-loathing,
I finally decided, enough. I decided that I had to meet others
who share similar experience. I decided that I had to stop
isolating myself, and first of all, stop thinking
that there's something wrong with me. I joined LGBT community in 2009. When I first went to the office
of Women's Initiative Supporting Group - where I now work - to attend a community meeting - a film screening it was, I think - I felt terrified. And not only to meet someone
who knew me, and this way be outed, but to actually become a part of something
greater than myself, a whole community. That evening turned out to be
a very positive milestone in my life because I realized that I wasn't alone. I met many persons
who shared similar experience and many who actually had suffered
much, much worse. Many had been rejected
by their families, and still are; many were attacked on the streets; many were forced to meet
with priests and psychologists that promised to cure them; many had to lie that they changed,
simply to be left alone; and many feared and still fear
coming out to their families, or at school, or at work. Imagine that you wake up tomorrow, and all of a sudden, you cannot hold hands
with your partner in public, let alone marry them. Just like some friends of mine were attacked in one
of the central parks in Tbilisi for simply being affectionate
towards each other. Or imagine your physical appearance
being a magnet for violence, just like another friend of mine, who is usually perceived
as a feminine boy. He was caught by a group of thugs
in his neighborhood, they punched him and set his hair on fire,
saying that it looked too gay. Imagine having to hide
a very important part of your life at all times, especially at work. Just like another friend of mine did. Except, her co-workers found out she's gay and made her life so miserable
that she chose to quit. Or imagine feeling anxious every time
you have to produce your documents, which say that you are someone
that you're really not - the reason for so many
transgender people around me to avoid seeking medical help, avoid banks and seek lower paid, unofficial jobs that on the one hand,
leave them completely unprotected by law, but on the other hand,
help them reduce the stress of wondering whether their application
will be rejected or not once they produce their ID. Imagine being at risk of a physical attack
every time you step over your threshold and sometimes even when you step back in. This is the case with us, lesbians, bisexuals, gay men
and transgender persons living in Georgia. And not only Georgia. This is what we deal with
on a daily basis. If it were not for the support systems
that we create inside our communities, if it were not for our chosen family and for those very few safe spaces
where we can simply be ourselves without restrictions or a need
to wear a disguise, many of us would be lost
even to ourselves, let alone the society. Very few of us have a privilege of having a friendly
and supportive family of origin. Yes, a thing that simple
is actually a privilege. And it is my privilege as well. In the beginning, I was very much ashamed to talk about the friendly
attitudes of my parents because I didn't want to hurt
those friends of mine who did not and still do not have
that kind of support. Later, as I became more active, I realized that I shouldn't be
hiding my privilege, I should be using it for the better
of my community and myself. I'm still anxious when I have
to come out, I am right now. And trust me, you don't come out
just once in your life. So, no matter how safe
the situation feels, this vague sense of nausea
still rises to the top of my stomach. But coming out is a powerful tool
to educate people, especially when you know that most of them have probably never met
a living, breathing lesbian. (Laughter) When I think about coming out, I actually go back to my dreams
of being a superhero. You see, most superheroes
face a critical moment when their powers are revealed, and they need to find
the right way to yield them. So, when you first come out, you have this feeling
that you're trying to lift a heavy load, far beyond your capacity. And only afterwards, you realize
that you can actually do it. In the beginning,
I wasn't that explicit, of course. I gave myself time, I acknowledged that this is a process
that I also have to adapt to. So, in the situations
where I would say, "They, LGBT people," I started saying "we." This "we" later became an "I," and later on, it became much easier
to talk about my experience. As a result, I get asked
a lot of questions, and I learned to tell between those that may not be
formulated in the best of ways but are driven by honest curiosity, and those that are actually
targeting me to hurt. One question that I get asked
very frequently is, "If I had a chance to start my life
all over again as a heterosexual woman, would I do it?" The answer is always no. Because I love who I am. And I love all the people that I met
because of who I am. In this process,
I also learned to love myself, and I understood that my work doesn't really need to be
foolishly heroic. So, in the situation where I know
that my coming out will not do any good, will not change anything,
but only do me harm, I'll simply not come out. Which of course doesn't mean
that I will not voice an opinion different from what
is being said around me. And trust me, there are a lot of nasty things
being said around me about LGBT people. Let me give you some data about this. So, according to the results
of a survey conducted by ACT in 2014, 24 percent of participating
Tbilisi dwellers, 407 adults in total, believe that it is acceptable to force people of the so-called
non-traditional sexual orientation into exile. 50 percent believe that it is unacceptable
for such people to be Georgian citizens, yet here I am. 67 percent do not wish
to have gay neighbors. 69 percent do not wish
to have gay co-workers. 81 percent would not approve
of their close friend being gay. And the appalling 92 percent feel it is not acceptable
to have a gay family member. Many of these 407 adults actually have a family member
who's gay, bisexual or transgender. Many of those who feel
that our citizenship should be revoked and we should be exiled are exiling their own children,
parents, siblings or cousins they grew up with. Many of them actually
have a friend that is gay or share a desk with them at work. And most of them probably have no idea. And here's the thing. People always urge us to come out,
to show ourselves, to say who we are if we're for real. They want us to try very hard
and open the door to the closet that they, at the same time,
apply so much pressure to keep shut. It is such a undivided part
of our upbringing to assume that everybody
is straight by default, that the discrimination of the groups that
we don't belong to doesn't concern us, that we often don't even realize how and to what extent
we contribute to the oppression around us. A really good way of breaking
this vicious circle, I think, would be to take a moment,
all together, and think. Whenever you choose to make
a homophobic or transphobic joke, whenever you choose not to respond to
a homophobic or transphobic slur or joke, whenever you choose to say that homosexuality is sickness,
perversion or sin, or that transgender persons are insane, you may be hurting
someone very dear to you. And this kind of hurt hardly ever passes. The possibility to decide and to choose
how to behave in similar situations makes you a potentially great ally. Now, being an ally is not easy either; it can get lonely, it can get tough. But deep down, it always feels right. Or at least this is how most
of my friends and allies describe it. When you come out as an ally, you use your privilege of not belonging
to a specific oppressed group, just as I use my privilege of coming
from a non-homophobic family, to set an example, to state loud and clear that where we are, there is no place
for homophobia or transphobia. When we come out
as members of LGBT community and you as our allies,
together we fight hatred around us, leaving much less space
for suffocating intolerance, and much more space
for everybody to actually breathe. And isn't this what
superheroes do, after all? Thank you. (Applause)
