I wasn’t afraid of the crowd. A hundred people can easily be erased by a blinding bulb shining on your face. Concentration and a mental trick could do the rest. What I was terrified of, were the thirty eyes who two days prior to the real event, were going to be staring at me for five minutes. In full light. I was going to be on a stage, but less than a couple of meters away from my public, willingly exposing myself and unsure of whether I would have enough strength to face their reaction. Having already endured some discrimination at work during the previous three months leading to the event, my mental strength was nearly depleted.
I was called on stage twice. I refused to go twice. I wasn’t ready. Not yet. I felt unprepared to face my work colleagues. We had had a full day of fun with team and trust building games while learning how to tell a story and the day was being too beautiful to spoil it. We were a good mix of national and international staff members with a balanced representation of gender, religion (including lack thereof) and socio-cultural backgrounds. Some of them knew, but most of them didn’t.
The end of the day approached and I had no choice other than taking a deep breath and hiding my courage under my nails. My turn had come. Refusing to go for good would have meant a personal failure. I started to speak and the whole room went immediately silent. I saw from the corner of my eye how the photographer, who had been taking snapshots of our games during the day, stopped what he was doing and made himself comfortable on a table in order to listen to me. I swept the audience with my pupils while I was talking. Higher up, it was easy to scrutinise my public. Their eyes wide open, holding their breaths, anchored to their seats, they were listening to my words with astonishment, surprise and even affection.
I finished my talk. I felt vulnerable so I sat down on the stage as they started clapping. I didn’t collapse even if it seemed as if their clapping had brought me to the floor. This storytelling exercise had left me mentally exhausted. I was burning inside. I’m sure I was bright red too. My heart was beating violently. Everybody was smiling, clapping enthusiastically. A spontaneous session of Q&A followed. Some personal questions were asked.
My work colleagues spoke back with messages of love, respect and reassurance. I was the same person to them. As far as they were concerned, nothing had changed. Coming out seemed not to have made any difference to them but it made a huge difference to me. From now on, I could be the real me in front of them. I wouldn’t have to hide anymore who I am or be evasive when asked questions about my dates. Only those who have been prisoners can truly understand what it means to be free. I felt blessed with wonderful work colleagues. Supportive, respectful and understanding. Why would it have been otherwise?
My talk was selected for Spark Talks in Beirut, a highly inspiring event with the aim to bring together different actors from the Lebanese civil society and the international community in order to find new approaches and trigger new ways of thinking in humanitarian action. The overwhelming positive response I had from donors, NGO staff, my own colleagues and other members of the public gave me the push I needed to start this blog, a space of sharing and exchange in order to create awareness about LGBTQ+ aid workers around the world and spark a debate about how our rights can be acknowledged and protected without having to sacrifice our careers.
“Your talk made me realise how easily we forget that gay people exist” – a donor told me.
Visibility is key if we want to be taken into account. Our voices need to be heard, and we hope this will be a safe space to do so.
Do you have a story to tell? Maybe a coming out story which also went well? Or not so well? We would love to hear from you! Leave us a comment or write a blog post for us.