On a sunny afternoon by Dili’s waterfront in June last year, throngs of activists in T-shirts crowded onto blocked-off streets, milling behind bright banners as they waited for the band to start. A pause, a shared intake of breath… then, the sharp rap-rap-rap of a snare drum and hundreds took that first step together, marking the beginning of Timor-Leste’s first-ever LGBTQ Pride parade.
One small step, one giant leap; the joyous, historic march garnered Timor-Leste international attention, a televised endorsement from the Prime Minister, and catapulted its charismatic organisers to brief media fame. The march was heralded a victory for an overwhelmingly Catholic nation neighbouring a country suddenly turning on its LGBTQ community.
Reading rhapsodic coverage of the march, you’d be forgiven for thinking Timor-Leste an LGBTQ paradise, an oasis of tolerance in a region of surging discrimination. Praise for the community is doubtlessly hard-fought and well-deserved, but as queer activists prep for the next march—planned as part of a three-day festival in July—the shine of a single event belies a grittier day-to-day.
“Beyond the joyous performance of Pride lies a deep-seeded problem area where culture, religion and rights clash”
“I hate you. I looked up to you, and now I don’t even know you. Gay people are monsters.”
The message came over Facebook while Natalino Guterres—the coordinator of the youth-run social inclusion network that organised the Pride march—was studying abroad. His brother had shared a homophobic Facebook post, so Guterres took the moment to come out in a private message. The men didn’t speak for two years after the exchange.
Moments before the drums started up that day last June, the brothers, long reconciled, embraced before the crowd. Read more via New Naratif