During the Tigray war, queer Tigrayans like me had to isolate ourselves from the state and our community, as violent nationalism and support of the state’s subjugation were justified by the same people who faced oppression from the state.
“So did you dump the strap-on?” I asked a friend over text.
I had expressed my worries after police started searching the homes of Tigrayans in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia’s capital. As a queer woman, I had begun de-dyking my space, which included getting rid of rainbow-colored paraphernalia, letters, my journal, books and films with queer themes, and anything else that was remotely queer-related. I had shared with her how difficult it was to get my hands on a strap-on; thus, I couldn’t find the strength to part with the one I had.
It was unclear what exactly the police were looking for during these arbitrary searches, but I worried it would be difficult and dangerous if I were caught with a strap-on. Explaining its use would have proved disastrous in homophobic Ethiopia, and it would, I feared, land my Tigrayan queer self in prison—if I was lucky.
Soon after our Nobel Peace Prize-winning prime minister Abiy Ahmed declared war on the northern Ethiopian region of Tigray in November 2020, our lives as ethnic Tigrayans in Addis Ababa became a living hell. Ethnic Tigrayans could be arbitrarily searched, arrested, detained, and killed. Our only crime was being Tigrayan in Ethiopia. The government argued its fight was with the Tigray People’s Liberation Front, an opposition party that was at the center of Ethiopian politics for 27 years before 2018. The government’s propaganda and actions indicated that its enemy was not just the TPLF. Our lived realities as Tigrayans made it clear that we were all considered suspects.
I had found out about the war from the same friend when her text woke me up in the middle of the night. Her message read, in part, I hope your family in Tigray is ok. We were both flabbergasted by our prime minister’s decision. We both agreed that war was not a solution and hoped that our government would come to its senses and immediately stop it. While we appreciated the complicated nature of Ethiopian politics and did not have a ready solution, we understood that all parties needed to negotiate and discuss to solve their political differences.
Little did I know at that point that my queer non-Tigrayan friend was in the minority both in her anti-war stance and in being supportive of a Tigrayan. Over the next few days, I was surprised to realize that virulent nationalism was the order of the day. It seemed that people had been completely sold on the war’s merits overnight. As the war escalated and Tigrayans continued to be targeted, I assumed that, while the general population had gone into collective madness, I would find refuge in my fellow queer citizens. That hope continued to be squashed at every turn.
The first indication that I would not find refuge was when I spoke to a gay man who is a long-time LGBTQ+ activist. He said he supported the war because he wanted “one Ethiopia, one culture, and one religion.” It was an odd thing to say, given that more than 80 languages are spoken in Ethiopia, and at least three religions are widely practiced. Another gay man defended the war, saying “we” needed to teach “them” a lesson. At this point during the war, I learned that “we” referred to an emerging ultranationalist Ethiopian identity that excluded Tigrayans. He was tacitly removing me from the “we.”
Perhaps the best example of this “othering” was at an LBQ (Lesbian, Bisexual, and Queer) gathering held at the home of a queer woman. Toward the end of the evening, one of the women talked about how security guards had blackmailed a group of LBQ women. The guards had reason to assume the women were queer. Talking about one of the women who was being blackmailed, she said, “She was basically acting like a Tigrayan.” Two people challenged her on her stereotyping. Still, she doubled down and said she could not understand what was wrong with that statement, “as we all knew what she meant,” because “we all know what Tigrayans are like.” The next day, she called the Tigrayans in the group to apologize, claiming that she had nothing against Tigrayans. On social media, I witnessed queer people in the diaspora defending the state’s use of violence and force. The irony was that most of them had fled Ethiopia because of the persecution they faced from the government for being queer.
A lesbian couple I knew – a Tigrayan and a non-Tigrayan – broke up because the non-Tigrayan felt that the Tigrayan was asking for “too much emotional support.” We Tigrayan queers leaned on each other for support, as most of us had not heard from our families for months because Tigray was under a complete communication blackout, as we couldn’t count on our community. There were indeed exceptions to the rule. One queer woman who I was not close to found out I was from Tigray and texted me every week or two to ask how my family and I were doing. Another queer diasporan consistently spoke out against the war and served as a voice of reason on social media.
Minus these few exceptions, it was odd to watch a subjugated people align with the state as it subjugated an entire ethnic group. When I challenged people in the LGBTQ+ community, they found a way to justify their support for a state that had invited a neighboring country to kill its people. One can debate the politics of the war, but nothing can ever justify how Tigrayans, as an ethnicity, were treated.
Amidst all this, I realized I was never in a community with my fellow Ethiopian queers. The war and the support that those in the LGBTQ+ community provided for it made me realize that we had a fundamental difference in how we defined queerness. Queerness, for me, is as much a political identity as it is about sexual practice and gender identity. Queerness is about liberation. Queerness is about rebellion. Queerness demands that we fight injustice wherever we witness it. Queerness asks us to stand in solidarity with anyone who faces discrimination and subjugation.
When the state came for me, their fellow queer Ethiopian, almost no one was standing with me. But, while I lost faith in the queer Ethiopian community, I managed to hold on to my beloved strap-on.
This article was first published on Minority Africa.
Edited and Reviewed by Caleb Okereke, Samuel Banjoko and Uzoma Ihejirika.
