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I recently met with Ernest Gaubert of KOURAJ Ayiti  which is a grassroots organization with members in Cap Haitian, Gonaïves,  St Marc, Port-au-Prince and Jacmel.    It began as a social organisation Ami – Ami [friend to friend] in 2010 but the group soon realized they needed to expand to include advocacy around rights, access to healthcare, a response to homophobic and transphobic violence and general support particularly of young people who make up the majority of membership.  The name was changed to KOURAJ to reflect a more activist and politicization of the group.

Although there are  no laws against  LGBT  / ‘homosexuality  in Haiti, there are few legal protections and homophobia and transphobia are widespread and often result in verbal and physical attacks as well as discrimination in the workplace and educational institutions.   Ernest Gaubert, who is one of the founders of KOURAJ is also a Houngan and he explained that  Haitian Voudou is inclusive of  ’all gender expressions and sexual orientation’.  Voudou in general is far more inclusive of  sexual minorities and those considered outside the normative heterosexual conformist spaces in whatever ways this might be.

The following interview [in French] was made by Cases Rebelles with Charlot JEUDYet Ernest Junior GAUBERT, the founders  of Haitian LGBT organization - KOURAJ.

Dans l’émission n°31, Cases Rebelles a eu le plaisir d’accueillir l’organisation KOURAJ Pou Pwoteje Dwa Moun an Ayiti, basée à Port au Prince (Haiti), mais avec des cellules ailleurs dans le pays. Le groupe plus communément appelé KOURAJ existe depuis 2011 et rassemble des activistes LGBT ou plutot des activistes M, puisque KOURAJ a fait le choix fort de s’autodéfinir avec les mots du peuple haitien. Kouraj c’est donc la communauté M, debout, fière et combattante. Communauté M pour Masisi, Madivin, Makomè et Miks. Charlot JEUDYet Ernest Junior GAUBERT (respectivement président et vice-président de Kouraj)répondent à nos questions et nous en disent plus sur leur histoire, leurs luttes, et leurs espoirs.

Cases Rebelles : Comment en êtes-vous venus à créer KOURAJ ?

Kouraj : L’une des raisons qui nous a poussé-e-s à créer KOURAJ c’est que nous étions un groupe d’ami-e-s, masisi et madivin et makomè. Quand on a constaté que nous n’avions dans le pays aucun espace qui nous était destiné, quand on a vu qu’il y avait un ensemble de caractéristiques qui nous avaient poussé-e-s à nous rassembler, nous nous sommes dit « pourquoi ne pas créer une association? ». Elle s’est appelée d’abord Ami Amiet fut créée en 2009.
Nous avons estimé à partir de Décembre 2011 qu’il y avait une nécessité de transformer cette association en organisation pour défendre les droits de la communauté M, communauté M qui est la façon dont on se définit dans la communauté haïtienne. Nous parlons decommunauté M, masisi, madivin, makomè, miks -nous ne parlons pas de LGBT- même si ce n’est pas le même langage qu’au niveau international. Nous nous sommes donc dits « Hé bien nous allons nous organiser pour faire ça. » Mais c’était souvent parce que nous avions besoin de faire des activités entre nous, sans que les gens ne nous regardent de travers,  sans que les gens ne nous jugent.
Et c’est comme ça, nous étions rassemblé-e-s chez un ami Jean-André qui fêtait son anniversaire, on s’est dit « Bon, on a le potentiel pour faire plus ». On était nombreux chez lui, à manger à boire et nous nous sommes dit : « On va faire plus ensemble ». Nous avons décidé de transformer Ami Ami en KOURAJ Pour la Défense les Droits Humains en Haïti, parce que nous croyons qu’au niveau des discriminations sur l’orientation sexuelle des individu-e-s, sur l’identité de genre, c’est une question qui concerne toute la société, c’est un problème d’importance, un sujet controversé. Et donc nous avons créé KOURAJ pour lutter contre toutes formes de stigmatisations, de discriminations que nos ami-e-s, notre entourage et nous-mêmes aussi nous subissons.

Alors quand on a commencé on était un groupe d’ami-e-s, on était environ douze. Ensuite, quand il y a eu la fête, on a dit «Bon, nous allons faire KOURAJ ensemble». Et parmi ces 12 amis il faut dire qu’il y avait toujours un noyau de 5 personnes actives et en première ligne dans ce groupe : Nicolas, Pouchy, Herold, Pierson et moi-même.
Mais avec le temps, avec le développement des activités, on a invité d’autres personnes à nous rejoindre dans l’équipe. Aujourd’hui, nous sommes à 70 membres et quand on se déplace, quand on va dans des villes province comme St Marc, Gonaïves, Jacmel, Léogâne, ils commencent à comprendre qu’il faut qu’ils s’impliquent parce que ça les concerne eux aussi et donc ils viennent de partout dans le combat à nos côtés.
Et donc nous continuons le pèlerinage et on continue la lutte pour trouver d’autres camarades concerné-e-s par ces questions dans tout le pays parce que nous estimons que l’homophobie et la transphobie sont partout dans notre société.

CR : Vous avez choisi de vous définir comme Communauté M ; vous n’avez pas choisi le terme LGBT et le langage qui va avec. C’est quelque chose qu’on trouve très intéressant. On aimerait savoir comment vous en êtes venu-e-s à cette auto-définition , dans quelle mesure ça aide le combat et dans quelle mesure ça peut aussi le compliquer ?

Kouraj : Disons que si tu es quelqu’un qui connait le pays tu sais que «masisi» c’est la pire insulte que l’on puisse faire à quelqu’un. Les personnes qui ont du succès en politique, si on veut leur barrer la route on va dire d’eux qu’ils sont masisis. C’est comme ça que l’on attaque toute personne qui monte. C’est une insulte terrible. Mais nous-mêmes nous avons estimé qu’il serait intéressant que nous récupérions ce concept, ce mot, cette insulte et que nous le transformions en symbole de notre fierté. Pour qu’éventuellement les gens prennent courage, qu’ils ne se sentent plus blessés quand on leur dira qu’ils sont masisis ; que les gens ne se sentent plus humiliés, de même qu’avec le mot «madivin».
Et puis nous croyons aussi qu’il y a des différences sociologiques. Parce que chez nous quand on dit de toi que tu es masisi, la société te voit comment ? La société te voit comme un garçon qui a des rapports avec un garçon mais qui joue un rôle « féminin » dans ce rapport là ; c’est comme ça que la société nous perçoit et c’est pour ça que nous pensons que sociologiquement il y a des concepts qui ne correspondent pas. Parce que si on dit «gay» au niveau international c’est peut-être un homme qui couche avec un homme, c’est un homme qui a un homme, c’est tout. Mais chez nous quand on dit masisi ça a un sens spécifique.

Et puis l’autre chose c’est que nous croyons aussi qu’Haïti n’a pas pris part jusqu’à présent à la bataille que la communauté LGBT du monde entier, ou du moins celle du continent nord-américain, a mené.
C’est vrai qu’on a observé, observé les stratégies mais nous n’y avons pas participé. Nous ne pouvons donc pas dire que nous sommes les grands bénéficiaires de cette lutte. Nous pensons que c’est un combat que nous menons aujourd’hui, qui n’a jamais été mené dans le pays, pour la société haïtienne. Nous disons un grand bravo pour les personnes qui se sont battu-e-s pour la communauté LGBT dans d’autres pays comme la France et qui se battent encore jusqu’aujourd’hui.

Nous nous autodéfinissons parce que chez nous on parle de miks pas de bisexuels parce que le bisexuel de chez nous serait une personne hétérosexuelle qui a des rapports homosexuels. Ce serait ça. Parce que c’est une personne qui a deux formes de rapports : un rapport officiel qui est l’hétérosexualité et un rapport officieux qui est l’homosexualité.
Toutes ces définitions nous font comprendre qu’il nous faut arriver avec des concepts que le peuple haïtien puisse comprendre, que les personnes des quartiers populaires puissent comprendre, qu’on puisse comprendre partout.

Dans quel sens ça peut poser problème aujourd’hui ? C’est peut-être qu’il y a des gens qui n’ont pas encore compris ; il y a des gens dans la communauté M qui refusent qu’on les traite de masisis parce qu’ils ne comprennent pas notre logique, la stratégie que nous développons. Il y a des gens dans la communauté qui ne savent pas encore ou qui ne se sont pas encore approprié de ce mot. Parce que si hier c’était une insulte, aujourd’hui c’est un symbole de fierté. Autrefois on le fuyait ce mot, on nous injuriait, nous en avions peur mais aujourd’hui on dit justement : « Oui on est des masisis. On est des masisis haïtiens. Y a pas un problème d’être maisisi « . Et c’est ça que nous voulons faire comme travail mais jusqu’à maintenant nous n’avons pas encore eu les moyens de faire comprendre à toute la population pourquoi nous utilisons ce concept-là, de cette façon.

CR: Au niveau de la création de KOURAJ, il semble qu’il était surtout question d’hommes.  Quelle est de la place des femmes dans KOURAJ ?

Kouraj : Il faut que nous disions que nous pensons que les femmes ont une place fondamentale. Et c’est ça qui nous a fait comprendre que nous ne pouvions pas mener le combat en tant que masisis sans s’unir aux madivin, d’une manière générale, mais aussi avec les femmes tout simplement. Et il faut qu’on s’unisse avec elles. Mais étant donné que lorsque nous nous sommes créés c’était surtout des masisis… Il y avait aussi d’autres gens, comme Rachel, qui étaient proches de quelques membres fondateurs de KOURAJ . Il y avait aussi Sabine.
Mais nous faisons un constat qui est que, jusqu’à maintenant, les femmes lesbiennes sont réticentes à se montrer. Or notre bataille est celle de la visibilité, pour dire « nous sommes là, nous sommes masisis, nous sommes haïtiens, c’est notre pays et personne ne pourra nous faire le quitter ou en avoir peur ».

Elles sont là, elles ont un place fondamentale dans toutes nos activités mais nous ne pouvons pas demander à des personnes de s’exposer si elles ne sentent pas encore en mesure de le faire ; on ne peut pas demander ça. On ne peut pas leur demander de s’exposer quand on sait les conséquences qui vont en découler pour elles. Parce qu’il s’agit pour la plupart de jeunes, vivant avec leurs familles qui sont capables de les jeter à la rue, de cesser de leur payer l’école, tu vois ? Il y a une tonne de difficultés réelles auxquelles il faut faire face. On a une amie, qui a toujours supporté nos activités, qui est madivin.  Mais aujourd’hui elle a de grosses difficultés avec sa famille, avec son mari parce qu’il a appris qu’elle soutenait le mouvement KOURAJ, qu’elle était toujours dans les activités de KOURAJ. Alors il s’agit de gros risques auxquels nous-mêmes avons choisi malgré tout de nous exposer pour pouvoir apporter des solutions une fois pour toutes à ces problèmes dans le pays. Mais les femmes sont là ; elles sont toujours présentes dans toutes nos activités.

CR: Et quelles sont vos relations avec les groupes de femmes, les groupes féministes en Haïti ?

Kouraj : Il y a un problème sérieux depuis 1982 au pays. Depuis les années 80 même, les femmes ont commencé à mener des luttes pour réclamer leur place dans la société mais la stratégie de leurs détracteurs a toujours été d’insinuer que c’était des madivin ; bien avant que Kouraj existe. Et en 1996, il y a eu la création du Ministère à la Condition Féminine et aux Droits de la Femme. Ces femmes ont étaient stigmatisées énormément parce qu’elles étaient considérées comme lesbiennes, du fait qu’elles réclamaient l’égalité, l’égalité des droits, de chance, participation à la vie politique, tout ça. Et ça a fini par créer une phobie chez elles.
Quand nous sommes arrivés en 2009 nous avons commencé à regarder comment nous allions poser les problèmes. En 2011 véritablement, elles ont été réticentes au fait de travailler avec nous. C’est ce qui s’est passé quand nous avons essayé d’entrer en contact avec elles. Elles sont réticentes… On les invite systématiquement mais elles sont réticentes jusqu’à présent.

Leurs détracteurs ont fini par créer une phobie chez elle car déjà elles avaient l’étiquette de madivin pour avoir réclamé l’égalité, pour avoir lutté contre la violence qui touche les femmes, contre les viols qui touchent les filles. Mais voilà où ça en est arrivé, du fait d’avoir été pointées du doigt elles sont devenues comme réfractaires.
Mais nous persistons pour en arriver à créer des rapports avec elles. Il y a KOFAVIV par exemple, avec qui nous sommes en pourparlers sérieux, avec qui nous avons déjà organisés deux activités. Le Ministère à la Condition Féminine, nous leur avons écrit et nous attendons leur réponse jusqu’à aujourd’hui, pour savoir ce qu’on peut faire ensemble. Il y a un groupe qui est surtout dirigé par des lesbiennes qui est FACSDIS et nous travaillons en partenariat avec elles. Mais c’est vrai que pour une bonne partie des groupes il y a une peur d’être encore indexées comme des lesbiennes, alors que déjà la société les considèrent comme telles  parce qu’elles réclament des droits qu’elles ont besoin d’être égales aux hommes, donc c’est des lesbiennes ».

CR: Quelle genre de personnes y a-t-il en terme de classe sociale dans Kouraj ?

Kouraj : Il faut dire que les gens qui sont dans KOURAJ sont surtout des gens issus des quartiers populaires, de classe pauvre. Nous n’avons pas du tout de membres riches. C’est des jeunes qui ont tous pratiquement grandi dans des quartiers populaires et qui justement ont l’éducation comme seule richesse.
Mais nous n’avons pas de personnes riches dans KOURAJ d’une manière générale. Et puis nous avons beaucoup de jeunes aussi dans KOURAJ. Les plus jeunes ont 16 ans, jusqu’à 40 ans. Donc il y a beaucoup de jeunes dans KOURAJ.

CR: Comment les gens intègrent-ils KOURAJ, où et comment vous rencontrent-ils ?

Charlot JEUDY

Kouraj : Nous, c’est un enchaînement ; c’est un groupe d’ami-e-s qui a formé KOURAJ et ces ami-e-s ramènent d’autres ami-e-s. Cela fait un enchaînement. Et puis comme il y a des cellules que nous créons dans les villes de province, nous nous déplaçons et nous allons dans les villes de province. Nous allons chercher notre famille, car nous sommes une famille, toute une famille.

CR: Une autre question :  on a parlé des difficultés rencontrées pour vivre en général quand on est  masisi ; comment ça se passe pour ce qui est de la question du travail ?

Il faut tout d’abord dire qu’il n’y a pas énormément de personnes parmi nous qui sont sorties du placard. Et la plupart des membres de KOURAJ,  s’ils ne sont pas dans des activités scolaires ou estudiantines, ce sont des gens qui vivent du commerce informel. Ce ne sont pas des individus qui travaillent dans des institutions publiques ou privées. Nous n’avons pas ce genre de membres. Et les gens que l’on connaît qui travaillent dans ces cadres-là ce sont aussi des gens qui ne s’affichent pas ou qui n’assument pas leur homosexualité ou leur transsexualité.

CR: Quelles sont les violences que subit aujourd’hui la communauté M ?

Kouraj : D’abord nous faisons face à une violence verbale qui est déjà, en soi, un fléau. Tous les gens quels qu’ils soient, autorités, simples citoyens, membres de la famille, tous les gens tiennent des propos blessants à l’égard des membres de la communauté M, qu’ils les connaissent ou pas.
L’autre chose tient de la violence physique dans certains quartiers. Les jeunes qui sont souvent efféminés et donc remarquables, qui souvent assument leur homosexualité ou leur transsexualité, sont victimes de ces gens-là. Ils les frappent, les battent. Aussi, au moment du Carnaval, quand nous sommes dans le carnaval il y a des groupes carrément qui nous attaquent pour nous frapper.
On est aussi frappé-e-s par des violences institutionnelles. Il y a des institutions où juste parce que tu as l’air efféminé ils ne te reçoivent pas. On ne te reçoit pas tout simplement ; ils disent qu’ils ne veulent pas recevoir « ce genre de personnes », à l’hôpital ou dans d’autres endroits.
Et puis il y a une autre violence : celles de groupes musicaux qui utilisent le message qu’ils véhiculent à travers leurs textes. Ils lancent des messages de haine à travers ces textes-là et il n’y a personne dans cette société qui réagisse ; ni l’État, ni Ministère de la Culture, ni Ministère de la Justice, ni Ministère des Droit de l’homme, personne ne dit jamais rien en notre faveur. Même le gouvernement finance des groupes carnavalesques homophobes pour qu’ils puissent continuer à diffuser leurs messages de haine contre notre communauté.
Ça signifie qu’en cas de problème tu ne vois pas à qui t’adresser. Et quand nous avons affaire à des jeunes qui sont victimes de violence et qu’on va au commissariat, le policier dit carrément que c’est nous qui nous nous comportons mal et que c’est ça qui pousse les gens à nous faire violence. Ils n’enregistrent pas la plainte ; ils nous disent que c’est à nous de nous conformer, de «marcher comme des hommes ».
Tu vois. C’est ça la situation.
Et il y a aussi des familles qui, quand elles découvrent que tu es homo, transsexuel, lesbienne, te mettent carrément à la rue. Ils cessent carrément de te payer l’école. Tout simplement. Tu ne peux plus rester à la maison. Même si la maman est d’accord mais le frère qui paye la scolarité ne veut pas. Ou bien la famille qui est à l’étranger elle ne veut plus payer parce qu’elle sait que tu es dans la maison…C’est le genre de problèmes auxquels nous faisons face.

CR: Est-ce que vous avez des avocats dans votre réseau ?

Kouraj : Aujourd’hui dans les partenariats qu’on essaie de développer avec la société civile nous avons deux cabinets d’avocats avec qui nous sommes en pourparlers ; des cabinets qui veulent volontairement nous accompagner mais la question c’est toujours celle des frais. Même s’ils ne nous réclament rien, il y a des frais d’administration, des frais destinés à la DGI (Direction Générale des Impôts). Et  nous n’avons pas de fonds.
D’abord il y a BAI, Bureau International des Avocats, et il y a DOP, Défenseur des Opprimés, qui sont déjà prêts pour nous supporter quand il y a une affaire. Déjà, on a un cas de violence homophobe au niveau de Jacmel,de jeunes qui ont été attaqués et donc on a le cabinet BAI qui suit le dossier pour nous.

CR: Tu as déjà en partie répondu à la question mais aujourd’hui quelle est l’attitude de la justice à l’égard de la communauté ?

Kouraj : Mon cher, il y a une incompréhension énorme, un gros problème d’ignorance. Et c’est ça qui fait que nous, dans notre plaidoyer, nous demandons que les officiers judiciaires soient formés, que les officiers dans tous leurs commissariats bénéficient d’une formation. Et nous-même avons recommandé qu’à l’intérieur des académies de police il y ait des séances de formation sur les questions d’homosexualité et de transsexualité. Parce que nous avons fait face à un cas dernièrement : il s’agissait d’une femme lesbienne, son mari l’a su et l’a assassinée. Le mari l’a tuée et quand il s’est retrouvé face au juge d’instruction… On a arrêté le mari qui s’est justifié en disant que sa femme était une lesbienne. Le juge a alors conclu que, si c’était une lesbienne alors c’était une femme pas respectable, une moins que rien. Nous avons été obligé-e-s de demander que le juge soit dessaisi du dossier. C’est pour te montrer comment il y a une ignorance énorme dans ces questions, et une grosse incompréhension.

CR : Quels sont les projets sur lesquels vous travaillez actuellement?
Aujourd’hui nous sommes toujours dans le développement de KOURAJ parce que, comme nous le disions, homophobie et transphobie sont partout dans notre société et c’est pour ça que nous avons des caravanes qui se déplacent dans les villes de province. Nous allons continuer à nous développer pour rallier plus de personnes la cause, qui soient en mesure d’intégrer le groupe. C’est ça : développer KOURAJ.

Également voir comment préparer deux propositions de lois au parlement. L’une qui condamne la violence homophobe et toutes les violences liées au genre ; et une proposition de loi pour que les associations soient en mesure de porter plainte en lieu et place des personnes physiques, des individus. Parce que les victimes de violence refusent de porter plainte quand ils/elles sont victimes parce qu’elles ont peur qu’on sache, qu’on connaisse leur orientation sexuelle, leur identité de genre. Et donc nous aimerions que les associations puissent le faire à leur place.
Et l’autre chose que nous aimerions aussi c’est faire un grand débat avec toute la société civile sur les questions d’homosexualité et de transsexualité  et que l’État haïtien ratifie la convention internationale sur la dépénalisation de l’homosexualité.
Nous aimerions aussi qu’il y ait un nouveau code pénal, qui soit réformé. Il y a une proposition de nouveau code pénal sur lequel nous avons travaillé avec d’autres membres de la société civile. Nous aimerions que cette proposition soit adoptée.
Qu’il y ait aussi une politique de l’État, de ce gouvernement qui se veut un État de droit ; que cet État inscrive nos préoccupations dans ses priorités. Parce que le gouvernement dit que l’une de ses priorités c’est l’état de droit. Et nous croyons que dans la constitution de 87 il est clairement dit dans l’article 19 que l’État doit protéger toute personne sans aucune distinction.

A Picture Story For The Curious
©2011 by Alice Walker

(You supply the pictures.)

Photo by Sokari

I get to meditate
in a chair
Or against the wall
with my legs
stretched out
(or even in bed!)

I get to see
maybe half
of what I’m looking at.
(This changes everything!)

I get to dance
like the tipsy old men
I adored
when I was an infant.
(They never dropped me!)

I get to spend time with myself
whenever I want.

I get to ride a bicycle
with tall
handlebars.
(My posture improves!)

I get to give up
learning to sail!
I get to know
I will never speak
German!

I get to snuggle all
morning
with my snuggler
of choice:
counting the hours
by how many times
we get up
to pee!

I get to spend time with myself
whenever I want.

I get to eat chocolate
with my salad.
Or even as a first course.
I get to forget!

I get to paint
with colors
I mix myself.
Colors
I’ve never seen
before.

I get to sleep
with my dog
& pray never to outlive
my cat.
I get to play
music
without reading
a note.

I get to spend time with myself
whenever I want!

I get to sleep
in a
hammock
under the same
stars
wherever I am!

I get to spend time with myself
whenever I want!

I get to laugh
at all the things
I don’t know
& cannot
find!

I get to greet
people I don’t remember
as if I know them
very well.
After all, how different
can they be?

I get to grow
my entire
garden
in a few
pots!

I get to spend time with myself
whenever I want.

I get to see
& feel
the suffering
of the whole
world
& to take
a nap
when I feel
like it
anyway!

I get to spend time with myself
whenever I want!

I get to feel
more love
than I ever thought
existed:
everything appears to be made
of the stuff!

I feel this
especially for You. Though I may not remember
exactly which You
you are.
How cool is this!

Still, I get to spend time with myself
whenever I want!

And that is just a taste
as the old people used to say
down in Georgia
when I was a child
of what you get
for getting old.

Reminding us, as they witnessed our curiosity about them, that no matter the losses, there’s something fabulous going on at every stage of Life, something to let go of, maybe, but for darn sure, something to get!

From the new book of poems: THE WORLD WILL FOLLOW JOY: Turning Madness Into Flowers - Spring 2013

***

Posted from Diigo. The rest of my favorite links are here.

Phumla Masuku portrait taken on 20.04.2013 at home in Soweto.
Photo by Zanele Muholi

The Soweto born soccer star, explains that her journey as a soccer player started when she and a number of women formed the Soweto Ladies team inspired by their commitment to the game, especially because they played against men.  She says that she was the captain of the team and they were blessed to play internationally in Sweden and in Denmark. “Football then was beautiful,” she said.

Phumla confesses that she was a Banyana Banyana player though her career was short lived because she suffered an injury on the leg and she was then disqualified as a player but was kept in the team. She also admits to being the one who came up with the name Banyana Banyana “ Journalists came and they suggested we call the team Bafazi Bafazi and I felt that that term oppressed me, so for me I felt that they were not defining me personally so that’s when I decided that the team needed to be called Banyana Banyana” she uttered.  She also says that she got another injury in 1998, sadly she didn’t get any support from the team so she figured that that was the end of her career as a soccer star.

However, she wasn’t as discouraged by all that and she found steps to a new leap in her life again. In the millennium year she got a job as a waitress in Midrand and she also started attending workshops at Forum for the Empowerment of Women (FEW). The year 2003 came as a leap of faith for her, because she became an official member of FEW and that same year she won Miss Lesbian and between computer courses and learning photography, they played soccer as a form of relaxation and fun.
“That’s where everything started, most Cancerians are opportunistic, so I saw an opportunity that about 9 black lesbians could play soccer very well and that’s a team for me” she said.

The Chosen FEW team that represented SA Lesbian footballers at the 2006 Chicago Gay Games, Florida. US.

As she reminisced with laughter that filled the room, about their first game as theChosen FEW. She tells me that they wore sponsored t-shirts written ‘Kodak’ and white shorts all given to them by Zanele Muholi and that was their first soccer attire.  She also adds that’s the name Chosen FEW was given to them by Donna Smith, who felt that they were the chosen ones as the name continues to live on even today.

With emotion Phumla expressed that she’ll always be thankful to Zanele Muholi and Buhle Msibi who bought their first soccer kits and soccer balls.
“That was an inspiration to me that there are people who can still do that,” she said.

Then her emotions took a quick turn around and she had an endless smile on her face when she spoke about the Gay Games. She told me that though it was a bit of a mission to get there but in 2006 Gay Games, held in Chicago, US. Chosen FEW made a historical memory when they brought home a bronze medalist from the Gay Games. She also adds that she was the founder, the manager and the soccer coach for their new-formed team.

Chosen FEW at the 2006 Chicago Gay Games opening. Photos by Zanele Muholi

In the same spirit she also voiced out that in 2007 she had an epiphany, her new venture was to bring LGBTI Pride to the dusty streets of Soweto.  Her vision was inspired by her observation of how people loved to attend Joburg Pride but sometimes they had financial challenges “ so I thought why not bring the pride to the people” she said.  With the brilliance of such empowering thoughts, her vision was once again a historical moment. “I made history that day” she smiled with so much pride filled in her face. She continues to tell me that a 150 people turned up at the first Soweto pride and that to her was an achievement.

Sadly things took an ugly turn in Phumla’s life, when FEW got new board members and everything changed. She says that she was told that she can’t manage the team anymore and that did not make sense to her, because she had done so much for the team.
“ It hit me in a plane toilet. It only hit me then” she confesses.

Phumla explains to Zanele Muholi and I, that she was captured in a documentary titledAre You A Girl or Boy? directed by a Swedish female filmmaker talking about weed and it’s negative effects though, in that video she was rolling a joint. She was also accused of stealing soccer kits and teaching the young players to smoke weed. Those however are the only things that she could recall that made sense to her about her sudden deployment.

After a brief deep thought she also said that in late 2008, at the Joburg Pride she was given a green pamphlet like everyone else with a list of names of the new Soweto Pridecommittee without her knowledge and she uttered, “I died that day”.
In the same breath of sadness Phumla says since 2008 she hasn’t attended anything that’s LGBTI related “I’ve been angry, disappointed and I feel like my name was tainted for the things I didn’t do”.

Though she died inside, Phumla’s life did not take a standstill in October late that year she hosted Miss Township Lesbian and it created an opportunity for two contestants to go to school and that made her happy. Though, she feels that she could’ve continued doing it over the years. “I wish I could’ve taken it further this time, so this time I failed about 10 people the opportunity to study, all because I was angry and bitter”, she said.

Phumla expresses to us that she’s sharing her story with us because she says that she feels that people live and celebrate her life achievements and yet she has nothing to show for it and also that people don’t know that she was the driving brains behind those initiatives and therefore she wants to live her legacy and not leave a legacy, she says
“I want to be celebrated when I’m still alive”.

So what I drew from Phumla’s past and her life now are the words uttered by an iconic French designer Coco Chanel “If you were born without wings, do nothing to prevent them from growing”.
All I saw in Phumla’s midst are her wings coming out again.

Additional links -Stamping on the Chosen Few,  London,  2008

Two years after his March 2011 return to Haiti, former President and Fanmi Lavalas leader, Jean-Bertrand Aristide made his first appearance in public. President Aristide had been called to court by the investigative judge, Yvickel Dabrésil, to answer questions around the April 2000 assassination of of his friend and fellow Lavalas member, journalist and activist Jean Dominique. Full details of the events surrounding the murder of Jean Dominique and the search to find those responsible has been well documented – see here and here. The assassination of Jean Dominique should be read as part of an historical silencing of human rights and Lavalas activists such as Father Jean- Marie Vincent, murdered in 1994; Father Gérard Jean-Juste who died in 2009 of cancer believed to have been contracted during his imprisonment on false charges in 2005; and Lovinsky Pierre Antoine who disappeared on the 12th August 2007.

The court’s imposition on President Aristide as well as former President Rene Preval, again requires a closer reading to understand it as a political act and part of an ongoing attempt by the present ‘Duvalierist‘ government of President Michel Martelly to discredit and once again prevent Fanmi Lavalas from participating in Haitian politics and in particular from the forthcoming elections. It was therefore not surprising that TV National Haiti [TNH] could only file a 60 second report that mentioned the reasons for the hearing but with no commentary and no mention of the thousands who accompanied President Aristide to and from the courts.

Yesterday”s massive outpouring of the popular masses, in many ways marked an important juncture in Haitian politics vis a vis Fanmi Lavalas’s continued importance and strength. Aristide’s supporters, many who slept outside his house throughout the night of the 7th / 8th May, ignored the government’s ban on holding a protests to which they responded, its not a protest its a march! With cries of “bare pa bare n’ap pase” barrier or no barrier we will pass, and “Aristide se wa nan peyi a” Aristide rules”, tens of thousands reclaimed the streets. People also marched in Gonaïves, in Cap Haitian, and in Les Caye. I’ve been on probably hundreds of marches in my life but the sheer spontaneous joy expressed by marchers was incredible and inspiring. Yes, there was anger at the present administration, at the UN and the discrediting of Lavalas but the overwhelming feeling was one of commradship and joy. From around 8am crowds began to gather near the courthouse in Champ Mars which had been condoned off by police. At 10am, when I entered the courthouse, there were perhaps a few thousand supporters scattered around the nearby streets. By the time Aristide left the court house some 2 hours later there were tens of thousands lining the streets as far as one could see. As the motorcade exited the courthouse premises, Aristide made the first of two surprise but brief appearances from his car, and greeted the crowds. Instead of returning directly to his home in Tabarre, President Aristide moved slowly through the surrounding streets and onto Champ Mars and then to Bel Air neighbourhood where he made a second stop standing on the car roof to greet the crowds. Yes, this was about a beloved hero , but to dismiss this as simply about President Jean-Bertrand Aristide is too miss the symbolic meaning which he embodies, that is a different Haiti to the one designed by the USA and the present administration which is essentially a factory of cheap labour and cheap resources for global capital, to one of hope, dignity and independence. Fanmi Lavalas is a movement of people and as such it is not dependent on any one individual.

……now is the time to seize opportunities in Haiti, a nation which can provide “incredible value” to other countries as well as to itself, especially by virtue of its private sector,

One tweet by @anthonyfenton sums up SP in Haiti

It was only a matter of time before @seanpenn collaborated w/@worldbank in #Haiti worldbank.org/en/news/featur… #MRE — Anthony Fenton (@anthonyfenton) May 6, 2013

The article ends with promotional blurb on Penn’s organization. Honestly I do not know whether the claims are true or nearly true or totally false. What I do know after three years of regular visits and four months of living here, is that there is so much  bullshit   questionable assertions as to  what is supposedly happening in Haiti which bears little relationship with the Haiti I see and the people I speak with on a daily basis. Rather like Haitian politics, things are not always what they appear to be, and one needs to think dialectically.

A second article in the Guardian [2009] by Paul Collier [Clinton's economic policy bag man] is even worse as he advocates Haiti seize the ‘window of opportunity’ by mirroring Bangladesh’s garment industry. Haiti should be running as far away as possible from the Bangladesh model which has resulted in the deaths of over 1000 garment workers over the past few years including the so far 640 people killed when a building collapsed last week – imagine the uproar if 640 US workers had died as a result of negligence.  The whole point of factories in Bangladesh and Haiti is to robotize people and bleed the workers to death. That is the cost of cheap food, cheap clothes, and expensive iPhones, workers are bled. In Caracol, farmers sold their land for $1200 and this is one of the problems in the new ‘open for business’ Haiti. Poor farmers and displaced people are being offered meagre sums of money to sell land or to move from camps. Its hard to resist and consider the long terms when you have nothing.    I attended a May day protest by some of the women workers who make t-shirts for yes, you guessed it, Walmart. Caracol is a fortress and actual looks like a detention camp.  It lies next to a small village of the same name and beyond that there are new box houses being built for workers. They complained of a wage cut from 400gds per day to 360gds and also complained of  verbal and in one case physical abuse by the  overseers.  Unfortunately due to transport issues we were unable to carry out our intended in depth interviews and had to rush back to PAP with our ride.   On the positive side they are members of the Confederation des Travailleurs Haïtiens [CTH] trade union, founded in 1998 and is particularly strong on women and youth workers rights.   It  is through them that the Caracol workers [mostly women] continue to negotiate for better working conditions. Martelly’s government has introduced some ‘social programmes known as Ede Pep, such as Ti Manman Cheri and Restoran Mobile. Ti Manman Cheri was created to provide extremely poor families, mainly mothers with 400 gds [$8] per month for one child.    Other programmes provide families with small amounts of food “Baskets of solidarity”.   News reports tell us so far there are some 100,000 beneficiaries across the country.  There are two problems with these programmes. One they are contradictory as at the same time women are being handed out free bags of food, market vendors  are being driven off the street making it impossible to earn a livelihood. Secondly,  people need to produce both their ID and voter registration cards.  The possibility then exists for the government to add the names of the participants to their party numbers.  Surely its better for women to earn a living selling in the market or having the opportunity to run small urban farms such as those planned by Growing Haiti, and basically have control over their lives than being handed out baskets of insufficient food. People have a right not to live in squalor, the problem is this right is only extended to an established elite and a small albeit growing middle class with the associated consumer dollars. Just as the infrastructural and commercial changes have become significantly visible, so too has the increase in the level of poverty. I have no statistical facts to back up these claims but the cost of food is rising and consequently more people are hungry. Market traders mostly women are struggling to sell on the streets as they engage in a constant battle with the police. Its pathetic to see women standing in the midday sun dropping their few onions and mangoes as they run or try to hide their wares from the police. Camp Acra under attack The fundraising campaign for Camp Acra failed to reach the $3000 target with only $1115. Nonetheless I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who donated and supported the campaign. So far they have purchased one laptop and intend to buy two more plus a printer/scanner and sewing machine for the workshop.    Just before my return,  sections of the camp were set on fire after threats of eviction from one of the owners of the land.   Camp residents were protesting against the fire attacks and the threat of eviction when police invaded the camp and a number of people were beaten.  One resident, Civil Merius, was  beaten to death whilst in police custody has died. Chanjem Leson has asked for an autopsy to clarify the cause of death. The camp are fearful that they will be next in line for mass eviction such as at Canapervert. Like so many other camps in the past 12 months they may face being ransacked by the police or offered $500 and forced to relocate. Many of those who took the $500 lare now entering their second year of renting property but face a second eviction as they cannot pay their rent. Others who were given housing also cannot pay the rent after the free period and also face eviction. Displaced people evicted from camps and rental properties are joining those surviving in Camp on the outskirts of  the city such as the one along Route Nationale 1 – Canaran.  Here on a desert hillside, 60,000 people live in make shift shacks and tarps with no running water, no delivered water, no electricity, no sanitation facilities.  There are no trees so when the rains come there is nothing to hold the ground.   I am told that  approximately 70% of families in Haiti are headed by women so when the camp evictions take place it is mostly women and children who suffer.  Rea Dol and I will start to work with a group of truly amazing women organizers from the camp and we will both visit for the first time this week. The government of Haiti and their US masters are determined to build a prosperous new Haiti – whether they succeed or not will depend on whether they are prepared to make this an inclusive prosperity or continue, as in the past leaving the popular masses behind on the physical and financial margins,  on hillside wastelands or in periphery neighbourhood such as Cite Soleil, Jalouzi, Carrefour and Caracol.   ** You might also want to check out some of @alyssa011968 tweets on Haiti and the garment industry.

Nick Mwaluko: Following the rape, you were in recovery, physically, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. During that entire stretch of time, you were not sexually active.

Anthony Adero: Absolutely not.

Mwaluko: How did you find out that you had HIV?

Adero: I felt my body was not my body.

Mwaluko: Yours was a nonconforming body, wouldn’t you say?

Adero: Yes and no. I left Nairobi’s city center for my home village because I did not want to come near or close to another stranger. I needed solitude, peace, space, familiarity, which I falsely associated with safety. I was deeply depressed, very sickly. I could not get out of bed. My youngest aunt suggested, with the utmost compassion, that I get medical attention. My first test was negative, but I knew my body was not my body. My second test was positive.

Mwaluko: An African man who is raped is not an African man by traditional African standards. How did you find language to express your experience and the courage to voice it?

Adero: I had no language. Nothing to call forth, not in a village with strict gender stereotypes. Blame is available: “You’re stupid. You’re naïve. Nobody will accept you. You deserve nothing.” My first tongue was shame. It came from deep. It was all I could summon from within.

Mwaluko: In rural Kenya in 2007, I doubt networking through social media — Twitter, Facebook, Internet access — was there to help you stretch beyond your village to talk about your sexuality, to say, “I am a gay African man who lost his virginity through gang rape,” to gain access to an organization for support, for a language.

Adero: I spoke to my first medical counselor. I used that experience to break the ice. I was disoriented. I had no idea who Anthony Adero was, but I had that tiny spark that ignites a forest, a small, imperceptible hint of who I could be, that something in you that is beyond who you are then and now.

Mwaluko: Looking beyond yourself for yourself, knowing identity is not shaped by circumstance. This is so similar to a trans experience.

Adero: There is no Disneyland in HIV. You have to say it as it is. That is how you arrive at a language. I became fluent through practice, because every day is an AIDS day. Silence, denial, blame, hypocrisy kept me in bondage, blocked access to healing. My “new” language was developed from a vocabulary based on truth, my personal truth told by my voice. This brought freedom. It opened spaces I created because I had to create that space for myself. If no African man can be raped because it’s not masculine, I found a language to express what results from undoing that belief system: exquisite pain, wonder, defeat, celebration, etc. Then other people came forward. We are a tribe. When I first told my story to my community, they laughed at me. It hurt. I did not want to tell it. This made me wonder if anyone wants to know me, if anyone could love me. Men in my village did not understand my sexuality; women did not understand my sexuality; no one believed me when I said I was raped. No one understood HIV. I did not fit. I had no space from within: I was not man enough; I was not woman enough; I was not sick enough; I was not healthy enough; I was not masculine enough; I was not feminine enough; I was not African enough. The binary, the dichotomy, made me invisible in plain sight inside my own community. My transition went from being invisible in my own community while in plain sight to freeing myself from some negative thoughts.

Mwaluko: Blame came first, you said. Have you forgiven yourself?

Adero: I don’t have to forgive myself. It’s part of my struggle.

Mwaluko: Critics might say, “He wants to become a gay celebrity.” Critics might say, “There’s Anthony grandstanding by telling his story. He is making his misery ours by transferring the burden onto us.” Critics might say, “He’s ruining the already fragile image of gay Kenyans by suggesting we’re violent, that we gang rape because African men, black men, are depicted as rapists. Gay Kenyans, Africans, black men don’t need the kind of visibility Anthony’s story brings to light, given what white people say about black male sexuality.” Critics might question the intention behind two queer Africans putting this story forward. Why are you telling this story?

Adero: It brings me power to tell this story, to have a voice. I hope to bring voice and power to others who feel powerless, voiceless.

Mwaluko: Truly.

Adero: Nick, why do you connect to it?

Mwaluko: I’m African, queer, have a nonconforming body, experienced sexual assault and have a complicated relationship to masculinity. I hope our collaboration between two queer Africans is empowering to our community, especially because Africans are often depicted as powerless, voiceless. Also, I hope this exposure defeats the death threat looming over LGBTQIA (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, questioning, intersex, asexual and allied) Africans by offering something beyond fear and death, which is truth, honesty. Creating this powerful covenant says once again to African governments who deny us or execute us, “We exist!” What would you like Africa to learn from your experience?

Adero: I am complex. Accept me. Embrace me. Appreciate what I have to offer. I am different. Why fear me? Change the homophobic laws so I can think about a future, marry if I want, have job security. In Africa, patriarchy and heterosexism are huge diseases. They impact my intimacy, my education, my religion, my politics, my personal health and the way I relate with my culture. How can we strip them away, Africa?

Mwaluko: What would you like LGBTQIA Kenyans to learn from your experience?

Adero: Diversity.

Mwaluko: Diversity within diversity?

Adero: Yes. HIV-positive LGBT Kenya belongs to the movement. African women activists who believe feminism is for women only? No. African lesbians in Africa can impose sexism onto gay African men just as much as gay African men can impose sexism onto African lesbians without knowing that we share similar struggles. We need to cut across boundaries for a strong allied LGBT movement so our struggle for freedom is more honest.

Mwaluko: What would you like the men who raped you to say to you?

Adero: I wish they could acknowledge my pain, tell me why they made me live in hell.

Mwaluko: What would you like to say to the men who raped you?

Adero: They have influenced me, forced me to look closely at my life, to look to life for meaning. My whole experience has given me a new sense of how I see issues. I hear the sound of truth, truth birthed by agony. They forced me to create that sound. They have truly influenced my destiny in a very positive way.

Mwaluko: What is it like living day to day with HIV in Kenya, in Africa? Give me a quick breakdown of your daily life.

Adero: Complicated. I have to fight through my condition. I face so much stigma, misunderstanding because of my sexuality. Few facilities take sensitivity seriously because of Kenyan culture. This threatens my security. Clinics rumored to serve my population — gay Kenyan men — face serious threats. Health care resources are not prepared for treating latency, which is to say they treat aspects of my illness at a late stage. To get the medication I have to meander, register myself into an overburdened system where the waiting list is long. Medication always depends on donor-funded projects, limiting my access. My job security is iffy because of my sexuality, so I can’t really afford proper standards of nutrition.

Mwaluko: Are you afraid of dying?

Adero: I have died. I was in hell. Then I rose from the dead. I’ve died many, many times and risen from the dead more times. No, I am not afraid of death nor what life brings.

One covers 164.85 miles, or 265.3 kilometers, between Kisumu and Nairobi, which would require five hours and three minutes on the well-lit, pothole-free, butter-smooth road that exists in every African’s dreams for his or her country’s future. In reality (wherever reality is), his trip took longer, but linear time, like history, is the Western world’s delusion, and no African on that bus cared how long it took to get to Nairobi as long as they were safe with their possessions intact by journey’s end. With both hands pressed against the window to frame his world, everything familiar got swallowed as the bus inched toward its final destination, which, according to Anthony, wasn’t so much a fixed spot or place but the sweet promise of self-actualization that would come with the freedom to explore his sexuality. Whatever didn’t slip past his eyes as he looked out the bus window burned deep in his mind as painful memories: the semester when six boys were expelled for wearing earrings; the boys beaten to a pulp by their fathers who had sacrificed nearly everything to educate them, counting on their sons for support should they take sick, grow old or become too weak to provide; blood spilling from one boy as he fell to the ground, kneeling as his father pounded him, front teeth knocked clear out of his swollen mouth; searching the dictionary for “homosexuality” to find no word in Kiswahili, though the slang for “faggot,” “cunt” and “bitch boy” lives in multiple incarnations at the tip of every Kenyan’s tongue; televised broadcasts of presidential speeches outlawing gay love; sermons preaching eternal hellfire, demonic possession, perversity; finally telling his girlfriend, “No, sweetheart, I cannot marry you, because I’m gay,” then banking on God’s protection, not hellfire, to pave the way for a planned escape.

As the bus pulled into the depot, Anthony decided that a celebratory drink should precede a phone call home telling his family that he’d arrived safely. The rumored hotspot for gay-positive clubbing was Steps on Tom Mboya Street, where men who have sex with men (MSM) mingled with marginalized folks who could party: tourists, prostitutes and the high-ranking African diplomats who preferred local whores to their well-educated African wives.

Anthony sat at the bar and ordered his drink, but he was reluctant to look around, in case locals mistook him for a wide-eyed, awestruck “rural greenhorn” fresh off the bus. Plus, who could see much of anything, given how dark it was inside? Two men, mostly in shadow, sat beside him. They were tall with deep voices, probably MSM. Prospects to explore his sexuality were abundant. “Maybe that first kiss could double for both lovers,” Anthony thought as the men inched closer, offering to buy his next drink if he cared to stay a little longer and keep them company — pretty boy. Anthony smiled. It was his first mistake. Harmless. His second proved to be disastrous.

But to stay motionless was an invitation for rape, more insecurity in a mysterious world where my survival was nothing but a threat. Alternatively, I could escape this hell. I closed my eyes and pushed my consciousness into a bird. I flew. I soared. I was free. Eyes open, I tried to push my upper body off the dirt floor but failed. My wings were too fragile. In my stillness I could not gather peace, only rushing thoughts from a counternarrative in which they parted my legs and penetrated me, stabbing my sexuality as mosquitoes danced joyfully to the rhythm of each greedy thrust. “No!” I screamed, pushing my upper body off the floor. “No!” I screamed as I came to my knees. “No! No! No!”

I stood naked in the dark, a baby bird on the verge of flight, at the edge of a steep cliff, facing takeoff. My first wobbly step took me toward heaven, the open door a threshold to eternity. Then I realized that I had to cover my nakedness if I wanted to reclaim my damaged body to the world outside. I felt around for plastic sheeting left over from construction work. I found it. My broken heart danced. I put the plastic around my body, careful to cover the blood on my legs as best as I could. I worried that I smelled of spunk, blood, sweat, anus. When I reached the door, I took one deep breath, then my first step. How to describe it, that moment of initial self-rescue? A million birds taking flight from my heart, thanks to release by an inner warrior. The spirit regaining “yes” language with each step as affirmation. God of a thousand hands stretching to lift the mountain off my back. Fire dragons plunging headfirst into the ocean, emerging as butterfly love. I was flying. I was soaring. Yes, freedom.

At the end of the road, I came across a woman, old, tired, overworked, poor. I looked for scorn in her eyes. She gave me directions. She walked me to the matatu bus stop, step after step, then slowly reached into her bra and brought out 90 Kenyan shillings for my fare back to Nairobi. “Take,” my angel said. She promised to pray for my protection. During the ride back, passengers refused to sit near me. They called me “monster” with volume to accentuate their disgust. In Nairobi I telephoned my rich relatives, who came to pick me up. They said I looked miserable. They said Nairobi was a cosmopolitan city for sophisticated people, a place where someone as dirt-poor and as rural as I could not survive beyond a week at best. They said I smelled bad and spoke like a stupid, uneducated farmhand. I kept silent, in pain. They said curse words. “Idiot, ugly, filth, trash,” they said. They sai– Stop! A voice in my head interrupted their dirty, abusive sermon with warrior language for my broken spirit:

“Anthony Adero, this is not who you are.”

“Who am I?”

Then came the epiphany:

“I. Am. Blessed.”

 
© Nick Mwaluko and Anthony Adero

Despite three decades of official development aid, by 1983 800 million people in the Majority World were still living in absolute poverty. The magazine presented a humorous dialogue between the editor and a sceptical reader as Glen Williams set the scene for Harry Hapgood, a fictitious aid official who proposed a root-and-branch reform of the aid machine and six rules for real aid:

Another interesting piece published in 2000 “Out South: Sexual Minorities in the Majority World” and a call for ‘basic human rights’ which reminds us that despite changes in legal status, discrimination and acts of violence against LGBTIQ persons continues across the globe.

Soaps and tolerance
It’s easy, if you live in a relatively tolerant environment, to be unaware of the scale and extent of discrimination against sexual minorities.

Recent decades have seen a growing social acceptance of same-sex relationships between consenting adults. Lesbian and gay culture has, we are told, ‘entered the mainstream’. What soap opera or TV sit-com – those barometers of ‘ordinary life’ and contemporary mores – is complete without its lesbian or gay character or ‘event’ today? Transgender issues too have found their way into Brazilian tele-novelas.

In the Netherlands gay people ‘marrying’ or having their partnerships legally recognized is no longer news. ‘Out’ lesbian and gay politicians are more common too, be they in Aotearoa/New Zealand, Canada, Australia or Britain. Transgender people are fighting and winning cases to keep their jobs during and after sex-change treatment. And more lesbians and gay men are becoming parents. Things appear to be heading in the direction of tolerance and equality.

Then something happens to shatter that appearance. For me – as for many other gay people living in Britain – it was the bombing of a packed gay pub, the Admiral Duncan, in London’s Soho in April 1999. Three people were killed, scores were left with horrific injuries

Clicking on the timeline links will take you to the article headlined!

View the fullscreen version on the New Internationalist Website.