Translator: Charlotte Rose Smith Reviewer: Denise RQ
I'm a human rights photographer.
Several years ago, I made it my life's mission
to tell the stories of people like Bujei.
Stories of people who have been denied their rights,
and silenced by their societies.
Bujei is from northern Nigeria.
He's covering his face because he's afraid.
In fact, Bujei isn't his real name.
He asked that we hide his identity
because who he is means he can be put to death.
I met Bujei and four other young men shortly after
they'd been released from prison.
They'd languished there for 40 days.
They were tortured in jail, and lashed with a whip in court.
Fortunately, their case was dismissed,
but the community they lived in were not satisfied with the verdict.
They waited outside the courtroom, armed with rocks,
intending to stone Bujei and the other young men to death.
Bujei hid inside the courtroom,
his place of torture, now a sanctuary until the crowd dispersed.
Their suffering didn't end there.
After they were released, they were ostracized by their family members.
When Bujei fell ill, a relative came to him and said,
"God should take your life so that we can all have peace,
because you've caused such shame to our family."
What was the crime Bujei committed?
What could have him tortured by the state,
nearly lynched by his community,
and rejected by his family?
He's gay.
One would think that in 2015, we'd have moved past this barbaric notion
that one should be killed for whom one's attracted to.
That to be LGBT, lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgender,
is to be abnormal, unnatural, immoral.
While there are 780 million people living in countries
where same-sex relationships are legal,
there are 2.8 billion people living in countries
where consensual same-sex acts are a crime.
Of course, I knew that homophobia and transphobia existed,
but it didn't become real to me
until I met the survivors of this bigotry.
Hearing their stories,
of course, cannot be compared to living their experiences,
but in a small way, when I heard what they'd been through, I felt it.
I was moved by the stories of the young men I met.
I wanted to share them.
It is in fact what I try to do with my work as a photographer:
amplify the voices of those denied the right to speak out.
The hope is that people will hear,
and those who can, will help.
I left northern Nigeria
moved by the stories of these five young men
and driven to try to make a difference to the lives of innocent people like them.
I started a campaign called "Where love is illegal".
I documented the stories of persecution from around the world;
stories of imprisonment, violent attack, murder, and rape.
People ostracized by their families, who have fled their countries,
who've done all they can to hide their true identities
because they do not conform with what is considered normal.
Many of the people I met were afraid to have their stories told.
This is Sally.
She's afraid to show her face
because in Syria the so-called Islamic State
who are systematically hunting down gay and trans people,
want her dead because she identifies as a woman.
The Islamic State do not want you to hear her story.
This is D and Q from Uganda.
They are hiding their faces because they are a lesbian couple,
and they fear their community.
They are not alone.
LGBT people in Uganda are often persecuted
by their politicians and the media.
Their community do not want you to hear their story.
This is Eve from Cameroon.
He's covering his face because more gay men are arrested there
than in any other country on the continent
just for being gay.
Those torturing and arresting the gay men of Cameroon
do not want you to hear their story.
But the reason that these people are here on the screen behind me
is that they want their stories heard.
They hope that by sharing them
the situation for themselves, and others like them, will change.
But, a photograph poses a great risk.
For some, should they be identified, they could face further persecution.
For others, they could be killed.
But they wanted their stories heard, and I was desperate to share them.
But the only way that would happen was if it was done on their terms.
So I photographed using a large format Polaroid film
and I gave everyone I photographed the opportunity to destroy the image
if they felt it somehow endangered them.
I didn't have to destroy many though
because at the outset, I adopted a new way of photographing.
The creation of their photo
was an intimate collaboration
between photographer and subject.
Many chose their pose, their clothes, and their expression,
and how much of their face we'd see was completely down to them.
I also wanted them to tell their stories.
So, I asked each to write the testimony which would accompany the photograph.
Here, perhaps for the first time,
they were able to control
how they were seen, and how they were heard.
The results were sometimes unexpected.
Jessie is a young transgender woman who has grown up
in a Palestinian refugee camp in Lebanon.
Her young life has been one of extreme hardship.
She's been bullied and thrown out of school.
She's been raped.
Most shockingly, her brother and father,
in order to protect the family honor,
have tried to murder her on several occasions.
Her story was this list of horrendous abuses
and instinctively, I wanted to make a photograph that reflected that story.
But she didn't.
We found a nice location with some good light
and I set up my tripod with the camera on the front.
I fixed the lens, got the film ready,
and I asked her to come into the frame.
She covered her face below her large, dark eyes
with a scarf to protect her identity.
and then she started posing.
She tilted up her chin and pushed out her buttocks,
and started to seduce the camera with her eyes.
I looked through the view finder.
This is not the photograph I'd planned to take,
but she was beautiful in front of the camera,
proud, strong, empowered.
I had to remind myself that I had to let her choose for herself
how she would be portrayed.
So, despite this picture not matching her story
I took the photo anyway.
Afterwards, we continued talking about the danger she faces from her own family.
It was hard to hear, and I said to her,
"Look, I understand that you identify as a woman,
but given the threats you face, your family is trying to kill you,
wouldn't it be better to pretend to be a boy?"
She looked up at me in shock, and her eyes locked on mine.
She said, "I was born this way, and I will die this way."
And in that moment, I understood.
Her gender identity is fundamental to who she is.
I've never had my identity threatened,
but she is attacked and harassed by those who find it threatening.
With that statement, I understood Jessie's courage and her power.
Her photograph was perfect.
What happened to her is not who she is.
She considers herself to be a sexy young woman,
and that is who she wants you to see.
This is her authentic self. This is her story.
We tell stories all the time.
The types of stories we tell are important.
There are stories that connect,
and there are those that divide.
To look for difference is a natural human trait.
Sometimes, to feel like we belong,
we feel the need to exclude.
The power of authentic personal stories
is they have the potential to break down the barriers that divide,
barriers of race, religion, nationality,
distance, gender, and sexuality.
They have the power to have us
see the person and not just a label.
It's my belief that when we see the person,
we can see what connects us.
Personal, humanizing stories also have the potential to inspire
another natural human trait: empathy.
We need more stories that connect.
I've seen the destructive power of the other kind.
Divisive stories allow for the casual discrimination
of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people.
Divisive stories also allow for their rape,
their torture, and their murder.
Bigotry thrives where those discriminated against are silenced,
and disallowed the right to have their stories told.
"Where love is illegal" was created in order to interrupt the narrative
that says to be LGBT is against society,
an attack on nature, or an insult to God.
It exists to amplify the voices of those facing discrimination.
It exists to allow them to have their stories heard.
Stories that have us connect and empathize.
I spent a year documenting stories of survival from around the world.
The next important step was to make sure they were heard.
I wanted to reach the widest audience possible
and the furthest corners of the globe.
I wanted the audience, not only to read these stories
but to feel like they could be involved.
So I shared them online and invited others from around the world
to share their own stories of survival.
The stories started coming in with the photographs
from places where discrimination still exists.
We received stories from Italy,
Israel, Iran, Venezuela,
Australia, the United States, Jordan,
South Africa, Kuwait, South Korea,
and many other countries.
A global voice, a group of people, who said,
"We will not be quiet."
They said, "You may attack and beat me,
but you will not silence me."
Those voices are starting to reach millions around the world.
Many of the people I met on this journey spoke of how desperately alone they felt.
How they grew up in societies that told them who they are is wrong.
In this environment, where all one hears is the voice of intolerance,
many believe it.
But, as bandwidths continue to grow and technology spreads,
so does the reach of these once hidden stories.
Now, there is more than just the voice of bigotry.
The impact is not just online.
In every country I went to, there were brave people fighting for equality.
Through these stories, we are now able to start supporting them.
We are helping LGBT refugees in South Africa.
We are taking on homophobic attitudes in Uganda,
and we are freeing young gay men from prison in Nigeria.
But it is just the beginning, and there is much, much more to do.
Today, people will die
because who they are and who they love is considered unacceptable.
Unfortunately, our intervention was too late for B.
B died earlier this year, not executed or murdered.
Like many others in his situation, he was killed by poverty.
To be LGBT in many countries
is to be desperately poor.
Thrown out of schools and jobs,
abandoned by families, and forced to flee abuse,
many end up on the margins of society.
I sat with B, my arm around him in a tin shack that was his home,
while he wept over a man he'd dreamed of marrying,
but was now dead.
He told me how it was a first sight love,
and of their apprehension of meeting the families,
of running away from the mob who tried to kill them at their engagement party,
and of his fiancé being stabbed in the chest.
He wept because his heart was broken,
he was too poor to pay his rent, and would be evicted any day.
He wept because he didn't see a future for himself.
In the end, this lovely man died
because bigotry made him too poor to afford the medical care he needed.
One of his friends informed me of his death.
He told me there was nothing to remember B by except his story.
He begged for me to tell it,
so that we would remember B, even if it was only a sad memory.
So here I am, telling you about the tragic story of B's life,
in the hope that it can serve to save the lives of others.
There are thousands like B,
but that doesn't have to be the case.
We cannot care less for people because they are further away,
of different skin color, nationality, gender, or sexuality.
We cannot care less for the people whose lives I've been telling you about.
Today, I have a message from them for you.
They understand that for those of you who live in countries
where you can love who you wish,
you hate this bigotry, and you want to see it end.
They want you to know
that despite progress made in many parts of the world,
there's still a long, long way to go in many other places.
They want you to know
there are brave people on the ground, fighting for equality.
But they need support.
That's why D and O shared their story.
This young Russian couple were beaten
for daring to walk down the street holding hands.
They wrote their testimony as a dialogue,
a paragraph each, describing their assault as it occurred.
Then something unexpected happened.
This document of violence turned into a love letter.
It ended with O writing,
"After the attack, I felt even more strongly
how dear D is to me, and how scary the thought that I could lose her.
The worst thing I felt was an absolute inability
to protect the one I loved or even myself.
Yes, now I look back on the street
and look at every passing male as a possible source of danger.
But every time now, when I'm in the street,
when I take her by the hand, I do it consciously.
It is my choice.
D, hold my hand.
This is my reward for your courage."
We like and follow on social media without much thought,
but in places like this, for survivors like this,
that barely conscious action of the hand
reaching out, offering support,
is a sign that says you are not alone.
A sign that says we acknowledge your courage.
It says that who you are is natural, normal, and moral.
You deserve to be seen, and you need to be heard.
It is in these stories
that have the silenced heard and the hidden seen,
that we can connect.
Connect online, connect through brave organizations fighting for equality,
and connect through here.
In that connection there is a chance that maybe, just maybe,
we can create a future world where no one needs to cover their face,
change their name, hide who they are.
A future world where everyone's story matters,
a future world where love is never illegal.
Thank you.
(Applause)