People like me face a hard time growing up. We feel out of place, confused and lonely.
Growing up in Nepal in the 1980s, there was a notable absence of representation and support for young queer individuals, leaving them unaware of others who shared similar experiences and emotions.
The possibility of a world where I could openly witness, listen to, physically connect with, acquire knowledge about, feel a sense of safety with, and love men in the manner I truly desired seemed beyond my imagination. Had such an opportunity been available, I would have been a lot less lonely growing up and would not have had to pretend to be someone I was not.
In today’s world, there are numerous voices and allies advocating for LGBTQI+ communities globally. But the question still remains, are these voices effectively reaching the countless young queer individuals residing in rural areas of Nepal? Do these individuals know what they feel is normal and that they do not have to conceal themselves in the shadows of a silent closet?
Bounded by social construct
My name is Baburam Poudel. I was born in the hills of western Nepal 50 years ago. Like most in Nepal, I was brought up in a culturally vibrant environment, filled with traditions, customs, and values. But my family faced economic hardships and struggled with limited financial resources.
Fortunately, my mother valued education and encouraged me to participate in activities like cooking, cleaning, dancing, singing, and engaging in conversations with her friends. Due to my willingness to assist with household chores and be in the company of women, I affectionately earned the nickname “Aama’s youngest daughter.”
My mother loved me. Protected me. Respected me. My parents did not force me into an arranged marriage. For this, I am eternally grateful. Aama worked very hard. She was generous and kind. She always looked to the future for her children. Even before I was raped by a homophobic family member, she told me, ‘Keep away from him. He’s bad, that one.’
By the time I was 12 years old, I knew I was attracted to boys more than girls, even though most of my friends were girls. In my village and even in the town, same-sex attraction was a concept unheard of.
While in high school, I also took on the responsibility of tending to my small farm to earn money for my brother and me. That helped cover tuition fees and food expenses.
This was in 1985. In the remote, rural patriarchal society, Nepali women did not have a lot of rights. Young gay men had none. Homophobia was widespread due to rigid traditional beliefs that recognised only heterosexual relationships. The only instances I ever heard about homosexuality were through news reports detailing the frequent incidents of violence towards gay men, both by the police and citizens.
Sex education was non-existent at the time. Birth control had only just been introduced. The AIDS epidemic was spreading through Asia.
The society where I grew up rejected ‘people like me’. They believed that a person who could not or would not make babies was worthless.
My religion rejected ‘people like me’, believing if you could not or would not make babies, you were worthless. The fear of bringing shame to my parents, my internalised homophobia and my fear of facing abuse meant I lived most of my life in secrecy. Why? Because staying silent meant staying safe.
Silence forced me into isolation. I could never truly be myself, because who I was and who I seemed to be on the outside were so very different. My world brimmed with pretence, anxiety and depression. Despite my strong, brave, optimistic soul, I found myself overwhelmed by despair that I wanted to die.
The road to self-discovery
I left Nepal when I was 22. My plan was to go to the United Arab Emirates and pursue a career in hospitality. But I was duped by an Indian agent and forced to live in the crowded slums of Mumbai. It is safe to say, living in the slums was not easy as not everyone there is treated equally.
I worked three jobs sleeping only four hours a day. Life was hard. These were my worst days. I was lost, alone and exhausted. At times, suicide seemed possible and preferable.
One day, I came across a magazine at work and while browsing through it read a question posed by a student from New Delhi. The student’s question resonated with me. He expressed he was not attracted to women at all. He sought advice from the doctor, asking about the nature of his condition and possible treatment or cure.
As I read the doctor’s response, an overwhelming sense of recognition and relief swept over me. I could not help but sit and weep.
The doctor said that this was not a disease and that many people feel exactly this way. He said that men who were attracted to men were simply not heterosexual, but homosexual, or gay. Being gay was perfectly normal, but society’s attitudes needed to catch up to the reality of how people live their lives. Sadly, he said, gay men and women suffer daily discrimination, which can lead to depression and suicidal thoughts.
For the first time in my life, I understood that I was not the only one. The flood of questions that had plagued my mind suddenly seemed less daunting, as if there were answers waiting to be discovered. It sparked a glimmer of hope within me, suggesting that I could live my life true to myself. Perhaps, I dared to believe, there was a place for me in this world after all.
The magazine also connected me to Hamsafar Trust, an LGBTQI+ support organisation, and Bombay Dost, a magazine catering to gay men. I reached out to Hamsafar Trust and spoke to them. It was an odd meeting as they asked me to come up to a public place and secretly took me to their office. I also bought 10 old Bombay Dost issues, equating to nearly six weeks’ worth of rent. Secretly, I read the stories and information whenever I was alone in my room.
But two things troubled me.
Firstly, if it was OK to be gay then why did Hamsafar staff insist that we meet in secret and why was the office tucked away behind an orphanage with the address undisclosed? Why was its service not openly publicised? Secondly, why did I have to creep through a maze of corridors and dark rooms in order to buy Bombay Dost?
With every page I turned, my mind became a battleground of confusion, disgust, and exhaustion. I could not help but question why my Aama created me like this.
I did not tell that to her face. For the years I was in Mumbai, I did not speak to my mother. Phone calls were expensive but that was not the only reason why I did not talk to her. The thought of engaging in conversations on the only telephone in the village meant that news of my sexuality would be broadcasted for all to hear. Thus, I chose to keep quiet and keep my sexuality hidden. My inner feelings were quite dark, but at least my secrets were safe there.
Growing up in a Hindu family, my quest for spiritual understanding took me on a diverse path through Catholicism, Islam, Buddhism, Sikhism, Hare Krishna, Jainism, and Sai Baba during my time in Mumbai. Unfortunately, these different religious traditions collectively reinforced a sense of impurity, inauthenticity, and unproductiveness within me.
Coming out
Fortunately, the magazines also led me to an Australian named Geoffrey Heaviside, Director of Brimbank Community Initiative Inc., which helps marginalised people live their full lives by providing access to housing and food, education and health, advocacy and support. When he came to India, I worked as his translator and we became friends.
In 2007, I moved to Australia as a skilled migrant. I am now head banquet chef at a restaurant in Melbourne. My life is by no means perfect, but I am trying to live it fully.
I hope that my closeted queer friends can find the strength to follow a similar path. Remaining hidden in the closet only perpetuates pain within your beautiful body and brilliant mind.
It’s time to let go of that burden. I understand that it’s not an easy journey. Personally, I did not come out till I was 47 years old. This was in February 2020. My best friend Geoffrey died due to cancer. His departure served as a poignant reminder of the importance of embracing our authentic selves.
Until then I always felt like I was being dishonest with everybody. I cried when my Aama passed away, not only for the loss of my beautiful, steadfast mother but because I did not get to share my truth with her. I would have liked to have said, ‘Aama, forgive me. I am different. I was born your son, but you know I am your daughter.’
I want to tell all people like me, do not regret it. Be brave. Be yourself.
To my queer friends, I urge you to take each step with courage and patience. Begin by freeing yourself from the confines of the suffocating closet and seek out those who will wholeheartedly embrace and love you for who you are.
By living your truth, you open the door to becoming the person you have always aspired to be. With time, you will grow stronger, more confident, and even become a powerful voice for the voiceless within the LGBTIQ+ community. Remember, the journey to self-acceptance and empowerment is one step at a time, and you are not alone in this transformative process.
The decision is yours.
