Stories that matter from where love is illegal | Robin Hammond | TEDxUniversityofNicosia

This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community.

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Despite gains made in many parts of the world, lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and intersex (LGBTI) people are, in some regions, increasingly persecuted and denied basic human rights. Bigotry thrives where we are silenced by fear. Therefore, in this TEDx University of Nicosia talk Robin Hammond shares stories of discrimination and survival; stories that matter from where love is illegal. Stories that need to be heard.

Robin Hammond is the recipient of the W.Eugene Smith Fund for Humanistic Photography, a World Press Photo prize, the Pictures of the Year International World Understanding Award and four Amnesty International awards for Human Rights journalism. He is also a foreign policy 2015 global thinker for championing forbidden lives of LGBT around the world.

Robin Hammond has dedicated his career to documenting human rights and development issues around the world through long-term photographic projects.

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)