Šetnja Sarajevom jednog ponosnog pedera

I walk through Sarajevo and admire the beautiful billboards that send a message of love. "Love is the law" – how much meaning can fit into just three words. As I walk, I think about many things, but the thought I can't shake is how proud I am of this year's slogan of the BiH Pride March, because it clearly speaks to what we need, to what we are missing. I walk with a friend, we're going to a concert, and I think about how free I feel even though I’m in Sarajevo, even though I’m publicly out. My life is no longer filled with fear like it used to be; I feel empowered and safe. Behind me, however, stand years of work on myself, but also so many years of messages of pride and love that the march sends during the month of June.

I remembered how much sweat, work, and energy I spent during the years of activism behind me, and I realized how much more lies ahead to be done. But somehow, for the first time, I feel happy, with a full sense of hope and certainty that our fight can be successful. This year I played a strange role as a helper within the organizing committee. I didn’t get involved in everything; I stood on the sidelines and watched beautiful people doing a fantastic job. It was an honor to contribute, even if just in small bits. Their activist spirit, their fire – that’s what drives me to keep going, why I don’t give up. And yet I’m often right on that edge. The edge of giving up and pushing forward. This spirit, this activism, and the joy over small victories are what keep me going.

I walk in my own world, completely calm, proud, and happy. Still, all of that is interrupted by my friend’s words: “Look what someone wrote!” I turn around and look at the poster near Skenderija. And there it is. Someone had written on the glass: “DISGUSTING F*GS.” At the same time, I want to laugh and cry. I look at that damned graffiti and ask myself, “Why?”

This sight utterly destroyed my feeling of safety, peace, and euphoria. Everything stopped—for a few seconds, my entire world stopped. I felt like everything we’ve done so far was somehow destroyed, undone. I needed a few seconds to collect myself, to look at the situation rationally. My brain knows perfectly well that this graffiti is just a pathetic attempt by someone to spread hate speech, but also a reminder that people must be held accountable for things like this. And that’s when I remembered where the law is, and why this year’s slogan is so important to me—and why it should matter to everyone. I had nothing to say. Honestly, I was hurt.

We continued walking, and a feeling of revolt started to rise in me. A sense of eagerness for the Pride March, for the street closures, and the clear display of our demands. In a second, I thought, “God, I’m glad the city will shut down and half of it will have to stop.” And if we’re being honest, that’s what I usually hate. I hate that everything has to shut down, and I hate that the police don’t do a better job when it comes to the march. But right now, in this second, I’m glad. Because it seems like only through street closures, city blockades, and protests can we reach our rights and what should be basic human freedom.

We keep walking, and now I actively think about freedom. I ask myself what freedom even is for me and whether I truly have it. I realize that throughout all these years, I’ve only expanded my closet—I haven’t gotten rid of it. Danger is still always present. That graffiti reminded me of that. It brought me back to the threats I received after the second march. I was driving from Sarajevo to Zenica. We stopped to rest, and I looked at my phone. There was a very clear message: “I’ll find you and kill you, you f*ggot.” I was consumed by fear. I was genuinely afraid for my life and the lives of those close to me. I remember feeling paralyzed and barely managing to keep driving. Still, the people around me supported me, stood by me, and reminded me that I’m not alone. It was like that again now, because my friend was there. I’m not alone—I remembered that. I remembered how many people feel proud with me for what the march represents. I remembered how much we’re truly capable of. The truth is that I don’t have full freedom, because I don’t have all my rights. But it’s also true that love really is the law, and no one should ever break it.

Still, I became aware of the most important thing. I’m not afraid. I don’t want to shrink my closet of freedom or run away. I’m aware of the hate, of the danger, and the lack of solidarity. But I still remain proud of everything we’ve done, of everything we are, and I gain an entirely new fuel for the march, a completely new sense of safety. Maybe I’m not safe on my own, but with my flock, with the family I’ve built for myself, I can fly and fall freely. That’s the magic of family. That’s the magic of our lives.

For me, as a person, as a human being, I truly don’t need much. I just need to be safe, free, and to not feel ashamed. Because I’ve had enough of that “Disgusting,” “Shame on you,” and similar nonsense! I’ve had enough of others telling me what I should be ashamed of. Why should I be ashamed of love? Love is the law. Love has no label. Love has always existed! I’m just someone who’s not afraid to love, and who will proudly walk through Sarajevo forever. So, I’ll see you this year on June 14 at the march in Sarajevo. I look forward to walking through Sarajevo again, because yes, I am a proud f*ggot!

Written by Alex

This article was published with the support of the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade of Ireland. The content is the sole responsibility of the author and does not necessarily reflect the views of Tuzla Open Center or the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade of Ireland, nor the Government of Ireland.