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Memories of an unforgettable past with Xulhaz

Prominent Bangladesh activist was murdered in 2016

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Xulhaz Mannan, gay news, Washington Blade

Xulhaz Mannan, gay news, Washington Blade

Xulhaz Mannan, a prominent Bangladeshi LGBT activist, was hacked to death in his home on April 25, 2016. (Photo courtesy of Facebook)

ā€œHow much will it cost on the rickshaw to go to Shia Mosque?ā€ I clearly remember asking my mother. It had only been a few months since I moved back to Dhaka after living in Kuwait for 13 years. I needed the rickshaw to go and meet Xulhaz.

After almost three months back, I had seen him briefly at a Boys of Bangladesh, which is a self-identified gay group in Bangladesh, event and added him on Facebook. I was away in Savar, an area on the outskirts of Dhaka, for a residential university semester. We would talk over the phone and Facebook. I had asked him to meet me near Shia Mosque when I returned home as that was one of the few nearby landmarks I knew. ā€œSuper! You wonā€™t believe (it) but I was thinking of proposing Shia Mosque! I am not much into (the) human species, too complicated, Iā€™m more comfortable with nature. Loving the weather now, donā€™t u? Spring, no matter how lived, still rocks! Dangerous too, for it derails me from my path,ā€ he replied back.

This was back in February 2010. Little could either of us predict that the end of spring 2016 would derail his journey forever! I was 19 back then and totally mesmerized by him. His voice had warmth but at the same time it had authority in it, something which was both comforting and disarming.

We used to talk about a lot of things, and love and relationships were one of them. Talking about relationships, he once mentioned, ā€œSerious relationship . . . ummm . . . I fell in love with five men in my life, no matter how serious they were for me, the first four were unilateral but the relations in other terms were serious, like a serious friendship. The last one, number five, was bilateral, probably, is my only serious relationship that ended at the end of 2004 because he got married. We took about a two hours break, and now we are friends again.ā€ During that time he would confess to being too individualistic to love and be with someone for 24 hours. I was invited to several gatherings at his place. He would refer them as ā€œadda,ā€ which is a gathering of his close friends filled with fun, sometimes music. Unfortunately, I had a curfew from my mother about staying out late and could never attend most of these. Somehow memories of him from the Boys of Bangladesh event betrayed me. Instead I would draw a picture of him from our conversations and how he must be in real life: A big tall man with a bigger personality. I confess that I was a little disappointed when we met. For a person with such a mature voice, he was petite. However, the disappointment was momentary. Within seconds, we were talking in the tone which we did over Facebook and the phone. The memory that I partly cherish and partly detest of him from this period was his ability to make me feel both loved and unwanted in split seconds.

Just in passing conversation, I once mentioned to him that I wish I were born as a woman so that I could be a homemaker. He got pretty irritated by that comment.

ā€œCanā€™t believe people still see womenā€™s role as a mere home maker,ā€ he said. ā€œYou can still be a home maker. Why do you have to be a woman for that?ā€

He questioned my childish view of the world. When I read the messages we exchanged during those days, there were moments where he would get irritated on small issues, but he was mostly cheerful and happy. I once commented that he is glowing these days in his profile pictures. He said that he was happy and it reflected in them. He preferred things to be organized and in our conversation it was clearly visible.

I had once written to him, ā€œIt has been almost four months since the first time we met. If it has lasted four months.ā€ It was only in 2015 when I messaged him back wishing him a happy birthday, 10/11/2015. The conversation did not go anywhere. However, I reached out to him again the same year. There were a lot of bloggers being killed in Bangladesh and I was worried about him. For the next few minutes, I felt that no time had passed between 2010 and 2015. He said, ā€œThis is so coincidental. I was just reading your review of our first Issue.ā€ Among other things, Xulhaz was also the co-founder of Roopbaan, the first and only LGBT magazine of Bangladesh and I had written a critical review of it. We discussed about the violent situation in the country. I told him that because of their visibility, they make very easy targets for the extremist groups. He replied casually, ā€œThe last thing Iā€™d want to do is live in fear, for not doing anything wrong. If anything happens as such, Iā€™ll see it as an accident, not a punishment.ā€ That one line made me come back to reality that it was 2015 and Xulhazā€™s ideas towards LGBT visibility in Bangladesh to some extent might have taken over the cheerful and at times rude Xulhaz of 2010.

During this period, we came across each other at few LGBT advocacy events and we would merely exchange pleasantries. I remember visiting his house for a party and when I was leaving he came across to give me a hug. I did not know how to react to it. It was only in March 2016 when I got to spend a significant amount of time with him. He has proposed the idea of a documentary on the subject of the third Roopbaan rainbow rally and I volunteered to assist in directing it. The documentary required my boyfriend who was directing it and me to repeatedly visit Xulhazā€™s house for pre-production leading up to the main shoot. Our interaction during this period was bittersweet and completely different compared to when we first met many moons ago. It must have been a combination of security concerns in the country, the pressure upon him to single handedly put up the rally and to a large extent we both had moved on in life. He was all over the place, putting the volunteers together, helping with the shoot, discussing about security risks and making sure his mother and everyone who gathered in his house had eaten lunch. One could clearly see that he was tired but he could manage everything and yet have time to mop his room, which I must say indicated OCD.

I am scared of cats and he had a big, fat one in his house. One time we went for an early morning shoot and we were having breakfast and I was telling his how scared I am of them. With a poker face, he said, ā€œIf you are so scared, why are you not reacting since she (his cat) was right behind you?ā€ I screamed and moved to another place. He went to comment that I was overreacting, a comment I still feel was uncalled for considering it was about someoneā€™s phobia. Between running around with cameras and helping to set the lights, there were moments when I could see the Xulhaz of 2010. I was looking for a rare white variety of aporajita (Asian pigeon wings) and I found the plant in his terrace garden. He promised that when the seeds will dry, he will keep some for me. The dream of having a white ajorajita remains unfulfilled.

The last time we ever met was on April 14, 2016. The police had denied permission for the LGBT community to participate in the rally. However, we went to Dhaka University to walk as Bangladeshis at the Pohela Boishakh (Bengali New Year) rally. When I reached, I saw that he was standing and talking to few people from the community. The disappointment of weeks of hard work being cancelled was visible on his face. However, when he saw me, he walked up to me and lightly touched my tummy for one second. That one moment of genuine concern from both of us was beyond any communication we ever had.

Xulhaz and his friend Tonoy were brutally murdered by a group of extremists who broke into their house on April 25, 2016.

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Sexting with younger guy has me asking: How queer am I?

Reflections on LGBTQ life in 2024

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Jake Stewart is a recovering Hill staffer based in D.C. In addition to writing, he barbacks at the Little Gay Pub."

Once upon a time, not all that long ago, a man sexted another man. 

There were words. There were pictures. There were filthy questions and even filthier responses. You know, the way a good sexting convo ought to be, for those who dabble. 

One man was 33. The other, 24. And while it comes as no shock that I was the 33-year-old, it may be more surprising to learn it was the 24-year-old who grabbed the reins. 

What kinks you into? he asked. 

Shit ā€“ I didnā€™t know. I barely even bottomed before the pandemic, and now I had to know my kinks? 

Iā€™m open, I replied, evasively. You? 

His response left me coughing: ā€œLove musk sweat ws public group rough bb verbal bate edge roleplay and very open-minded.ā€ 

Now Iā€™m no prude (in fact, many would call me a downright whore) but this young man articulating his kinks and fetishes in such detail blew my mind. When did he learn what he liked? At 24, all I wanted was to top a guy and leave with as little communication or attachment as possible. At 33, I wasnā€™t sure what a few of the items he listed even meant.  

Perhaps I shouldnā€™t be surprised when young men ā€” and the younger generation across the LGBTQ spectrum in general ā€” have already figured out their sexual interests. I arrived in D.C. from Idaho in 2008 as a fresh-faced 18-year-old; I came out three years later in 2011. Attitudes toward queerness have shifted substantially since then, and these days it is undeniably easier for younger people to explore their sexual and gender identities (which, by the way, is fantastic). 

But this conversation left me wondering: What do I like? I havenā€™t sought out that many new sexual experiences, and while fetishes, kinks, and sexual desires can seem trivial, theyā€™re inextricably intertwined with gender and relationships. If I canā€™t articulate what I like in the sack (or in public, if I dare), then how do I know what Iā€™m seeking from a long-term partner, or if thatā€™s even what I want? 

As soon as I came out, I thought my job was done. All I needed after that was to snatch up a cutie and settle down. Instead, my identity centered on building my career in politics, where sexual openness isnā€™t as appreciated. I, like many D.C. queers around me, moved here bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to change the world for good. 

Then came a tough lesson: Just because I wanted to improve the world didnā€™t mean people wanted me to. I was inexplicably fired from not one job but two, and suddenly the do-gooder in me grew jaded. The career I dedicated years to was suddenly ripped from my hands, and I became so disillusioned I didnā€™t even want it back. Oh, and the cherry on top: My boyfriend dumped me two days later. 

Once everything unraveled, I wondered: Was the me of the past the me I truly wanted? Or was I reflecting back what I thought everyone wanted me to be? 

Well, a few major meltdowns and an extended slut phase later, my life couldnā€™t be more different. I now work at a new gay bar in town to support myself, and Iā€™ve given myself space to pursue the arts. This former straight-laced, type-A, tightly wound gay abandoned the safe track and he couldnā€™t be more terrified. He also couldnā€™t be more excited. 

But losing my old career also left an existential-sized hole in my identity. So, as I sexted this 24-year-old with newfound awareness of my limitations, I decided this must change. 

How? As I said, I work at a gay bar in one of the queerest cities in America. Now more than ever Iā€™m surrounded by those who are LGBTQ and every shade in between. Why not learn from those around me, whether younger, older, or around the same age, but whose experiences are no less queer? Why not carve out time to have in-depth discussions and discover what the possibilities are? 

If being queer means to go against the established norms of gender and sexuality, then thereā€™s still plenty of territory for me to explore. No longer can ā€˜bottomā€™ or ā€˜topā€™ be my only options. 

So, the purpose of this column ā€“ aptly titled Queer Quest ā€“ is to capture my exploration of queer identity. Itā€™s not to teach you as much as it is to teach myself, and you can either learn alongside me or simply be entertained. At the very least, Iā€™ll have a series of portraits on what itā€™s like to be queer in the mid 2020s. At most, Iā€™ll have a better understanding of who I am as a queer person. 

Then maybe, just maybe, Iā€™ll become a better sexter. 

Jake Stewart is a D.C.-based writer.

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What will you do to make Pride safe this year?

Anxiety reigns among American Jews after Oct. 7

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(Washington Blade photo by Michael Key)

Each year, hundreds of thousands of Jews and supporters of Israel attend Pride marches. With a few exceptions, these spaces have always been safe and welcoming for the broader Pride community. 

But this year is different. 

For American Jews, anxiety reigns as we head into this Pride season. The appalling rise of antisemitism since Oct. 7 forces us to ask difficult questions. As many Jews increasingly feel alienated and excluded from progressive spaces, weā€™re left to wonder: If I wear a Jewish symbol, march with a Jewish group, or wave a rainbow flag adorned with the Star of David, will I be safe at Pride?

Even before Oct. 7, LGBTQ Jews had plenty of reason to feel trepidation about their safety at Pride. From blanket bans on Stars of David at past Pride gatherings to antisemitism on display at the recent Sydney Pride, too often Jews feel forced to choose between their LGBTQ and Jewish identities and hide their connection to Israel.

Since Oct. 7, terms like “apartheid,” “genocide” and “Zionism equals racism” are increasingly thrown around casually, often without a nuanced understanding of their impact or the realities they oversimplify. This rhetoric not only alienates but also endangers Jewish queer people. It makes us feel emotionally unsafe. It increases the chances that we will be physically unsafe as well. 

We must not allow the Israel-Palestine conflict to be imported into Pride.

I will always remember the euphoria of the first Pride rally I attended. I was barely 18 years old, in a crowd of people of all ages, races, genders and gender orientations ā€” and they were like me. Queer. It felt safe. It was the first time I experienced that feeling of safety, and it will always stay with me. 

Like Pride events everywhere, it was a vibrant, colorful space for LGBTQ people to celebrate our true authentic selves, without fear or reservation.

But that feeling of safety wasnā€™t shared by everyone in my small New England town. I soon noticed a few people scattered throughout the crowd wearing paper bags over their heads, with eye holes so they could see but not be seen. I later learned that those faceless people were teachers who, in those days before civil rights protections, needed to protect their identities and their careers. 

They did not feel safe. Will Jews and those who are connected to Israel feel safe this year?

The history of Pride is a testament to courage in the face of adversity. It wasn’t long ago when attending Pride events was a defiant act against societal norms, where participants like those teachers faced tangible threats of discrimination, ridicule and even violence. Even today in some places, our queer community still navigates a gauntlet of hatred as we try to celebrate who we are.

It’s crucial to recognize that within the Jewish community, there is a wide spectrum of views on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, including many who are deeply committed to advocating for Palestinian rights. In fact, many of the 1,200 innocent Israelis murdered on Oct. 7 were Zionists who devoted their lives to reconciliation and peace with their Arab neighbors.

We are at a pivotal moment, one that demands action: What can we do to ensure Pride remains a safe space for everyone, including Jewish participants?

It’s imperative that Pride committees around the country proactively address these concerns. They must implement training programs focused on de-escalation and fostering an environment of understanding and respect.

As individuals who stand in solidarity with the values of Pride, each of us must consider our role in this effort. Will you march alongside those of us who feel vulnerable, offering your presence as a shield against intolerance? Will you engage in dialogues that challenge the importation of external conflicts into Pride, advocating instead for a celebration that unites rather than divides?

The true test of inclusivity at Pride lies not merely in welcoming a diverse crowd, but in ensuring that every participant feels safe and valued. If we remain indifferent to the vulnerabilities faced by Jewish queer people this Pride season, we will fall short of the very ideals of inclusivity and solidarity that Pride stands for.

Just as we expect schools to protect trans and nonbinary students like Nex Benedict, we have a responsibility in the LGBTQ community to ensure that people can carry an Israeli flag or a Palestinian flag, wear a yarmulke or a hijab and be safe.

As we look forward to this year’s Pride, let us commit to making it a space where safety is not a privilege afforded to some but a right enjoyed by all. Let’s engage with our local Pride committees, advocate for comprehensive safety measures and stand in solidarity with those who feel at risk.Ā 

Only then can we celebrate the true spirit of Pride, rooted in love, acceptance and the unwavering belief in equality for all.

Ethan Felson is the executive director of A Wider Bridge.

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A hero has fallen: A tribute to Mike Berman

Former HRC board co-chair was a sophisticated political adviser

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(Blade file photo by Michael Key)

A great hero has fallen. He was a gift to many but all should know that he was one of the greatest gifts ever to the LGBTQ community. Mike Berman was among the most sophisticated political advisers in the history of this country. For the past three generations he has advised presidents, and an army of elected officials, strategists, and operatives. Mike was among a handful of straight people elected to the board of the Human Rights Campaign, the nationā€™s largest civil rights organization working to advance gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender equality. He was so trusted, he was then elected to co-chair the board of that institution. 

Like so many, I feel so blessed and grateful to have had the benefit of Mikeā€™s wisdom and insight throughout my tenure as president of the Human Rights Campaign. He went on to be a key adviser to each and every HRC leader and a true champion of equality. 

He told us that to know us was to love us and how to slay political dragons in a new way.  A life-long Democrat, his political acumen was brilliant and rooted in finding practical solutions across political lines. He understood back in 1995 (when my tenure began) that over time, most Americans would shed their bias and come to see LGBTQ Americans as worthy of dignity and equality. 

In many ways, Mike was one of the key architects of how HRC was able to forge relationships and garner support from unlikely parts of the political spectrum. I learned so much from Michael about the way social change actually takes place. He more than anyone understood that progress cannot be made and this nation will not be healed unless both parties come together around shared values. In our time, that feels like an impossible formula. Yet the majority of this ruthlessly divided Congress voted to uphold marriage equality last year. 

In addition to the LGBTQ community, Mike was a true believer in female leadership. He helped a legion of women rise to positions of power in Washington and beyond. He did so for the sheer joy of watching women rise in politics and as captains of industry. He grew up in an Orthodox Jewish family in Duluth, Minn. His father was Bob Dylanā€™s godfather. (You have to love a state that can produce Bob Dylan, Prince and, of course, Mike Berman!) He was also a beloved gentleman. There was nothing more special than a lunch and a rose at I Ricchi, one of his favorite D.C. restaurants.  

Each year, Mike would host a special Valentineā€™s Lunch for a wide variety of women, all dear friends and colleagues. Even in the face of medical challenges, he soldiered on. The invitations to this yearā€™s Valentineā€™s lunch went out last week. 

I am a direct beneficiary of Mikeā€™s love and counsel. The Human Rights Campaign family will forever cherish him. Our love and support goes out to Mikeā€™s family, friends and his wonderful wife, Debbie Cowan. 

Elizabeth Birch is former president of HRC.

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