Cinco años han pasado desde que Karla Guevara inició un camino legal y personal para lograr que su nombre y género sean reconocidos en su Documento Único de Identidad (DUI). Cinco años de sentencias, apelaciones, puertas cerradas y vulneraciones que hoy se resumen en una sola palabra: resistencia.

En medio de un país que aún arrastra estructuras jurídicas y sociales poco sensibles a las realidades trans, Guevara se ha convertido en una voz visible. No solo por la denuncia pública de su caso, sino por su capacidad de transformar el dolor en acción: ha iniciado la campaña #JusticiaParaKarla, la cual acompaña con conversatorios llamados “Si tú fueras yo” en diferentes zonas del país.

Su historia se remonta al año 2018, cuando, junto a otras tres defensoras de derechos humanos —Mónica Hernández, Bianca Rodríguez y Verónica López— interpuso una demanda para lograr el cambio de nombre legal. La acción se inspiró en la Opinión Consultiva 24/17 de la Corte Interamericana de Derechos Humanos, que obligó a los Estados miembros de la OEA a garantizar los derechos de las personas trans, incluyendo el reconocimiento de su identidad.

A diferencia de sus compañeras, cuyo proceso fue resuelto favorablemente, Guevara fue la única a quien el Estado salvadoreño le negó el derecho, incluso tras contar con una sentencia favorable. El camino ha sido empinado, desgastante y doloroso, y ha implicado múltiples etapas legales con resoluciones contradictorias.

El 8 de enero de 2020, el juzgado declaró su demanda improponible. Guevara apeló el 22 de ese mismo mes, pero la Cámara de Familia desestimó su recurso. Aun así, perseveró. En abril de 2021 presentó una segunda apelación, y en septiembre se revocó la decisión del juzgado, ordenando admitir su demanda. Una pequeña luz parecía abrirse.

En agosto de 2022, después de varios peritajes que, según Guevara, incluyeron momentos donde se sintió expuesta y violentada, recibió una sentencia favorable: se autorizaba su cambio de nombre y género en la partida de nacimiento. Sin embargo, esta victoria fue parcial y breve. Aunque se ordenó marginar su partida, no se ordenó cancelarla como en otros casos similares.

El 4 de octubre de ese mismo año, la sentencia fue enviada al Registro del Estado Familiar. Pero la respuesta institucional fue sorprendente: el 3 de noviembre, la Alcaldía de San Salvador se negó a realizar el cambio. El jefe del registro y el registrador presentaron un amparo ante la Sala de lo Constitucional, paralizando el proceso.

“No solo me lo negaron, sino que ahora me exponen a un juicio aún mayor”, expresa Guevara. La frustración y la indignación fueron creciendo. En febrero de 2023, presentó una denuncia ante la Fiscalía General de la República, aunque lo hizo con poca esperanza. “Temía que no harían nada”, dijo. Y el 16 de abril de 2024, sus temores se confirmaron: la Fiscalía archivó el caso alegando que “no existe delito que perseguir”.

El 19 de noviembre de ese mismo año, Guevara decidió acudir a instancias internacionales y presentó su caso ante la Comisión Interamericana de Derechos Humanos. La CIDH ya notificó al Estado salvadoreño y le otorgó un plazo de cuatro meses para responder por qué no ha ejecutado el cambio ordenado por el juzgado.

“Obviamente no van a dar respuesta”, lamenta Guevara. Lo dice con la voz entrecortada, como quien ya ha llorado mucho, pero no ha perdido la voluntad de hablar. Reconoce que el proceso le ha afectado emocionalmente. “Cada vez que hablo de esto se me corta la voz”.

Las heridas no solo vienen de las oficinas estatales, sino también de las calles. Las miradas, los comentarios, el momento de presentar el DUI en cualquier trámite. “Es como si cada vez tuviera que explicar mi existencia. Es un juicio constante sobre quién soy”.

Guevara no está sola. Reconoce que hay otras personas trans en la misma situación. “Lo preocupante es que solo pasa en algunas zonas del país. En otras ha habido casos exitosos”, afirma. La disparidad en el trato revela una preocupante arbitrariedad institucional.

Uno de esos casos exitosos es el de Valeria Mejía, coordinadora de monitoreo y evaluación de ASPIDH. Su DUI ya refleja su nombre identitario, aunque no su género. 

“Cuando recibí mi DUI con el nombre que me identifico pensé: aquí empieza una nueva vida”, relata.

Para Mejía, el cambio fue profundamente simbólico. “Uno ve pasar toda su vida frente a los ojos. Toda la discriminación, todos los rechazos. Sentí que algo sanaba”. A pesar de ello, su género asignado al nacer sigue apareciendo en el documento, lo que le genera inseguridad.

“El problema es que tengo que ir a todas las instituciones donde aparezco con mi nombre anterior. En el Seguro Social, por ejemplo, aún estoy registrada con el nombre masculino y no pueden atenderme, aunque el número del DUI sea el mismo”, explica.

Casos como los de Guevara y Mejía visibilizan una problemática estructural: el Estado salvadoreño no garantiza de forma uniforme el derecho a la identidad de las personas trans. Las resoluciones favorables son solo el primer paso. Su implementación efectiva aún tropieza con prejuicios, burocracia y omisiones.

Con la campaña #JusticiaParaKarla, la activista busca más que una solución a su caso personal. Busca generar conciencia, exigir coherencia legal y empujar una transformación cultural. En la marcha del 17 de mayo contra la LGBTIfobia, su presencia se hizo notar con camisetas, banners y mensajes que interpelan directamente al sistema.

Guevara ha hecho de su cuerpo, su voz y su historia una herramienta de resistencia. En cada conversatorio de “Si tú fueras yo”, invita a imaginar, a empatizar, a incomodarse. 

“Lo que me pasa a mí le puede pasar a cualquier persona trans. Y si el Estado no nos reconoce, nos niega también la posibilidad de existir plenamente”, expresa.

Hoy, la resolución está en manos de la CIDH y el tiempo corre. La lucha de Guevara ya no es solo por una partida de nacimiento. Es por el derecho a ser, a vivir sin miedo, a que el nombre que la representa no siga siendo un motivo de juicio, burla o rechazo.

Mientras tanto, sigue esperando. Sigue alzando la voz. Sigue sembrando esperanza en quienes vienen detrás. Porque como ella misma dice: “Esto no se trata solo de mí. Se trata de justicia”.

A new LGBTQ community center celebrated its grand opening on June 30 in Winchester, Va., defying recent trends amid a federal crackdown on DEI and LGBTQ funding.

The local HIV/AIDS service organization AIDS Response Effort, Inc. (ARE) worked with a team of volunteers to open the area’s first physical center.  

ARE’s R.I.S.E. (Resources, Inclusion, Support and Empowerment) Center, located near the heart of Old Town Winchester on West Piccadilly Street, is more than a renovated bank building to the local LGBTQ community. The empty teller window on the side of the structure and converted vault inside give away the building’s past. But the volunteers, program participants, and well-wishers gathered at the ribbon-cutting ceremony tell the Blade that they are hopeful for a thriving future for the building — and the community.

The Washington Blade spoke with the executive director of ARE as well as the co-directors of ARE’s R.I.S.E. Center during a tour of the facility ahead of the opening.

Katy Vance, executive director of ARE told the Blade, “I started [at ARE] about five years ago and we were an AIDS service organization, we have been for about 35 years now. We started as a group of volunteers out at the hospital —with Valley Health, and we’ve grown into a program that provides HIV case management for folks living with HIV in the community.”

Vance explained that as community needs have changed for service organizations like ARE, it has led to some soul-searching among advocates.

“We had this big meeting about, ‘who are we?,’ ‘who do we want to be?,’ ‘who do we want to be in a few years?,’” Vance recalls. “As things shift and change with HIV … we have a lot of folks that come into our office who are newly diagnosed. They will get connected to a medical case manager, they’ll get on medication, and they are undetectable within one to two months, which means they are untransmittable, which is amazing.” 

“So, science and technology has come so far,” Vance continued. “And so, who are we when this tends to go in the direction of no longer being the major epidemic it has been for the last 30 years, right?”

“But, when I came in, we also had a general housing program for anyone in the community,” Vance said. “That was confusing for a lot of people who came into our doors trying to figure out who we were and what we are. We called it, our ‘identity crisis,’ essentially.”

“Are we an HIV service organization? Are we a housing program?” Vance asked. “So we worked with our local Goodwill and the board got together and we decided to transition our housing program out and we realized we wanted to open an LGBTQ center.”

“We have had a little bit of pushback as to why an HIV agency is opening a center,” ARE’s R.I.S.E. Center Co-Director Matt Buracker said. “Obviously, HIV and LGBT identities have a long history and a lot of stigma, but we felt like it was kind of irresponsible to talk about one without talking about the other. And we’ve always been supporting the LGBT community, so we’re just expanding our services to encompass more.”

The center seeks to serve the LGBTQ community in a county that Donald Trump carried with more than 63% of the vote in the 2024 election. While ARE receives local and state grants for its operations, the LGBTQ center is currently funded by community donations and a founders’ campaign and is staffed with volunteers.

Vance tells the Blade that the Center met its initial fundraising goal of $50,000 very quickly. The building housing the center was renovated with a combination of grants, donations and volunteer work.

“I think our fundraising goals now are going to be more programmatic so that we can do the things that we want to do,” R.I.S.E. Center Co-Director Mary Bohacek said. “Because Matt and I are great at finding things to do for free. But there are other things that people are asking us to do, craft events or things that aren’t free to do. Eventually, we might need a license if we want to do movie screenings. So there is always going to be a fundraising need to fund the programming, but the building has been a huge success.”

“The support from the community has been overwhelming,” Buracker told the Blade. “We’ve had such a positive response from the community and it’s just it’s been so emotional to see that the need has been here and we are the one to finally do something about it.”

Vance interjected, “And of course, there are community members that aren’t a fan that are ‘keyboard warriors’ that are coming out saying stuff. What is amazing is: we had an article in the paper and they put it up on their Facebook page and people were making just terrible comments. But then, we got new volunteers from that. The community support has been, like Matt said, amazing and overwhelming.”

ARE’s R.I.S.E. Center is a member of CenterLink, a community of LGBTQ centers. Other LGBTQ community centers in the wider region include the Roanoke Diversity Center in Roanoke, Va, the Shenandoah LGBTQ Center in Staunton, Va., Diversity Richmond in Richmond, Va., NOVA Prism Center in McLean, Va., the DC Center for the LGBT Community in Washington, D.C. and the Frederick Center in Frederick, Md. A new MoCo Pride Center is scheduled to open in Bethesda, Md. in August.

While the physical building opened to the public on June 30, the R.I.S.E. Center in Winchester has held events for more than a year.

“We’ve had programming going on for almost two years now,” Bohacek told the Blade. “Our first event was a ‘Friendsgiving.’ There were so many people that showed up that we literally didn’t have enough space: we needed to knock down walls.”

The staff and volunteers at ARE and the nascent Center used that momentum to foster the growth of affinity groups, community groups and services. 

Affinity groups are described as “not just support groups or social groups, but rather as something of a hybrid between the two.” As Bohacek says about the affinity groups, “if someone needs community or needs a place to talk about queer issues, they have a space to do that.” 

Affinity groups hosted by the Center include a group for trans and gender non-conforming people, a group for the families of trans people, a polyamorous affinity group, an aro-ace group, a “Rainbow Connection” all-purpose group, and a “Gay-RP” affinity group for people 50 and older.

“We also have a young adult group, which is for ages 18-25, which is one of the more vulnerable sections of our community,” Bohacek said. “So we want to make sure that they have places to connect.”

As reported in the Blade, the youth advocacy organizations Hopelab and Born this Way Foundation recently issued a report that suggests LGBTQ youth (ages 15 to 24) living in rural communities face greater challenges than their suburban or urban peers in dealing with their sexual orientation or gender identity, though have significantly benefited from online resources. 

“We also have some community-wide programming that allies are welcome attend,” Bohecek said. Programming includes a monthly game night, a volunteer night for the many Center volunteers, as well as the “stitch and bitch” group, who “sit, crochet, embroider and talk.”

“And Coffee and Coloring!” Bohecek exclaims. “That’s one of my favorites. We like to say it’s about — just sit down, relax, have a cup of coffee — but frankly it’s about community building.”

Bohacek proudly lists the many other services the center offers, including a transgender/gender-affirming closet, which is currently overflowing with donations of clothes.

“We also have an amazing library of all kinds of identities and all kinds of ages for people to come and see,” Bohacek told the Blade. “This building is actually an old bank, so we put our books into the vault.”

The old bank, now vibrant community center, was filled to capacity for the official opening ceremony on a hot Monday afternoon in late June. People from across the Shenandoah Valley who had come to the ribbon-cutting event snacked on rainbow-colored cupcakes as they toured the renovated building.

“To be a gay man growing up in a small, rural area . . . we didn’t have anything like this,” Front Royal, Va. resident Ed McKee told the Blade. Though he lives in a town a few miles away, he works at a salon in Winchester and had come to see the new center opening.

“We didn’t have anything like this when I was growing up,” McKee said as he gestured toward the packed LGBTQ community center. “If we had, it would have made my life so much easier. I probably would have come out sooner — I didn’t come out until I was about 30 — because I would have felt the support, you know?”

“Especially now with everything that is going on in our country,” McKee continued. “We need to show strength in numbers: come together. And the center is allowing for that to happen.”

McKee’s husband, Winchester business owner Paul Miller, agreed.

“I’m hoping that [the Center] can be a great way to connect with people who might not otherwise understand how they can come together,” Miller told the Blade. “And I’m hoping that, while I’m not sure that this is its mission, I’m hoping that it has a political effect in Virginia.”

Members of the community who came to witness the opening gathered outside of ARE’s R.I.S.E. center for the ribbon cutting. Speakers at the ceremony included the Center’s co-director Bohacek.

“Today, we’re celebrating the renovation of the building,” Bohacek began. “But, we’re also celebrating the rise of this community.” 

“This community has taught me resilience and it has taught me friendship and it has taught me that I am not alone in this place,” Bohacek told the crowd. “There are people that care. And we are so proud to have a place where we can be ourselves, where anyone and everyone is welcome — and we mean it. So, with that said, let’s keep on rising!”

On China’s Weibo, a platform akin to a digital town square, a young woman using the handle Pingping Anan Yongfu laid bare a harrowing ordeal. She was arrested and subjected to a humiliating strip search for publishing gay erotic fiction. Her raw and unsparing account exposed a broader clampdown. 

Since February, at least 30 other writers — mostly women in their 20s — have shared similar stories of law enforcement raids, their lives upended for crafting “danmei,” a genre of male-male romance often laced with explicit themes, on Haitang Literature City and other platforms.

”I will never forget it — being escorted to the car in full view,” posted Pingping. “Enduring the humiliation of stripping naked for examination in front of strangers, putting on a vest for photos, sitting in the chair, shaking with fear, my heart pounding.”

A wave of legal limbo engulfs the writers, with many released on bail or awaiting trial, their fates uncertain, according to a BBC. Others remain behind bars, their detention a stark reminder of the crackdown’s reach.

Beyond those arrested, a broader net has been cast: scores of contributors to Haitang Literature City have been hauled in for interrogations, their online words now a potential liability under China’s pornography laws for producing and distributing obscene materials. 

China’s pornography laws cast a long shadow over writers, with those profiting from their work facing prison terms exceeding a decade for crafting “explicit descriptions of gay sex or other sexual perversions.” Yet, heterosexual erotica often escapes such scrutiny, slipping through the cracks of enforcement. Nobel Laureate Mo Yan, whose novels brim with graphic sexual scenes, and Jia Pingwa, known for vivid depictions in works like “Abandoned Capital,” and other acclaimed writers continue to publish freely, their books lining shelves without fear of raids. This stark disparity underscores a selective crackdown, where gay erotica bears the brunt of official censure.

Beijing’s unease with the online outcry was palpable, as the trending hashtag #HaitangAuthorsArrested, which amassed more than 30 million views on Weibo, vanished abruptly under censorship’s heavy hand. Posts offering legal advice to the embattled writers were scrubbed, and a detailed report on the crackdown by Caixin, a leading Chinese news outlet, was swiftly taken offline. Writers’ accounts, including some of their pseudonymous handles, have also begun to disappear, erased from the digital landscape as authorities tighten their grip.

As her post ricocheted across China’s digital sphere, Pingping abruptly deleted it, replacing it with a brief message expressing gratitude to supporters while conceding she had broken the law. The admission, tinged with resignation, marked her final act on Weibo before she erased her account entirely, vanishing from the platform amid mounting pressure from authorities.

“Danmei,” a vibrant subgenre of Chinese fiction, centers on romantic and often sexually explicit relationships between men, captivating a largely female readership through its blend of emotional depth, fantasy, and forbidden desire. Rooted in Japanese “yaoi” or “boys’ love,” but distinctly shaped by Chinese cultural sensibilities, it flourishes on Haitang Literature City and JJWXC and other platforms where writers craft sprawling tales of historical, fantastical, or modern love that often laced with themes of power and sacrifice. 

Despite its popularity — bolstered by blockbuster adaptations like “The Untamed,” which amassed millions of fans — “danmei” faces intense scrutiny in China, where authorities deem its explicit content “obscene” under vague pornography laws. This tension reflects a broader cultural clash: while “danmei” offers a space for exploring queer identities and challenging traditional gender norms, its underground allure draws both devoted fans and the wary eye of censors seeking to uphold conservative values.

A sweeping crackdown in late 2024 saw Chinese authorities prosecute roughly 50 “danmei” writers, ensnaring them in a legal dragnet under the country’s 2004 obscenity laws. Among them, Yuan Shang Bai Yun Jian, a prominent author who earned 1.85 million yuan ($250,874.58) from her work on Haitang Literature City, was sentenced to nearly five years in prison, her success weaponized as evidence of “obscene materials for profit.” 

The harsh penalties, which outstrip those for some violent crimes, sparked outrage online, with netizens decrying the disproportionate punishment for crafting stories that, while explicit, harmed no one.

Chinese media regulator banned ‘danmei’ TV dramas in 2022 

Humiliation washed over Pingping as law enforcement stormed into her college classroom, recounted a writer using the Weibo handle “Tianxia Ju Da Bingyuan” or “The World Is a Vast Asylum.” Dragged from her lecture under the stunned gazes of her peers, she endured a public spectacle as officers trailed her to her dormitory, rifling through her belongings in a search for evidence of her “danmei” stories, leaving her exposed and her privacy shattered.

“Danmei” novels, centered on male-male romance have spurred numerous Chinese television dramas, but state censorship has sharply reduced their output. A 2021 Sixth Tone report identified more than 60 “danmei”-based dramas in development or slated for release, involving actors who include Chen Feiyu and Fan Chengcheng. Many of them, however, were halted following the 2022 National Radio and Television Administration ban on such adaptations. 

MyDramaList records 16 aired series, including “The Untamed” (2019) and “Word of Honor” (2021), each with 30–50 actors, totaling approximately 480–800 performers. Lead actors, including Xiao Zhan and Wang Yibo, earned $1–3 million per series, per The China Project, while others made $50,000–$100,000, though precise figures remain limited due to private contracts. The 2021 “Internet Clean-up Campaign” and continued restrictions have significantly curbed new “danmei” adaptations.