Commentary
The war in Gaza impacts all of us and democracy too
ICJ case accuses Israel of committing genocide against Palestinians in enclave.
BY JULIE DORF | As a leader in the LGBTQI+ movement and co-chair of the U.S.-based foreign policy organization the Council for Global Equality (CGE), I am calling on my colleagues in the progressive foreign policy community to urgently discuss alternative policy solutions to our government’s support of the deadly war in Gaza and collectively begin demanding solutions that respect the dignity, rights and security for all.
The Council for Global Equality (CGE) works at the intersection of international human rights, U.S. foreign policy and LGBTQI+ communities. We primarily focus on influencing the U.S. government’s policies, programs and foreign assistance to do more good in the world, recognizing that our democracy typically only does the right thing when its citizens demand it — whether through elections or ongoing civic engagement by organizations such as ours. We also recognize that, deservedly or not, the United States wields outsized power in the world; as responsible citizens of this mighty country, it is therefore incumbent on us to actively engage and try to direct its power towards good. Our organizational principles include key tenets such as “freedoms abroad and freedoms at home are linked,” “democracy can only be rooted in secular, inclusive values,” “equal treatment is at the heart of human rights” and “one population’s rights cannot transcend those of another.” The full statement of principles is on our website.
When Hamas launched its terrifying attacks in southern Israel on Oct. 7, followed by Israel’s revengeful response in Gaza, I thought at first that this was not a CGE issue. As a progressive Jew, I was mostly consumed by my own relationship with the ongoing occupation and I feared for my friends in the region. I was horrified and heartsick, glued to Al Jazeera and other news sources. But I was not at all surprised by the attack, except perhaps that it had taken this long for a major uprising by Palestinians. I reached out to activists, friends and family in Israel, Palestine, Lebanon and Egypt. I felt no contradiction being equally upset by the loss of lives on all sides and holding multiple truths at once. Yes, Hamas is a terrorist organization that brutally murdered my people. Yes, Israel has been occupying, persecuting, and actively undermining a Palestinian state for its entire existence. And yes, the government of the United States and its Jewish community have both been enabling this horrible injustice for as long as I can remember. This crisis was just more of the same but on a much, much more painful scale.
My position on Palestine and Israel
I grew up in a staunchly Zionist environment, visited the region multiple times (Israel and the West Bank and Gaza,) and evolved through my human rights career into a proud Jewish anti-Zionist. I believe in the land of Israel being a vital, safe and sacred homeland for Jews and Muslims, as well as for Christians, Druze, Armenians, Samaritans and others.
I do not, however, believe in a Jewish supremacist state, which is the way that Israel’s current policies have been constructed, believing that only by having a majority of Jews in the country of Israel can it be a secure Jewish “homeland.” I believe it can and must be a secure homeland for different religions simultaneously. Indeed, if you’ve ever visited Jerusalem, you know it already is a homeland for Jews, Christians, Muslims and Armenians (albeit not safe.) Yes, Netanyahu is perhaps the most far-right authoritarian leader we’ve seen in Israel. But long-time policies from urban development, road construction and water to the separation wall and vast numbers of political prisoners, and other Israeli government policies have been constructed to maintain the supreme rights of Jews over Palestinians. These policies that are intended to maintain inequality by ethnicity are simply inherently incompatible with a genuine democracy. At this moment in the world, when democracy needs to be actively defended in so many countries, an exception clause for Israel is both indefensible and counterproductive.
My political positions on Israel and Palestine have stirred up great pain and conflict in my family and community. But I have been committed to talking to my own people — in this case, American Jews — about these issues because that is where I can have the most influence to make change, however small that may be. Many progressive Jews — and particularly younger generations — share my beliefs but are afraid of being ostracized from their Jewish communities or families or being labeled a “self-hating Jew.” I know that I am a proud Jew.
Antisemitism and anti-Zionism
I am also no stranger to antisemitism — even working in the LGBTQI+ global movement, I have experienced my share of antisemitism. It mostly takes the form of microaggressions, such as comments about “your banker friends in New York” or “I won’t succumb to your Jewish guilt moves.” Then there was the moment when a presenter at a queer conference on closing civic space in Poland used a political cartoon from a local newspaper that had a picture of an Orthodox Jew with a huge nose, wearing a Star of David that said “NGO” on it — but didn’t recognize that NGO was overlaid on a profoundly antisemitic image. Or the time when someone posted a conspiracy theory full of lies that “co-religionist George Soros” was somehow connected West Bank settlement building on a large global queer listserv, and the moderator of the list told me that my concerns were unfounded and that “the post was not antisemitic.” And I’ll definitely never forget when an activist in Malaysia who had never met a Jew before asked to feel my head for my horns. At least they asked for consent!
Today’s genuine rise in antisemitism around the world is more overt and scary. I’m used to armed security guards at the entrances to Jewish institutions such as our schools, museums and synagogues to guard against the occasional violent act of antisemites. But this increased level of hate speech, online antisemitism, Nazis in public and murder threats are understandably terrifying my community. This is precisely why the distinction between this very real rise in antisemitic violence and anti-Zionist expression is critical to distinguish.
It is dangerous for Jews and others to conflate antisemitism with anti-Zionism because that conflation misdirects attention from genuine antisemitic violent threats and increases polarization in a year when our unity to protect democracy is more important than ever. Further, it is terrible for the freedom of thought and speech, undermining legitimate calls for justice for Palestinians and silencing people from expressing their true thoughts and reactions. All these things are harming U.S. foreign policy and making U.S. citizens less safe.
We can agree to disagree about the connotations of “from the river to the sea” or the word “intifada,” but it is not inherently antisemitic to wish for equality in that location or to desire a one-state solution to the conflict between the state of Israel and the stateless citizens of Palestine or to wish to organize peaceful resistance to oppression (such as the boycott, divestment and sanctions movement.) This is legitimate political discourse, essential to finding a peaceful solution to this ongoing conflict, whether that be a one-state, two-state, confederated or some other solution we haven’t yet imagined.
Further complicating matters, progressives tend to minimize antisemitism because of Ashkenazi white skin privilege and class privilege, whether real or imagined. Yet Eastern European Jews weren’t considered “white” for many decades, Sephardic Jews are still not considered “white,” and there is increasing visibility of Jews of color. Regardless of the color of our skin, we’ve not been part of any dominant culture for most of our existence as a people — until the creation of the Israeli state. But in the current leftist paradigm of “settler colonialism” as it applies to the State of Israel (which is, in fact, what the early founders of Israel called themselves), often the role of historical and current antisemitism is either dismissed or ignored. This is problematic and limits solidarity. It adds to the lopsided empathy that occurs in both directions and limits civil discourse and healing.
There is no doubt that antisemitism over time, and particularly the Holocaust, played a critical role in the creation of the state of Israel, as well as in the historical trauma and epigenetic fears that live inside so many of us Jews. That trauma was further inflamed by Hamas’ attack on Oct. 7, just as the trauma of the Nakba was reignited for Gazans when Israel’s counter-attacks began and 90 percent of Gazans were forced to leave their homes, regularly going without food. It might seem obvious that this sense of collective victimhood does not give license to victimize others, but it certainly creates a major blind spot in Jewish identity. It is overdue for Jews around the world — and especially in Israel — to update our story and live up to our stated values as a people committed to “Tikkun Olam,” or to repair the world. As painful as it is, we must take a hard look at the missteps in the history of Israel and rectify them urgently. We must face the current crisis and rise in antisemitism with the clarity that anti-Zionism is not synonymous with antisemitism. We must also be able to sit with the discomfort or sense of threat from anti-Zionist arguments or even chants, or genuine discourse about a different role for the U.S. vis-à-vis Israel, rather than reflexively labeling all of that antisemitic.
Legitimacy in global movements
So, when activists in the Middle East began asking queer groups to show up in solidarity with Palestine and, in particular, to join the calls for a ceasefire, I had no problem as a co-chair of CGE to craft a statement on behalf of our organization. It was not only consistent with our stated principles, but it was also a question of legitimacy for us in our global movement. What so many Americans do not quite understand is that much of the world considers Israel a pariah state; as such, the “special relationship” the United States maintains with a country considered akin to apartheid South Africa is very hard to explain or defend. Yet here in the United States, we get a totally different perspective, highly influenced by the commercial media, by mainstream Jewish community institutions (many of which are quite out of step with their own constituents, particularly younger people) and also by the strong forces of the intensely Zionist Christian right (Did you know that Christians United for Israel has more members than AIPAC?) And perhaps, as Peter Beinart posits, as Americans, we identify unconsciously with Israelis because we, too, do not wish to rectify our past treatment of Native Americans in our own founding of our country. This creates a grossly asymmetrical empathy for the “Israeli side” (which, by the way, is hardly monolithic) for many in the United States.
Yet, for many of us in the fields of international human rights, global development, or foreign policy, we engage regularly with colleagues outside of the United States who have a more balanced concern for the Palestinians. Indeed, we cannot do our work very effectively without such solidarity and trusted relationships. Consequently, it is very difficult to sustain an organizational position that justifies the levels of U.S. aid to Israel (over $3B annually,) particularly the extra $14.5B in military aid for their war on Gaza, some of it circumventing required congressional notifications, which everyone knows by now has overwhelmingly killed civilians and children and over 20,000 people. Then to see that with the U.S. government’s enormous investment, the Israeli military and intelligence could be so arrogantly incompetent, caught without any plan or reasonable response to the Oct. 7 Hamas attacks, makes that incredibly large investment even more questionable. And yet, most D.C. organizations still simply shy away from this issue.
Pinkwashing and impact on the LGBTQI+ movement
For the global LGBTQI+ movement, “pinkwashing” has further enraged many in queer communities across the globe. Pinkwashing is the promotion by the Israeli government (or any other government) of its pro-LGBTQI+ policies to intentionally distract from its human rights abuses against Palestinians (or other horrific rights abuses.) In truth, all the rights that have been disingenuously touted by the Israeli government to show a contrast to surrounding Arab states in the region were hard-fought and won by the country’s LGBTQI+ community itself through the courts, not simply handed to the community by the State of Israel. This has been a key part of the intentional campaign by the Israeli government to maintain an image that the country is more similar to Western democracies and, therefore, more deserving of their support.
But in many ways, it has backfired when it comes to LGBTQI+ communities and certainly alienated Israeli LGBTQI+ civil society from the global movement, and in particular from other LGBTQI+ organizations in the region. It is considered so taboo to be connected to Israel that no other Middle East or North Africa (MENA) representatives would show up to a queer MENA event if Israeli civil society were even invited. (And, yes, there are LGBTQI+ groups large and small in Jordan, Lebanon, Iraq, Iran, Tunisia, Morocco, etc.) Israel’s pinkwashing also helped spawn stronger queer support for Palestinians and for the BDS movement. A clear example of this pinkwashing continues now during the war, when the State of Israel’s official X (formerly Twitter) account showed an IDF soldier unfurling a rainbow flag in front of a tank in Gaza and another one, claiming to be “in the name of love,” in front of a destroyed village. For many of us, this was beyond offensive, it was stomach-churning.
For all of these reasons, CGE issued our statement calling for a ceasefire in late October. Most of our organizational members were very pleased with its release, except for the ADL, which chose to end its membership in CGE over our differences on this issue. Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International, both long-standing CGE members, have strongly criticized this war, documenting war crimes and other human rights violations, both by the Israeli state against Palestinian civilians and by Hamas against Israeli citizens. But other than those large human rights organizations, the most vocal members of the foreign policy community in Washington have been the large humanitarian assistance providers, which have passionately argued for a ceasefire. The visible resistance by Jewish Voice for Peace and other progressive Jewish organizations, together with Palestinian rights organizations, have been the primary other civil society entities articulating a different vision for U.S. policy on Israel and Palestine. Between the street protests, potentially losing the next generation’s vote, and the upset from federal employees themselves, this does seem to be getting the Biden-Harris administration’s attention, forcing very small shifts toward using its leverage to reign in Israel’s military violence.
Where is the US foreign policy community?
So, where is the rest of the Washington foreign policy community? Clearly, others must have similar concerns for their credibility with partners around the world during this crisis and feel uneasy every day as the news appears. How can we not do better than this to hold our government accountable to our values of equality and justice? Where are the media watchdog organizations and why are they not challenging such asymmetrical coverage of the war? I understand that people are scared to “take a side,” to offend someone, to lose big donors and to lose legitimacy in the eyes of our U.S. government allies. God forbid we get canceled by saying the wrong thing or making a mistake.
But we must do better than that; we must have the courage to advocate for a more balanced U.S. policy on Israel and Palestine and to call on the Biden administration to be a more honest broker in the conflict. If foreign policymakers believe that the United States needs to be Israel’s best friend, to be a trusted nation they will listen to, then we certainly have paid our dues by now. We must leverage decades of expensive investments more strategically and effectively.
It is time for the progressive foreign policy community in the United States, together with principled Jewish organizations, Palestinian leaders and others sincerely invested in peace to come together to articulate a better way forward for U.S. foreign policy. We must demand conditions on U.S. aid, not just on ending illegal settlement building in the West Bank, but on actually dismantling settlements if the U.S.-stated policy goal of helping to create a Palestinian state is sincere. We must condition military aid appropriately to avoid its use in war crimes. We must demand and help secure the release of Palestinian leaders in Israeli prisons who could become the more legitimate, moderate leaders of the next iteration of the Palestinian Authority. This would undermine the Hamas movement far more effectively than the current military campaign is doing by offering better leadership options. We must demand the release of the Israeli hostages in Gaza and the Palestinian political prisoners in Israel. And we must end the immense blank check support of billions of taxpayer dollars to Israel by requiring a genuine restart of peace negotiations. These are just some of the policies that we should be advocating for – the point is that we need to have those debates as a matter of urgency within our own foreign policy communities in Washington.
As an LGBTQI+ U.S. foreign policy organization, we should be a part of those discussions, not just because queer Palestinians and queer Israelis are impacted, and not just because it’s urgently critical for the safety of all Palestinians and Israelis, but because, indeed, we are all impacted. Americans will be safer. Jews will be safer. Democracy might even be safer.
Julie Dorf is the co-chair of the Council for Global Equality.
Commentary
Please join me in supporting the Washington Blade Foundation
An important event impacting the LGBTQ community will be held on Sept. 12 in Rehoboth Beach, Del.
The event is a fundraiser for the Washington Blade Foundation. Whether you can join us in person, or just be with us from a distance, I ask you to seriously consider becoming a sponsor of this event. You may ask why should you care, why is this important, and how the Blade Foundation supports the LGBTQ community.
The event will feature an open bar, food catered by the Blue Moon, entertainment, and speeches from Blade staff along with remarks from Rehoboth’s Mayor-elect Susan Stewart and another surprise guest or two. You can buy tickets on Eventbrite; if you’re interested in sponsoring the event, contact Publisher Brian Pitts at [email protected].
The Blade Foundation was begun to ensure the history of our community, written in the pages of the Washington Blade, was archived, and never lost. That effort was a success thanks to the support of the DC Public Library. Now the Blade Foundation works to help ensure there will be future LGBTQ journalists working throughout the media, not just for the Blade. By funding interns and fellowships for LGBTQ journalism students, we help make that possible. By helping to fund the international news section of the Blade, the Foundation helps to keep the LGBTQ community around the world connected. In many countries where our community is either still not accepted, or worse, tortured, members of our community living in those places may only get news of their communities by reading the Blade online.
I know many of you reading this already know, the Washington Blade newspaper has been in existence, and reporting on the LGBTQ community, for more than 56 years. The paper’s reporting is done by those who are part of the community, and that makes a real difference. The paper is proud of its journalists, and the numerous awards they have won. One is Lou Chibbaro Jr., who recently was the subject of a documentary aired on PBS. He, and others like him, report the news honestly, without bias, but with fervor, because they actually live the stories.
In those 50-plus years since Stonewall, the Blade has been reporting on the progress our community has made. The steps forward, the stumbles, those allies who have worked with us, and those people who have tried to stop us from living our lives as who we were born to be. Again, the news is being reported by members of our own community. It is not others writing about us, but us, writing about ourselves. The Blade is followed by many mainstream media outlets, and stories that first only the Blade covered, ignored by mainstream media, were then picked up and reported garnering the widespread coverage they deserve. The Blade is the best place to find out about what the members of our own community are doing, and what others are doing to, and for, us.
It is sad that today the Blade has to report we are at a place in history where we are fighting just to keep the strides for equality we have made over the past 50 years. Because of that, it is even more important than ever, that the Washington Blade keeps publishing. Today, the Blade is the only LGBTQ news outlet with a dedicated seat in the White House briefing room. That is important for the Blade, and for all the members of our own community. It is important the Blade be where the action is.
The Blade’s international coverage helps us in the United States to understand where we can help those in our community who may be suffering and less fortunate, but also to celebrate with those who are even more free in many ways. The recent stories about World Pride in Amsterdam inspire us to fight even harder for our rights here, so we never again have a president who will work to keep our community from being all it can be. That we will never again have a President who threatens the lives of our trans sisters and brothers, threatens their healthcare, and throws our community’s heroes out of our military. Those news stories are important to write, and they often only get written about fully, in the Blade.
So again, I ask you to consider being a sponsor, and joining us in Rehoboth on Sept. 12. Or if you can’t be in Rehoboth, that you support our work from a distance, and support this important event. The Washington Blade Foundation is a 501c(3) non-profit. So, whether you are a business supporting the community, an individual ally, or a member of the community, please dig deep, and help to support the future of LGBTQ journalism, and future LGBTQ journalists. By doing so, you are supporting the future of the LGBTQ community. You can donate online at bladefoundation.org/donate.
Peter Rosenstein is a longtime LGBTQ rights and Democratic Party activist.
Africa
When home becomes a journey: migration, memory, and the African diaspora
People carry pieces of previous lives wherever they go
Sometimes I wonder whether home is a place or a feeling.
I have lived in places where I never imagined I would stay. I have crossed borders I never expected to cross and spent years in refugee communities where people wake up each morning wondering what the future will bring. I have known Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya, spent time in Zambia and South Africa, and now live in Gorom Refugee Settlement in South Sudan.
So, when I think about migration, I don’t think first about passports, borders, statistics, or immigration offices.
I think about people.
I think about the mother who leaves everything behind because she wants her children to survive. I think about the young person crossing a border with little more than a phone, a few clothes, and memories of a life that may no longer exist. I think about the refugee who has spent years waiting for a durable solution and still doesn’t know where they will eventually call home.
Migration is often described simply as movement from one place to another. But sometimes it is much more than that.
It can mean leaving behind a version of yourself.
Africa has always been moving
Africa’s migration story did not begin with modern refugee camps or today’s international borders.
People have moved across this continent for generations. They have followed trade routes, searched for pasture and water, moved for marriage, education and employment, escaped conflict, and built new communities elsewhere.
Migration has always been part of African life.
Today, people move for many different reasons. Some flee war and political instability. Others escape persecution or discrimination. Some leave because they cannot find work or see a future for themselves. Others migrate to study, find employment, start businesses, join family members or simply seek new opportunities. There is an important distinction here.
Not every African migrant is a refugee.
A refugee is someone forced to leave because returning home is unsafe. An asylum seeker is someone seeking protection and waiting for a decision on their claim. Exile can mean living away from one’s homeland, sometimes unwillingly. The diaspora is broader still: it includes people of African origin living outside their country or continent, whether they left by choice or were forced to leave.
These words matter because behind each one is a human story.
When leaving is not a choice
I know what it means when leaving is no longer a choice.
Forced displacement takes something from you that is difficult to explain. You may still have your memories, your language and perhaps a few possessions, but the ordinary things that once made life predictable can disappear.
You begin again.
Sometimes you begin again in another country. Sometimes you begin again in a refugee camp.
My experiences in Kakuma taught me that displacement does not necessarily end when you cross a border and reach somewhere safer. The uncertainty can continue for years.
Now, in Gorom Refugee Settlement, I see that uncertainty in the lives of people around me. Mothers worry about food and the health of their children. Young people wonder whether they will return to education. Others wait for resettlement or another safe pathway while trying to build a life with very limited resources. There is a strange feeling in waiting.
You are physically present somewhere, but mentally you may still be traveling towards a future you cannot see.
What happens to identity?
One of the hardest questions migration raises is: Who am I when I am no longer where I came from?
A person can cross a border in a few hours. Identity doesn’t move that quickly.
You carry your accent.
You carry your food.
You carry your mother’s stories.
You carry songs you heard as a child.
You carry the names of people who may never know where you ended up.
You carry memories.
And sometimes you carry pain.
I have met people who have lived in several countries and can no longer give a simple answer when asked where they are from. They may have been born in one country, grown up in another, lived in a refugee settlement somewhere else and now dream of resettling in a fourth.
Does that make them less African?
I don’t think so.
Perhaps it makes their identity larger.
Carrying Africa across borders
The African diaspora is sometimes discussed as though it were simply a population scattered around the world. I see it differently.
People carry pieces of home wherever they go.
An African family living in Australia, Canada, Britain, the United States, or elsewhere may still cook the food they grew up eating. They may speak their mother tongue at home, send money to relatives, listen to African music, support community projects and remain closely connected to events thousands of miles away. Migration doesn’t necessarily erase belonging.
Sometimes it creates several belongings at once.
The diaspora also contributes enormously to communities back home. Remittances help families pay school fees, buy food, build houses, access healthcare and start businesses. Migrants also carry knowledge, professional experience, ideas and connections that can benefit communities across borders.
A person may leave Africa physically and still spend much of their life contributing to Africa.
That matters.
The price of being a migrant
But migration has another side.
Not every new country means a new beginning.
For some migrants, the journey leads to racism, xenophobia, exploitation, or discrimination. People can be judged because of their nationality, accent, skin color, immigration status or refugee identity.
Others discover that qualifications earned at home are not recognized. A professional becomes a cleaner. A teacher struggles to find work. A skilled worker is told to start again.
There is nothing wrong with honest work. The problem begins when someone’s dignity is reduced because they are a migrant.
For refugees, bureaucracy can become another form of suffering. A person can become a case number, waiting months or years for interviews, decisions, relocation opportunities, or family reunification.
But life doesn’t stop while the paperwork continues.
Children grow older, parents become sick, people lose loved ones, birthdays come and go and still the waiting continues.
I sometimes wonder whether the people making decisions about migration fully understand how heavy that waiting can become for someone sitting on the other side of the process.
Women, children, and LGBTQ refugees
Migration does not affect everyone in the same way.
Women often carry enormous responsibilities after displacement. They may become the main providers for their children while dealing with their own trauma and uncertainty.
Children experience displacement differently. They may not fully understand why they had to leave home, but they understand the absence of familiar faces, schools and routines.
Young people face another difficult question: how do you plan a future when you don’t know which country you will be living in?
For LGBTQ refugees, the journey can be even more complicated. Some leave because the place where they were born no longer feels safe for them. They may have experienced rejection, threats, violence or discrimination before they ever reached a refugee settlement.
And yet, even in such circumstances, people create community.
In Gorom, LGBTQ refugees and asylum seekers come from different African countries and backgrounds. We don’t always agree on everything. But we understand something important: when the world has already made you feel unwanted, having people around you who understand your experience can mean everything.
Community can become another form of home.
Should borders decide our worth?
I understand why countries have borders. Countries have laws and responsibilities.
But I sometimes ask myself a simpler question: Should crossing a border change the value of a human life?
A child doesn’t become less deserving of food because they were born on the other side of a political boundary.
A mother doesn’t become less worthy of safety because she crossed without the right document.
A refugee doesn’t stop being a human being while waiting for an immigration decision.
From a Humanist perspective, this seems straightforward to me. Human dignity should not depend on nationality.
We can have immigration systems and still treat migrants with compassion.
We can protect borders without forgetting that the people standing behind those borders are human beings.
We can disagree about migration policy without dehumanizing migrants.
That balance isn’t easy. But perhaps that is exactly why we need more humanity in conversations about migration.
What does home mean now?
I have asked myself this question many times: Where is home?
Is it where I was born?
Where I first felt safe?
Where my memories live?
Or perhaps home isn’t always a geographical location.
Maybe home can be the people who stand beside you.
Maybe it is the language you speak when you are emotional.
Maybe it is the smell of food that takes you back to childhood.
Maybe, after so much has been taken away, home becomes something you slowly rebuild.
My birthday falls on Sept. 12. Birthdays usually invite us to think about another year of life. But for someone who has experienced displacement, another birthday can mean something deeper.
It means I made it through another year.
I am still here.
And I think about the many refugees who don’t know whether they will be safe long enough to celebrate their next birthday. I think about children growing up in camps who deserve to celebrate their birthdays in a home they can call their own.
That thought stays with me.
We are more than where we come from
Migration has taught me that people cannot be reduced to the countries printed on their passports.
We are our memories, our relationships, our struggles, our dreams, and our choices.
Africa’s diaspora is not simply a story of people leaving Africa. It is also a story of people carrying Africa with them.
And the refugee experience is not simply a story of loss. It is also a story of survival.
I don’t know where my own journey will eventually take me. Perhaps that is one of the things migration teaches us: we can make plans, but life sometimes writes a different story.
What I do know is that every person deserves the chance to live without fear, to love without persecution, to work with dignity, to raise children safely and to imagine a future.
Borders may separate countries.
They should never separate us from our humanity.
If migration has taught me anything, it is that home is not always the place we left behind. Sometimes home is the safe place we are still searching for.
And sometimes, while searching, we become one another’s home.
Commentary
When a church fears the rainbow
Puerto Rico pastor objected to Pride symbols outside congregation
There are moments when an incident stops being merely a local story and begins to reveal something much deeper. What happened on June 28 outside One Church, in Comerío, Puerto Rico, belongs in that category.
I do not know who painted the rainbow colors on the asphalt and on a roadside guardrail. I do not know what motivated them, and it is not my place to justify their actions. If someone believes a law was broken, there are authorities and legal mechanisms to address that. That is not the point of this reflection.
The point is the words that followed.
Hours after those colors appeared, Pastor Jorge J. Santiago Reyes went live on social media. He said he felt threatened. He described what happened as a physical attack against his church. He appeared angry and disappointed. He called those who painted the rainbow “cowards” and “charlatans.” He expressed frustration with the support that, according to him, the municipal government of Comerío has shown toward the LGBTQ community, and with those who support posts related to that community. He repeated several times that the people responsible had “crossed the line.” He ended his message by saying, “These charlatans have to be stopped.”
As I listened to his words, I stopped thinking about the paint.
I began thinking about fear.
There is one phrase the pastor repeated again and again: “They crossed the line.” Yet he never explained what that line was. If he was referring to a possible violation of the law, that is for the authorities to determine. If he meant respect for property, there are also procedures to deal with that. But when that line remains undefined and the message begins to associate a rainbow with a threat, the question changes. It is no longer only about a guardrail or a road. It becomes a question about what boundary, in the pastor’s view, was actually crossed.
Paint can be erased.
A brush can cover the asphalt and return a guardrail to its original color.
What does not disappear so easily is the meaning of those colors.
And perhaps that is where the real conflict begins.
It is significant that this happened precisely on June 28, the day when the LGBTQ community remembers a history marked by exclusion, violence, and the struggle for dignity. What represents memory, hope, and the possibility of living without hiding for millions of people was presented by others as a threat.
I do not know why someone painted that rainbow. I do not need to know in order to ask whether those were the words society should expect from a pastor.
A religious leader may feel hurt, frustrated, or angry. What he cannot forget is the responsibility that comes with every public expression. His words do not end when a livestream ends. They move beyond the space of his church, reach people who may never share his faith, and help shape the way others see those who think differently. When a pastor calls other people “charlatans” and “cowards,” says they “have to be stopped,” and turns a rainbow into evidence of an attack, he is no longer speaking only from frustration. He begins to build a discourse that can feed rejection toward a community far larger than the people responsible for that act.
There was another moment in the livestream that caught my attention. The pastor reminded viewers how much he has served Comerío, how much he has accompanied his community, and how much he has worked for it. I have no reason to question that service. I am sure many people can testify to the good he has done.
That is precisely why it was difficult to hear.
Pastoral vocation is not about reminding a town of everything one has done for it when conflict appears. Service does not lose its value when it goes unrecognized; it loses something when it becomes an argument to claim a moral position from which to speak down to others. A person who serves does so because that is the nature of the calling, not because that service grants authority to discredit those who think differently.
As a pastor, that part of the message left me deeply uneasy. Not because I expect ministers of God to be perfect. We are not. But because our words carry weight, we are called to speak with greater responsibility. Some expressions build bridges. Others raise walls. Some words invite encounter. Others end up justifying rejection.
The paint will disappear. A brush will be enough to cover the asphalt and return the guardrail to its original color.
The words will not disappear as easily.
They will remain recorded in a video, shared again and again on social media, and remembered by those who heard them. They will remain long after the last trace of paint has been erased.
When this episode is remembered, it probably will not be because of the rainbow that appeared outside One Church, in Comerío, Puerto Rico.
It will be because of the words a pastor chose to use when speaking about it.
And that difference changes everything.
HRC president campaigns for Chris Pappas in NH
We’re getting married but our parents object
Michael Smith could make history as Delaware’s first LGBTQ treasurer
Poland begins to legally recognize same-sex marriages from other countries
Immersive ‘Nation-State’ imagines a society free of authoritarianism
Please join me in supporting the Washington Blade Foundation
American democracy on the brink
Girlfriends charged with Silver Spring murder to go on trial in 2027
Rehoboth mayor calls for commissioner’s resignation after investigation into improper behavior
San Francisco, long a queer safe haven, remains competitive for homebuyers
-
Commentary5 days agoPlease join me in supporting the Washington Blade Foundation
-
Opinions5 days ago
American democracy on the brink
-
Maryland5 days ago
Girlfriends charged with Silver Spring murder to go on trial in 2027
-
Rehoboth Beach5 days ago
Rehoboth mayor calls for commissioner’s resignation after investigation into improper behavior
