Announcement
Omid is a refugee from Iran who lives in Seattle, WA. In honor of Pride Month, he's allowed the IRC to reproduce, here, the speech he gave at an IRC event in April 2017. We thank Omid for sharing his powerful story and for his advocacy on behalf of LGBTQ refugees.
My name is Omid.
I am an Iranian.
I am a refugee.
I am a nutritionist.
And, I am a gay man.
But above all, I am a human being.
In Farsi, the name Omid means “hope,” and I think it suits my personality because I believe that as individuals, we have the power to do unbelievable things in life.
Tonight is the very first time that I am speaking publicly as an openly gay man. I think that to be here and speak on behalf of so many LGBT refugees who cannot speak, is a good reason for coming out.
In Iran, it is illegal to be a homosexual. In some cases, it is punishable by death, based on the Iranian government’s interpretation of Islamic law. Moreover, the moment that people are suspicious of your sexual orientation, you are a target.
In high school, students suspected of being gay are often bullied so badly that they drop out. Employees suspected of being gay are fired from their jobs. Tenants suspected of being gay are often blackmailed by their landlords and charged more rent.
The simple truth is that, in Iran, if your sexual orientation is questioned, Sharia Law enables discrimination in all parts of your life: you will be blackmailed, harassed, and abused. There is no law to protect you.
So as a LGBT person in Iran, you learn survival skills. You learn how to wear a mask – to pretend you are straight – to hide your sexual orientation. You wear this mask in all aspects of your life -- in school, in your community, in the workplace, and even among friends and family.
Because you never know who you can really trust, and who might report you to the religious police.
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Omid gives the keynote speech at the IRC's GenR Flavors event in April 2017.
Photo: IRC/Allie Doyle
Growing up in Tehran, I became very good at concealing my true identity. In high school, I learned how to protect myself from bullies so that I could finish my education. I went on to study nutrition and graduated from one of the top universities in Iran.
I got a managerial position in a big oil company as the nutritionist and catering manager. I oversaw all menus and a team of 100 employees. We served three meals a day to 1,000 people at the company. It was a good job and I loved it. During my fourth year, I was voted the “Employee of the Year.”
But one day, the Sharia guards at my company approached me and began questioning my sexual orientation. They interviewed me many times. They asked me why I wasn’t married yet. They asked me to prove that I was straight. They even sent people to interview my neighbors.
Up until this moment, for 33 years, I had hidden my sexual orientation deep down in my heart, in order to survive. I always feared that this day would come: the moment when all of my hard work to build my career and a life for myself would be erased. I could move to a different city, but how long before I would be “discovered,” and questioned again?
I didn’t want to live in fear anymore.
And so, like many LGBT people in Iran, I realized that in order to stay safe - to stay alive - I had to leave the country. Leaving my family, my friends, and a job that I loved was the hardest decision I have ever made.
I fled to Turkey and I stayed there for two years while awaiting refugee status from the UN High Commissioner of Refugees and the US Department of Homeland Security. During that time, I met many LGBT refugees from Iran, Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq and other places, who had fled their countries for the same reason – to find safety from persecution.
I have been living in Seattle for two years, and I know that I am one of the lucky ones. My journey has not been as difficult, or as dangerous, as so many other LGBT refugees that I have met.
In 81 countries, homosexuality is a crime. In 11 of those countries, homosexuality is punishable by death; Iran is one of these 11 countries. Being an LGBT person in a Muslim country like Iran, Iraq or Syria is like living with a ticking bomb. You know the day will come when your time is up.
But when an LGBT person becomes a refugee, they are in even more danger, because they face discrimination in every part of their journey.
As a refugee, the first stage of your journey is in the transit country. A transit country is where refugees seek asylum, and often stay for years, waiting to be accepted into a resettlement country, like the U.S. or Canada.
And if you are an LGBT refugee in a Muslim transit country (like Turkey or Malaysia), you don’t feel safe because there are no laws to protect LGBTs. You cannot reveal your true identity to the locals, nor to your own refugee community.
When I was in Turkey, I volunteered with several organizations to help LGBT refugees. I knew one LGBT refugee who got a job at a factory. This man, named Asef, worked ten-hour days, six days a week. He did this for two months, with no pay. When another refugee from Asef’s country got a job at the same factory, he told the supervisor that Asef was gay. The supervisor fired Asef on the spot, without paying him, because he knew he would not be held accountable.
Asef’s story is a common one, but it is not the worst. There are many reports of sexual harassment and rape against LGBTs in workplaces, refugee communities and camps around the world.
If you are lucky, the second stage of your journey as a refugee is in your resettlement country.
"I have learned that when you help those who feel vulnerable, you pass along a wonderful gift: you empower them with the strength to help others."
Photo: IRC
For any refugee, beginning life again is overwhelming. You are like a baby: everything is new and you need help with the smallest things. And for an LGBT refugee, resettling is especially difficult because you don’t know where you belong. You don’t feel accepted among people from your country and as a result, you don’t feel safe. And without speaking the language or understanding the basics, you don’t know where to go.
That is why the work that International Rescue Committee does for all refugees is so important.
Here in Seattle, I volunteer with the IRC and other organizations. I help other LGBT refugees with the basics: opening a bank account, finding housing, setting up their Internet, etc. But I also help them find a sense of community among other LGBT people, so that they know they are not alone. Often, they just need someone to talk to. They tell me they are lonely, scared, or missing the families that they left behind.
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I know many of you are wondering how you can help. I think there are two ways we can help refugees:
First, we need to educate all refugees in Seattle about sexual orientation and gender identity. We need to teach them that it is not a crime to be gay; but it IS a crime to discriminate against someone for their sexual orientation and gender identity. We need to encourage them to accept LGBT refugees into their communities.
Second, we need to teach the LGBT refugees about their own rights, and how to report harassments and discrimination. They need to learn how to protect themselves, and how to participate in everyday life, without living in fear. We can do this by creating more resources: more support groups for LGBT refugees; more access to counselors; and more access to volunteers who have stood in their shoes and taken their steps.
I feel so fortunate to be here in Seattle, a beautiful city with open-minded people. I will never forget when I went to my very first Gay Pride Parade here. I had only been in the country for 3 weeks. I watched thousands of happy people in the streets, celebrating their right to express themselves – to be who they are.
It was an amazing day. And yet, I could not stop crying.
For 33 years, I had hidden something so simple and so fundamental to my identity, and here in front of me were thousands of people celebrating their right to be themselves – to be human.
My hope is for all refugees to feel this freedom.
That is why I will continue to help LGBT refugees. I have learned that when you help those who feel vulnerable, you pass along a wonderful gift: you empower them with the strength to help others.