Hate

I get most of my news off the radio. So it was on Sunday morning, over breakfast, that I heard about the mass shooting at an LBGT nightclub in Orlando, Florida, USA.

The obvious explanation that sprung immediately to mind was that this was a hate crime. A horrible attack on gay people, in a deeply Christian culture that quietly tolerates the intolerance of any relationship not strictly classed as heterosexual. A clear, stomach-churning example of the way that quietly letting everyday injustices pass can nurture the attitudes that eventually lead to such brutal, horrific acts of violence.

The reporting journalist, however, had other ideas. I was shocked a second time by the rushed inevitability of her quick and eager report: that no, there was as yet no conclusive evidence on whether or not this was an act of Islamic terrorism.

No acknowledgement of any alternative motivation. No mention, beyond the nightclub’s identity, of the LGBT connection, or even the possibility of a hate crime. Muslims are so inherently violent, it seems, Islamic terrorism so rife, as to be simply assumed. The first person I heard to intimate that homophobia might have motivated the attack, later on in the afternoon news, was the gunman’s father. The media, however, denied the issue, or were silent.

How elegantly the marginalisation of two separately stigmatised groups is reinforced. How subtly the discrimination that LBGT people experience throughout the Western world is trivialised. How neatly the blame is shifted onto another culture, another religion, another type of person. Someone else. Not like us. That could never happen here.

Except that it does happen here. It happens every day. I remember the case fought and won by a gay couple who were refused entry by the Christian owners of a B&B. Yet even winning that case couldn’t suppress media coverage disgustingly sympathetic to the guilty, and has not stopped other bigots considering it acceptable to repeat the offence. Closer to home, I’ve seen my own gay friends being subject to derogatory street abuse by an elderly white man, in all other respects the picture of stately gentility, making his steady way towards the corner shop. These aren’t the isolated acts of terrorist radicals. These are the everyday aggressions perpetuated by “respectable people”. The people we worship with in church. Our neighbours. The people who live next door.

I’m not for a moment implying that the majority of people would take an assault rifle into a nightclub and gun down over a hundred people. It doesn’t matter. The majority of LBGT people didn’t die in that assault. That doesn’t make this any less the expression of a hatred many in our society still choose to accept. That doesn’t take away the fact that somebody singled out those hundred people, of whom at least fifty have died, specifically because they were part of the LBGT community. That doesn’t make this any less their pain.

Why is it so hard to acknowledge others’ pain? Why do we struggle so much, collectively, to empathise with perspectives different from our own? Is it because we feel ashamed? Is it because we know, deep down, that we are a part of the society that collectively accepts the discrimination and tacit oppression of anyone different from ourselves? Does it feel safer to express outrage at anti-gay laws in Uganda, the very strength of our indignation protesting the alienness of it all – as if somehow this abuse were confined to strange foreign lands, separated from us by thousands of miles, instead of happening right outside our doors?

We need to be able to accept the pain of others. We need to acknowlege their suffering. We need to validate their fear. Even if there is nothing more we can do, no support we can offer, we cannot but take that first step, and stand beside them.

Updated: because this atrocity isn’t mine to own. These are the posts you should really be reading:

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