My first literary infatuation was for Anna in Leo Tolstoy’s 1877 classic Anna Karenina. I read it in Russian during summer of 2001, at the age of eleven, in my grandparent’s summer house in the suburbs of Tashkent. It was a very dry and hot summer, over 113 degrees, and I used the tiny library at the far end of the house to hide from the heat. I did not question my attraction to the female character. At the time, I knew of no words in the Uzbek language to describe homosexuality. The subject was so taboo that for a while I believed to be the only gay person in the world. I was too naive to understand how it would lead me to leave my home country in pursuit of existence without fear. When I was banished from summer camp a few years later for kissing a girl, I realized that my feelings were considered unthinkable in the society I was born and raised in. From then on, I started to feel alone and afraid.

After my sixteenth birthday, young bachelors started courting me through my family. It is an exciting time for young women in Uzbekistan. I was extremely lucky to have been born into a progressive family that valued education and did not ask its daughters to be married by the age of nineteen. My mother raised me as a single parent and although we never discussed my sexuality, she knew I was restless and wanted more. While my classmates were preparing for traditional weddings, I dreamt of going abroad. To realize this dream, over the next two years I researched dozens of countries and international universities and presented the weekly findings to my mother in standing appointments in our kitchen. I also showed her reports about widespread forced marriages and domestic violence in Uzbekistan. As it turned out, my mother was well aware of these abuses; the history of women in my family has sadly been a history of brutal violence and sorrow. She finally agreed to support my departure on condition that I would go to Slovenia, where her high school classmate could keep an eye on me.

Living in Slovenia allowed me to remove myself from my Uzbek cultural ties for the first time and breathe freely. There were no government blocks on internet searches, which allowed me to inquire with greater freedom I ever had before. I learned that homosexuality was punishable by law in Uzbekistan and ‘gay suspects’ were regularly harassed and extorted by the police; that AIDS activists were jailed and lesbian women raped. I learned that the founder of my favorite independent theatre in Tashkent did not pass away from a heart attack as it was claimed, but was stabbed and brutally beaten by three men outside his apartment, likely a victim of homophobic hate. Was he afraid, like me, that one day someone would find out? Why was my sexuality criminally punishable in Uzbekistan, and legally protected in some other countries? Why was the place I called home a place of fear and anguish for many women? I was not ready to discuss LGBTQ rights with anyone because I was afraid that my interest would unintentionally reveal my sexuality. A year later, I transferred to Brock University in St. Catharines, Ontario, where I began to explore LGBTQ issues fully for the first time.

My favorite class at Brock, “Labour Law,” explored labor relationships in the context of the 1977 Canadian Human Rights Act. On the first day of class, Professor Finley told us the story of Everett George Klippert, the last man in Canada who was imprisoned for homosexuality in 1965. Klippert appealed the decision and his case played a profound role in decriminalizing homosexuality in Canada, which consequently paved the way for laws that protect gay workers from workplace discrimination. A man imprisoned for homosexuality only decades ago would now have the right to marry. The day after that class was the first time I surprised myself by telling a colleague – in response to her persistent questions about my potential boyfriends - “Actually, I’m gay.” Afterwards, in the few seconds that felt like hours, my heart was racing with anxiety about everything could go wrong. Nothing did. It took me a few days to realize that I had come out with no negative consequences, partly by virtue of George Klippert and his legal battle for freedom.

Inspired, I joined the Student Justice Center, first as a volunteer and later as a student employee. As I designed posters, brochures, and buttons for events that demanded an end to violence against women and the LGBTQ community, I was reminded of my great fortune. When I left Uzbekistan six years ago, it was beyond my imagination that I could find a queer community. I simply wanted to avoid marrying a man. Yet here I was, marching the street with a banner and wearing a rainbow t-shirt at the Toronto Pride Parade. I know that repeatedly chanting three lines is not sufficient for change, but legal transformations can be bolstered by grassroots efforts for social change. This is an essay I could have never written had I stayed in Uzbekistan, and it is by virtue of the people who have paved the way for legal equality that I feel able to express myself freely. I consider it a great honor and responsibility to continue their legacy.