To grow up gay in Dhaka is to learn fear before love. For many of us, the word gay was never a neutral description of identity. It was a slur, an insult, a weapon used by bullies in schoolyards and whispered in disapproval by adults. Imagine discovering that the word hurled at you in hatred is also the only word that truly describes who you are. That realisation feels like a wound you cannot explain, even to yourself.
Like countless queer teenagers in Bangladesh, I grew up hiding. I tried to be someone I was not. I avoided theatre and the arts, because those were “too feminine.” I forced myself to try sports, because masculinity was supposed to be measured on a field. Every glance at a boy I liked filled me with guilt so strong I would dig my fingernails into my skin to distract myself from being seen.
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Confiding in anyone felt impossible. Even though I had a loving family and friends, I was convinced that coming out would mean losing everything. I thought I would be cast out, seen as an abomination, unworthy of kindness. The fear ran so deep that I laughed along at the cruel jokes about queer people on TV, or looked away when others mocked Hijra communities in the streets. I wanted so badly to belong that I joined in the very oppression I was suffering from.
On top of that came the law. Homosexuality was not only taboo — it was criminalised. The constant threat of punishment or mob violence made denial feel like the only safe choice. So I buried myself in schoolwork, hiding my truth deeper and deeper, until I barely recognised it myself.
A Glimpse of Freedom
Things began to change when I studied abroad. In India, at an international boarding school, I met openly queer people for the first time — people who were living as themselves without shame. When the Delhi High Court temporarily decriminalised homosexuality in 2009, I watched South Asian queer people celebrate with joy I could not yet allow myself to feel. For the first time, I felt hope.
Later, in the United Kingdom, I could no longer ignore the truth. Surrounded by discourses on social justice and equality, I was ashamed of my silence and suffocated by the closet. By then, the weight of hiding had taken its toll. I was severely depressed and physically unwell. Coming out was terrifying, but also necessary for survival.
I told my brother first, cautiously saying I was bisexual. His immediate love and acceptance gave me the courage to tell the full truth — that I was gay. Soon after, I came out to my parents. To my relief, they embraced me wholeheartedly. They continue to stand by me, learning and unlearning alongside me, even in a society that told them people like me should not exist.
Living Authentically
Today, I am out, healthy, and surrounded by love. I have supportive friends, proud parents, and a partner who makes me believe in happy endings. The greatest gift has been learning to accept myself — to say “I am gay” with pride, not disgust.
But with this acceptance comes anger. I am angry because my story, despite its struggles, is considered lucky. I am angry because safety and acceptance are rare for queer people in Bangladesh and across the world. I am angry that so many still live in fear of their families, their governments, and their communities.
That anger fuels me. It reminds me that we must keep pushing until queer people no longer have to feel “fortunate” just to be treated as human. Pride should not be about luck; it should be about justice, dignity, and equality.
A Call for Change
Growing up gay in Dhaka shaped me in ways both painful and powerful. My story is just one among thousands, each carrying its own scars and resilience. We deserve a Bangladesh — and a world — where queer youth can discover who they are without fear, without shame, and without danger.
Until then, we must speak, share, support, and fight for each other. Every story told is a brick laid in the path toward a more compassionate tomorrow.
