Mariana Bittermann is a German-Brazilian activist for several different grassroots organisations
In 2018, much changed for me – but also nothing at all. I am German-Brazilian, born and raised in Germany with strong ties to Brazil.
This was the year that Jair Bolsonaro was elected president following a campaign that led many to fear for the future of democracy in their country and marginalised communities felt the political climate in the country shifting against them. The LGBTQ+ community was no exception to this.
As an LGBTQ+ activist, the anger and frustration fuelled my political activism. As a queer Brazilian and someone with many queer friends in Brazil, it broke my heart. However, as a German living safely in a stable democracy, I felt like it shouldn’t. To what extent am I entitled to worry? To grief? To pain for the anxiety and violence my loved ones were exposed to while my life here just went on?
We are rightfully leading an overdue discussion on privilege, US/ Eurocentrism and the question of whose voices get heard. In what way was the mere existence of my own pain derailing this discussion?
Even though I am the only German-Brazilian I know, over time I found out that I was not alone in my doubts. Hungary, Poland, Russia – the list of countries where both LGBTQ+ rights and democracy are being actively threatened feels like it is ever growing and by the time of writing this, the latest developments in Ukraine make me wonder what other things we need to worry about when this is published.
I have met many activists in Germany with ties to different countries – be it their country of birth, or the country their grandmother was from. Guilt for their feelings and for the relative safety they were living in was a common theme that I have seen in many, even in refugees who barely escaped with their life to Germany.
We are activists because we care. Empathy and compassion are the foundation of solidarity and that is something we always need. Even if we feel compassion for other human beings without having any connection to their country, we are putting ourselves in their shoes.
Of course, we do feel mental distress in that situation, sadness, and grief that, in the best case, fuels anger that we transform into political action. Quite frankly, there is something beautiful to how we as humans have the capacity to care across borders and differences. However, it’s a complicated tightrope to walk, for everyone in general, but especially for people like us whose country is affected while feeling guilty for living in safer conditions.
In 2018, much changed for me – but also nothing at all. Today, I continue to enjoy many privileges while the German government is making huge strides in the advancement of LGBTQ+ rights. Of course, things are far from perfect here, but I am thankful that I am personally in a more stable situation compared to many of my friends and family because of the political circumstances.
Yet, I keep growing more and more exhausted. I need breaks from my political work that used to be nothing but fulfilling. That’s OK. It’s OK that I am affected by what is happening to my country that I still hesitate to call “my country” but also by what happens to people around the world. It’s OK to prioritise my mental health. Not only OK, but necessary; and it is also necessary to have this discussion if we don’t want political movements to be halted by activist burnout.
We desperately need people who care about what happens to other people around the globe and we need those people to also question when they should take a step back and elevate the voices of other, less privileged people.
However, we will never advance if we deny ourselves to feel grief at the state of the world, even if we know that the discussion should instead focus on those who are more directly affected by it.
As a German saying among activists goes: “You can only fill someone else’s cup if you still have water left.”
We need to find a balance between not draining ourselves by recognising that our emotions are valid and knowing when to not flood the discussion with our own perspective when other voices are the ones that should be heard.
This op-ed is published as part of The Queer Youth Stories — an ongoing series of publications which bring attention to the experiences of, and issues faced by, global LGBTIQ youth. This initiative is a partnership between the Office of the UN Secretary-General's Envoy on Youth; the UN Independent Expert on protection against violence and discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity; ILGA World; and the Global Queer Youth Network.
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