From that point onwards, I’ve had a slightly better understanding of what it is like for some gay people, often having to lead double lives and having to keep secrets from their families, employers and friends. It’s a tough break.

But in Africa those breaks are even harder still. For many gay people in Africa, their sexuality comes with very heavy toll. From discriminating legislation to violence to plain old prejudice, Africa has a problem with homosexuals. Lesbian footballers have been gang-raped and then murdered because of their sexuality. In Uganda gay men could face the death sentence, while in Malawi a gay couple have been arrested and if the state can prove they have had sex, they’ll do time in prison. In Zimbabwe, long before Robert Mugabe went mad, he spoke out against the evilness of homosexuality. He couldn’t make up his mind who he hated more — the gays or the imperialists?

Now the thing is Africa is one place that should be a little bit savvy about intolerance and hatred. Africa is one place that has experienced discrimination first hand. From Afrophobia, to xenophobia and every other form of cultural exclusion in between, Africa has been exposed to it. So it stands to reason that when it comes to gay people, Africans should be a little bit sympathetic. But vast majority of us are not. Yes, our Constitution is designed to protect the rights of gay people and yes, in the more cosmopolitan areas of our country gay people can live without fear. But leave those suburbs and the world changes. People don’t dig gays. In fact, they hate them.

Across our entire country and our entire continent you will hear people candidly say I hate them because God hates them. I hate them because they are not part of my culture. I hate them because they are different. I think they are a disease. A disgrace. I think they are immoral. Repugnant. A perversity. They’re not natural.

And the worse thing is we have all heard this talk before, sometimes told as a joke and other times more seriously, and we say nothing back. We just let it slide. For the sake of peace, because we don’t want to disrespect another person’s culture or religion, because we don’t spoil an otherwise nice day.

But imagine if we flipped a few words around. Say we were to exchange the word gay for black or white or Indian or Muslim. I hate blacks because God hates them. I hate whites because they are not part of my culture. I hate Indians because they are different. I think Muslims are a disease. A disgrace. I think blacks are immoral. Repugnant. A perversity. They’re not natural.

If you heard that, you’d say something.

My name is Zee and I’m from Turkey.

My story is about my father. When I was a kid, I was very different than the other kids. I remember they got me–my parents got me–toy trucks and guns. I cried. I wanted to have a brunette doll. So I cried so loud and screamed, so then they had to buy me dolls. And then pretty much at that time, my father and I were okay.

I started elementary school and the whole thing, like, being a girly boy started and then all the kids started making fun of me. And I heard my father kept saying to my mother, “What is wrong with my son? Why is he acting like a girl?”

And I went to junior high and that’s where the drama started. The kids were so mean. It was the first time I had been called “faggot.” And I think in 8th grade, one of my teachers called my parents and set up a meeting or appointment at school. They told them something was wrong with me and they need to do something with me because I would play only with the girls and acting like a girl, behaving like a girl, and they need to take me to a doctor or something.

My father came home and he was so angry. He started screaming at me, “Why are you going to be a faggot?? You are embarrassing our family. You cannot act like that.” And he started slapping at me. One and another and then I collapsed. And then he started kicking me, but my mother stopped him. He left the room and I locked the door and I started crying, but I didn’t want him to hear it.

And I think my senior year, or maybe the previous year, another teacher called my parents, and pretty much the same story. He came home in a rage and I knew what was going to happen, so this time I was prepared. He slapped me but then I pushed him so hard he collapsed, and then he got so scared, and I told him that if he touched me again, that I would kill him. After that, nothing happened.

I went to college and after that my draft came which, in Turkey, is a common thing. Every guy goes to the military service. And 10 days before my draft, my father had a really big surgery–he had a bypass. So I took him to the hospital and I helped him and the day I was leaving for the draft for the military service, in the hospital he told me…he told me, “Don’t hate me.” I was like, I just didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t say anything. I told him, “Okay, I…I’m leaving now.”

And I thought about it and I never hated him but I never loved him either. It was just something in my heart that I wanted to be okay. And then 2 years ago, I got a phone call the morning of Christmas Eve and my uncle said my father died. He had a heart attack. I sat on my bed and started to cry. I just realized I loved him. I just wanted a real father, because I knew if we were in a different era or time, we would have been father and son.