Last week, news broke that shook Britain’s LGBTQ+ community, and rippled outwards. Two men were stabbed outside of a gay bar in Clapham, South London, in a violent homophobic attack. While extreme, the event is by no means isolated. This Summer, a man was charged with attacking Ru Paul’s Drag Race UK star The Vivienne in Liverpool, while earlier this year, a man threw glass in an act of homophobic abuse in Stratford. These are not isolated incidents; in 2023, news reports detail LGBTQ+ people moving home because they no longer feel safe after being attacked, as well as acts of homophobic vandalism.
Aggression like this is currently playing out all over the country – and indeed the world. But in an era of seemingly globalised acceptance, commercialised Pride events and supposedly more inclusive freedom around pronouns than ever before, why is the LGBTQ+ community experiencing such significant levels of violence? Amelia Abraham investigates...
"I like your T-shirt," I say, smiling at the teenager sitting next to me. It's black with white writing and it reads: "The world has bigger problems than boys who kiss boys and girls who kiss girls."
In a linoleum-floored community centre in Stockport, Greater Manchester, sit 25 teenagers. The play-fighting and felt-tip pens scattered across the table make me feel like I’m back in a classroom. But unlike the single-sex Catholic school I went to, the room is filled with people who identify across the gender spectrum, from trans and non-binary to queer, pansexual and “I don’t know yet”. This support meeting is a place to talk among like-minded others: a safe space. That is, until it was attacked a few years ago.
On a Wednesday night much like this one, a teenage girl burst through the doors during a meeting, spewing homophobic abuse. She threw furniture at the people there, physically attacking one, until she was restrained and the police were called. “She tried to scare the gay out of us,” one teenager jokes now, “but seriously? It wasn’t funny… it was terrifying.” Sam, the man who runs this meeting and other support groups around Greater Manchester on behalf of LGBTQ+ charity The Proud Trust, tells me that since the incident, he bolts the doors and lowers the blinds during meetings so no one can see who’s inside. Still, on a recent group outing to a park, boys on bikes circled the kids, shouting, “Are you lot gay?”
When I first visited the community centre for this feature in 2020, there had been a spate of attacks on the LGBTQ+ community, some I was aware of anecdotally, some that hit the press. It felt painful then to reflect on them, but today, as I revisit and update this piece (something I was hoping I would never have to do, that perhaps change was around the corner) things have worsened.
We might be forgiven for viewing the world through rainbow-tinted glasses. After all, over the past decade or so, the UK has made phenomenal strides towards equality and acceptance for the LGBTQ+ community. There have been huge legal changes: advances in marriage equality, and the addition of gender reassignment as a protected characteristic to the latest Equality Act. At the same time, a cultural shift has taken place: gay, lesbian and bisexual pop and sports stars are coming out in greater numbers, shows like RuPaul’s Drag Race, Heartstopper and Queer Eye have gained mainstream success. Pride across the UK is growing, with events held everywhere from tiny Hebridean Islands to big cities pulling in huge numbers. London, the UK’s biggest Pride event, saw 1.5 million people march in 2022.
And yet these groundbreaking, celebratory moments sit in stark contrast to an entirely different kind of newsworthy occurrence. The number of hate crimes recorded by police in England and Wales increased by 26% – to 155,841 reported incidents – in the year to March 2022, according to the Home Office. In February 2023, the crisis peaked, with the murder of transgender teenager Brianna Ghey in Warrington, sparking vigils across the UK.
The impact of recent events made me recall the bloody, beaten faces of Chris (bisexual) and Melania (gay), who went viral in 2019 when they were attacked by a gang of teenage boys on a London bus because they refused to kiss for the pack: a mixture of fetishisation and abuse many queer women know well. “Chris and I were being affectionate to each other, so clearly this was a hate crime,” Melania told Cosmopolitan at the time. That same month, a couple in Southampton had stones and slurs thrown at them from a car on their way to work, while in July 2019, a teenage boy in Dundee was jumped on and kicked by two men – both were reported as homophobic attacks.
When I saw these stories, I felt a familiar jolt of vulnerability. As a gay woman living in London, I have to moderate my behaviour with my girlfriend depending on where I am. One lesbian couple I know recently had a pint poured over them in a pub, and a non-binary friend who is a drag queen was punched in the face. Many trans people I’ve spoken to say they rarely feel safe in public.
Often when higher crime statistics emerge, it’s because more people are reporting them, as well as more instances taking place. However, Laura Russell, director of campaigns, policy and research at LGBTQ+ rights charity Stonewall, says the numbers are “the tip of the iceberg” because four out of five people still don’t go to the police. A hate crime can be anything from a slur to a physical attack or repeated online abuse, but it is clearly motivated by discrimination based on gender or sexuality. Yet many LGBTQ+ people tend to shrug them off because they don’t necessarily realise they’ve experienced a crime, or don’t want to take the time or emotional energy to report it; they just want to get on with their lives. As Melania explains, speaking out about her attack meant that she had to “go through it all again”, dredging up the trauma.
Other LGBTQ+ people fear what will happen if they do make a report, including Joni Clark. “I think we distrust the police because it used to be illegal for LGBTQ+ people to love who we want to. Even now, with a non-binary person, the police might say, ‘You’re a man’ if they see a beard, or ‘You’re a woman’ to someone with boobs. We feel vulnerable and worry the police won’t understand us or will make the situation worse.” The City Of London Police say, “There is never any excuse for abuse, racism or hate crime of any kind. We are committed to tackling this sort of crime and want people to feel they can go about their daily business without fear of violence or threat.”
Back at the community centre, a queue forms to speak to me, each person with their own tale of violence and shaming. Take Leanne,* a 16-year-old who identifies as gay. School bullies have targeted her ever since, and not long ago someone drove past and threw a bottle of Coke at her head, shouting abuse. She didn’t report it. “The bottle hit me, but it wasn’t that bad; I wasn’t beaten up,” she offers.
Then there’s Dani,* a trans man, who says he’s called “lesbian” or “freak” most times he leaves the house. Billie,* 18, who is non-binary and has been coming to the group for two years, says it’s the only place they can truly be themselves. In public, they wear jeans and a hoodie, but at the group they change in the toilets, putting on a dress, make-up and heels. “There aren’t many places like this,” they shrug.
Other support groups I speak to echo their experiences, including one for non-binary adults in Leeds. Once or twice a month, up to 20 people meet for coffee or go to the theatre, and discuss how to cope after experiencing the abuse that is a mainstay of their lives. Joni Clark – who runs the group – says members have been shouted at on the street, cornered on nights out and threatened with knives.
For hate to thrive, particularly at a time when LGBTQ+ culture has arguably never been so mainstream, a certain set of conditions has to exist. Perhaps the political climate and general swing to the right, both here, in the US, and in places like Turkey and Brazil, is creating a hostile environment, with politicians and the media spewing anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric.
Several commentators in the US link the rise of hate crimes back to Trump’s election in 2016, explains Amin Ghaziani, a professor of sociology at the University of British Columbia. He points to research by the Washington Post, which showed that hate crimes jumped a staggering 226% in counties that hosted 2016 Trump campaign rallies. “There is a palpable sense of xenophobia and licensed bigotry on the streets.” It feels real and more pronounced since Trump's run, even now, in the era of Joe Biden’s presidency. In November last year, it was reported that at least 32 transgender and gender nonconforming people had been killed in the States. Currently, a wave of anti-trans bills are being passed across the USA, restriction trans people’s access to healthcare, sports and bathrooms, amidst a growing anti-LGBTQ+ sentiment perhaps best encapsulated by Florida’s recent “Don’t Say Gay Bill”, which bans discussions around LGBT+ issues in schools.
This might sound extreme, but a similar thing could be happening here and across Europe. ILGA Europe, a pan-European LGBTQ+ rights organisation, found that last year saw the most violence against LGBTQIA+people in a decade, according to a recent report. Evelyne Paradis, their executive director, says that while UK laws are relatively progressive (Italy and Greece do not allow same-sex marriage and Russia has an anti-gay-propaganda law), “people are seeing the words of prominent figures in the UK as permission to be violent”.
Boris Johnson has called gay men “tank-topped bum boys”, Jacob Rees-Mogg is against same-sex marriage and Nigel Farage defended Ann Widdecombe’s claim that there could be an “answer” to homosexuality, which was widely viewed as an endorsement of conversion therapy. Rishi Sunak, meanwhile, reportedly has plans to remove legal protections for Trans rights that were established during the 2010 Equality Act. When LGBTQ+ people see these comments, we feel our very existence is up for debate, which can be profoundly damaging to our mental health, as well as stoking hostility from the wider public. They endorse the view that there is something fundamentally “wrong” with being LGBTQ+.
A BRIGHTER FUTURE?
I’m hopeful, though, that I’ll find a few glimmers of optimism for the years to come in the young people at the Stockport support group. Before I leave, I ask its members whether they have seen any positive steps towards a future where they won’t have to fear being who they are. Emily,* who identifies as pansexual, is heartened by the number of LGBTQ+ celebrities young people have to look up to now, like Cara Delevingne and Troye Sivan. “I had a crush on Ruby Rose when Orange Is The New Black was first on,” she tells me. “I remember talking to the straight girls I’m friends with, and them saying, “Yeah, Ruby’s beautiful,” which meant it wasn’t such a shock for me to say it.” Another sign of hope is improved language: there are more ways to define your identity than ever before. While I worry about how normal these kids seem to think it is to experience homophobia, biphobia, transphobia and hate crimes, I take comfort in how normal they also know it is to be non-binary, queer or pansexual – identities we didn’t even have the language for when I was at school 10 years ago.
Before I leave the group in Stockport, I ask its members whether they have seen any positive steps towards a future where they won’t have to fear being who they are. Emily,* who identifies as pansexual, is heartened by the number of LGBTQ+ celebrities young people have to look up to now, like Cara Delevingne and Troye Sivan. “I had a crush on Ruby Rosewhen Orange Is The New Blackwas first on,” she tells me. “I remember talking to the straight girls I’m friends with, and them saying, “Yeah, Ruby’s beautiful,” which meant it wasn’t such a shock for me to say it.” Another sign of hope is improved language: there are more ways to define your identity than ever before. While I worry about how normal these kids seem to think it is to experience homophobia, biphobia, transphobia and hate crimes, I take comfort in how normal they also know it is to be non-binary, queer or pansexual – identities we didn’t even have the language for when I was at school 10 years ago.
But famous role models and labels only go so far. All the teenagers I spoke to agreed that the answer to reducing hate crime, if there is one, is education; if kids were taught about LGBTQ+ rights and relationships in schools, it would make life a lot easier for them, but also for generations to come, because those taught acceptance now would grow up to be more accepting adults. “It’s not that people don’t agree [with LGBTQ+ issues], it’s often that they don’t know enough,” says Billie.
In 2019, the government made teaching about same-sex relationships in primary schools mandatory. Stonewall is also working with the Crown Prosecution Service and police to make sure hate crime is better understood. Police officers receive regular training on how to deal with these reports, and prosecution rates are higher as a result. Meanwhile, allies have more potential resources than ever before. From books like Shon Faye’s The Transgender Issue, to Travis Alabanza’s Beyond The Binary, to activists on Instagram such as Munroe Berdorf and Tanya Compass, who spread useful information for supporting LGBTQ+ causes.
These shifts give me hope – I love being invited to friends’ same-sex weddings, watching Drag Race and seeing LGBTQ+ celebrities on the red carpet. Shows like Heartstopper are undoubtedly improving positive visibility. But high-profile media moments don’t always reflect what LGBTQ+ people are experiencing on the ground. In the real world – in clubs, on buses, at the cinema – being LGBTQ+ can be scary. Unless I’m in a gay bar or at home, I feel nervous being affectionate with the person I love.
Melania, who is still suffering the lasting effects of her attack, left Britain because she doesn’t feel safe. In Spain, where she is living, she often feels frightened when she sees a group of men together. “It’s not fair to be targeted just for being who you are,” she tells me, and I agree. Why should being ourselves and loving who we want leave us vulnerable to violence?
IF YOU SEE OR EXPERIENCE A HATE CRIME, HERE'S WHAT TO DO:
Try to offer support: “We experience hate crimes all the time, but the really crushing bit is when no one around us does anything,” says Joni Clark.
Ask: “Are you alright? Is there anything that I can do to help?”
Report it: Contact the police to make a statement, or contact Galop, the LGBTQ+ anti-violence charity,who can assist you.
Speak up: Stonewall says, “If you hear things that contribute to biphobia, transphobia and homophobia in society, try to challenge it, if you feel safe doing so.”
*NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED. If you'd like to find an LGBTQ+ youth group, visit The Proud Trust.
This article originally appeared in the March 2020 issue of Cosmopolitan UK.
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