Transphobia

 

I was driving home from work last week and I saw this bumper sticker on the back of a pickup truck. I know many people who would smirk or laugh at this.

I did neither. I was furious.

Someone had the audacity to make a belittling comment on the trans and non-binary community.

Some caveats here:  I am neither transgender nor non-binary. I am a cisgender white male. I am not heterosexual. I am bisexual, but that is the only thing that marks me as somewhat different.

I understood what the person was saying who made the argument. They wanted to present the idea that someone who identifies as another gender other than the one they were assigned for at birth is as silly as a pickup truck identifying as a hybrid Prius.

What they accomplished instead was to belittle everyone who is transgender or non-binary. The person who owned this vehicle is a bully. Pure and simple. Besides that, their argument was a false equivalency.

I feel very ill-equipped to speak for transgender and non-binary people. I do not intimately know the struggles they go through. I can only rattle off some statistics.

According to the US Transgender Survey conducted in 2015, 81.7% of all transgender and non-binary people have contemplated suicide. What is even more concerning is that 40.4% of transgender/non-binary people have actually attempted suicide. According to the Human Rights Commission, one of the main reasons for suicide among transgender people is "family rejecting, bullying and harassment."

I work and have worked with colleagues who identify as transgender or non-binary. They are great people, some of the best people I know. They do not deserve to be belittled or put down.

I am not here to argue whether or not being transgender/non-binary is even an issue. They exist. They are created in the Image of God just as they are. In all our attempts to have binary/dualistic/black-and-white solutions, we always forget the gray areas. We should not take an ancient poem from Genesis and say that this poem debunks people who are transgender. That was never the attempt of the person who wrote it.

What is the matter with people? In a word:  Fear. Fear of what is different. How do people react to fear? If they do so intelligently, they study and get to know why something is different from them. If they do so foolishly, they bully. They belittle. They eventually end up dehumanizing someone else.

This is not something new. It seems to happen each decade. We see this in racism: one group of people believing themselves to be superior to another group of people based on the melanin in their skin. We see this in religion:  one sect believing themselves to possess the only truth to the exclusion of all others.

It starts off small, like bumper stickers, but then escalates to legal battles and then outright persecution, including murder. I am furious when I see how various governments enact laws that protect no one, but bully an already repressed people group.

What can you do? Speak up. Do not be silent. If a transgender/non-binary person says they are a particular gender, believe them. If they tell you what their name is, do not call them by their old name. This is called "deadnaming" and is quite offensive. Something very polite to do is also respect the pronouns people use.

One of my favorite teachings by Jesus is a simple one:  "You should treat people the same way that you want people to treat you." (Matthew 7:12 CEB) If people would do that, we would have actual peace in this world.

The Time I Walked Through a Minefield . . .

Ice Breaker Games

Do you know those ice breaker games that people often do at camps or seminars? Sometimes they are also done at church small groups. People tell interesting facts about each other that others might not know. It is just a way to create a bond between people.

I normally rattle people's conception of me when I nonchalantly tell them:  "I once walked through a minefield and was almost arrested by the German military."

Yes, it is a true story. Let me explain.

1999

The year was 1999. I was in The Salvation Army's version of a seminary, which they called the College for Officer Training. I had told The Salvation Army that I really wanted to serve overseas. I had actually earned my Master of Arts in Missions. I had already served overseas in Germany for 6 months in Hamburg, Germany, and I wanted to do it again once I was ordained as a pastor (which they call officers) in The Salvation Army.

Unexpected events happened that changed my life. A civil war had erupted in the former Yugoslavia. It was all over the country there. Over 500 years of pent up hate exploded among the people and many of them wanted to be independent. The aspect that affected me was in Kosova. (You might sometimes see it spelled as "Kosovo," but the local Albanian population call it Kosova and so will I.)

Kosova was about 95% Albanian. They were second-class citizens. Often times they weren't allowed to use Albanian in official publications and had to speak Serbian, which comes from a totally different language family and uses the Cyrillic alphabet. The Kosovar Albanians wanted their independence from Serbia. It started off with protests and escalated to armed combat.

For Serbians, Kosova was an integral part of their identity and history. They did not want to part with it at all. It held historical and religious significance for them. The seat of the Serbian Orthodox Church is in Kosova, even though the population of Kosova is majority Albanian and the Albanians themselves are about over 95% Muslim.

The Kosovar Albanians rebelled against the Serbians and tried to set up an independent government. The Christian Serbs responded by committing genocide and forced a mass exodus into the neighboring countries of Macedonia (now North Macedonia) and Albania. (I should note here that for those unaware, Albanians are a people group as well as a country. The country of Albania has only about half of all Albanian peoples. The rest live in Kosova, North Macedonia, and Montenegro.)

In the face of this genocide, the world responded and NATO sent their forces to fight against the Serbs. The Kosovar Albanians meanwhile fled to their neighboring countries as refugees.

This is where I come into the picture.

Refugee Camps

I received a call from our assistant principal, Major Paul Howard. He told me that two teams were being formed to be sent into Albania to help with the refugee crisis there. I would be on the second team. Little time would be spent on evangelization. Our main goal would be to help the refugees in a few places. I started to study up on everything about Albania and Kosova and even began learning the language.

I ended up serving at a camp outside of a village, called Hamallaj, which is on the Adriatic Sea. At its height, we had over 5000 refugees. We worked with two other organizations there:  Samaritan's Purse and the Norwegian People's Aid.

As the war quickly came to its conclusion, the Kosovar Albanians wanted to return to their homeland. Often times they would want to go back earlier than NATO and UNHCR (the United Nations High Commission for Refugees) believed it was safe. We slowly followed them back, establishing a way station / rest stop near the town of Kukës. Finally we entered Kosova proper and established a small headquarters in Gjakova (Djakovica in Serbian).

Our next project was building wood burning stoves for the local population with winter fast approaching. Most of the population's homes were destroyed and they would need something to cook and heat their homes with.

Time Off

I had worked non-stop during this time. According to our regulations, I was supposed to get some time off. When my time came, I took 3 days off and visited with my translator friend, Avdyl. We went with his cousin, Shaban, to the southern town of Prizren, which was under German military control.

A view of Prizren: Image by Jerzy Andrzej Kucia from Pixabay

Prizren is a beautiful town, surrounded by mountains. While we were at a cafe, I noticed on one of the hills there was an old fortress. I asked Avdyl and Shaban about it. They told me that it was the ruins of a Turkish fortress, leftover from the Ottoman Empire. I was intrigued. I love castles and fortresses and I had never been to an Ottoman one. So I asked if we could go visit it. They said we could.

Shaban said he knew a shortcut. After this episode, I have come to despise shortcuts. They never turn out short and only make a situation worse. We climbed up the steep side of this hill. There was no good path and I began to regret my decision. That is, until we came to the summit.

We had a breathtaking view of the valley. The city was right below us. We could see into Albania proper and noticed the highway leading into Albania out of Prizren. The fortress itself was in ruins. Not much was left to see and there were no intact buildings. There were some small caves dug into the sides of these. While Shaban and Avdyl looked around outside, I went into one of these caves.

Inside, I realized that these caves had not been abandoned. They had been used very recently. There were some mattresses on the dirt floor and some abandoned comic books. Looking at them, I saw they were all in Serbian. I realized that this had been an outpost for the Serbian military. What sealed that confirmation was a huge spent artillery shell, standing in the middle of the floor. It stood about 5 feet tall and had already been fired. I noticed that the soldiers had used it as an ash tray, too.

When we entered Kosova, all of us found shell casings everywhere from the fighting. In some places they littered the ground. Some of the Kosovars even tried to find the biggest one. Well, I had them there! I found the biggest one ever! Right then I heard Avdyl calling for me, asking where I was. I grabbed the shell and went outside.

When I came outside, carrying the artillery shell, Shaban and Avdyl were on their knees with their hands behind their necks, surrounded by 3 German soldiers of the Bundeswehr, holding machine guns. My heart sank into my stomach then. They turned at my approach and I realized I was carrying this artillery shell.

Things did not look exactly good.

They yelled at me in German and in English:  "Die Hände hoch! Hands up!" I gingerly set the artillery shell down and the soldiers approached me. I thanked God up and down that I could already speak German. They questioned me:  "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, I'm just an American and I asked my friends to show me this fortress. We had no idea we weren't supposed to be here."

"How did you get up here?"

"We came up the side of the mountain from over there." I motioned to where we had just come up.

"Don't you know there are mines all over the place here?"

"Uh . . . no."

"It's clearly marked!" (No, it wasn't. There were no signs whatsoever from where we were coming from, but I didn't want to argue.)

So they asked us for our identification. Avdyl and Shaban had none. Their identification had been confiscated by the Serbs when they fled Kosova. Many Kosovars had their identifications confiscated. The Serbs didn't want anyone to be able to prove that these were refugees. They radioed our names in to see if we were wanted for anything. When they realized we weren't, they told us to go back the way we came.

The way we came. Through the minefield. Down the steep mountainside.

What I had come to learn was that the Germans had set up a base on the other side of the fortress. The road that let up to the fortress had been guarded by the Germans and no one was allowed up there. We had basically come up behind them unawares.

The Aftermath

Wait. What aftermath? There was none. We went down the hill, chagrined and embarrassed. Shaban yelled at a young boy, whom he had asked if it was ok to go up the hill to the fortress.

I decided to not tell anyone about it for a long time, at least until I was commissioned (ordained) as an officer in The Salvation Army.

Avdyl and I still stay in contact. For awhile it was difficult to with the infrastructure all destroyed. With the advent of social media, we found ourselves again. He had married, had 2 girls, and became a widower after his wife died of cancer suddenly. His friendship was very important to me and I am so glad to have known him.

I will always remember my time there, not just because of my experience, but also because the Albanians are some of the most hospitable people I have ever met. They are vibrant, friendly, and will do anything to help others out. I love them for that.