Category: Community

I’ve been around since 1968; I was born and brought up in a state capital in the south of Germany. My childhood was normal by the standards of the time. Queerness wasn’t an issue and „gay“ was a swear word, although nobody really knew why. As puberty set in, it became apparent quite early on – at least to me – that my sexual identity wasn’t following a straight path, and that it certainly strayed from „normal“ behaviour, such as group masturbation at the ski school camp. Here, then, is the big disclaimer for everything else that was to happen to me …

My birthday is in August, just after the so-called cut-off date set for starting nursery and, above all, for starting school. I don’t know if that sort of thing still exists today, but back then it was effectively decided that I would always be a year older than my peers and classmates. After having to repeat Year 9 at grammar school – which, at the time, applied to at least 40 of my classmates and was quite normal – things got even more extreme. So, during the heady years of my sexual awakening, I was one of the first to have a moped, an „80er“, and eventually a car.

As well as these assets, I was also taller, broader and stronger, which inevitably led to greater self-confidence. If we’d been in an American high school comedy, I’d always have been one of the „cool“ kids. In other words, I had a large, close-knit circle of friends and, due to my latent homosexuality, also a large circle of female friends – though both should be understood strictly in a platonic sense.

These days, I suppose people would call my family home „supportive“, as my occasional flirting with homosexuality and „gay“ stereotypes didn’t faze my parents in the slightest. Although my father was very conservative, I can still remember being given a stern telling-off when, at the age of perhaps 11, I once again used the word „gay“ as a derogatory synonym, and he explained to me that I should stop doing so as a way of not belittling gay people. Those weren’t his exact words, but that was the gist of what he said. It wasn’t until many years later, after my father had already passed away, that I understood how progressive that reprimand was, and looking back, I’m impressed. My father had a number of gay acquaintances, both personally and professionally, which was never an issue for him. Nevertheless, I still remember how he used to wonder who was „the woman“ and who was „the man“ in a gay or lesbian couple. It was simply a different time. As a young adult with a background in queer activism, I once tried to explain the world to him during one of these moments of speculation, only for him to reply, with a touch of indignation, that he was perfectly well aware of the facts but could still speculate. As he never did this in public, but only within the smallest of circles, I can accept that.

My mother, on the other hand, confined herself to a not entirely serious lament about the possible lack of grandchildren. She had an anecdote about how a classmate at her girls’ boarding school in Switzerland had made advances towards her, but she realised relatively quickly – we still don’t know how – that she was straight through and through.

All in all, it has to be said that I am a typical representative of Generation X. Our parents had more important things to do than fuss over us. The priority was to safeguard the prosperity they had built up, and that meant the children sometimes had to fend for themselves.

No, my parents weren’t exactly „supportive“. But nobody really stood in our way as we grew up, and a mild lack of interest is almost a form of acceptance in itself. We weren’t given much guidance either. But we were given enough pocket money to buy *BRAVO* magazine and read it without being told off.

I wasn’t gay. I had too much love and fun with girls for that. I’d had some great sexual experiences with lads, and perhaps one or two of those flings might have led to more than just sex. But the time wasn’t right for that yet. Not because it wouldn’t have been possible. It was just that heterosexual relationships were the norm and therefore the easiest option. So there wasn’t time for anything else.

Despite all the sex-positivity and alternative relationship models, to which I am now drawn both in theory and in practice, for the general public, sticking to a monogamous relationship is still the norm today. And back then, I was decidedly – or at least „serially“ – monogamous.

My „first time“ was amazing and spectacular – with a woman, just before her wedding. When I was 14, I came across the term „bisexual“. Unfortunately, I can’t remember where I heard it. That’s when I found my label. Back then – and still today – I thought it was simply brilliant to describe myself that way with such confidence. That’s why I’ve understood for a very long time why labels can be liberating for many people, along with the knowledge that you’re not alone in the world. In other words, long live the pigeonhole! Especially because you can step into a pigeonhole and step out of it again at any time – that’s what’s known as fluidity, and in my view it’s a wonderful thing.

Otherwise, my youth wasn’t explicitly spent in the queer scene, apart from the odd visit to relevant venues with my circle of friends and regular trips to see the *Rocky Horror Picture Show* whilst cross-dressing. We were also, without exception, heavy metal fans, and our favourite hangouts were therefore not necessarily compatible with those of the queer scene.

Even whilst doing my compulsory military service, I tended to be quite outspoken about my sexual orientation. This probably played a part in one of my comrades coming out as gay. Of course, there were some very conservative people amongst my comrades and superiors. But looking back, I can’t recall any incidents of anti-queer behaviour, apart from a few stupid comments born of ignorance – though these were usually called out.

In 1991, I moved to Berlin to study and found myself in a queer bubble practically from the very start. My first Pride march was in 1992. Those years marked the height of the AIDS crisis, so it was very much on my friends’ minds too. A friend of mine worked at a specialist pharmacy in the Motzstraße neighbourhood, where she also lived. We often went to her flat and to the local haunts.

I wasn’t gay; I described myself as bisexual whenever it was appropriate. Sex in those days was difficult; HIV cast a shadow over everything. Nevertheless, I felt safer in that respect amongst gay men than in heterosexual society, because awareness was much greater. When you’re confronted week in, week out with who’s HIV-positive, who’s in the terminal stages of AIDS and who’s died, you become extremely aware of the issue. As I still largely regarded monogamy as the ideal norm back then, I considered myself safer than others.

Of course, I am all too familiar with the hostility of that era, when bi+ people were labelled „virus spreaders“ and accused of bringing HIV into the heterosexual mainstream. But I never suffered as a result, and thanks to my experiences and connections within the queer community, I was always able to engage with these discussions in a well-informed and confident manner.

I had a driving licence and a car – something of a rarity even back then in Berlin – which made me the ideal person for certain errands and the like. Every now and then I’d drive HIV patients to the doctor, transport items for a funeral, or help clear out a house. It was here that I also gained my first insights into the workings of queer organisations, foremost among them Berliner Aids-Hilfe. These were more like occasional favours for friends than genuine activism.

At the CSD, visibility has always been particularly important to me – even without fancy outfits and glitter. I even appeared on the telly once, when I happened to be in front of the camera during a pan shot of the march. I was as proud as punch. Unfortunately, television was still broadcast on a linear basis back then, so I could only tell my friends and family about it.

In my relationships My bisexuality has always been common knowledge. Fortunately, it never led to any drama. Even today, many relationships between bi+ people and straight people still break down because of the stereotype that assumes – or even accuses – the bi+ person of being sexually insatiable. Fortunately, that was never the case for me.

After completing my degree in 1998, I moved back to southern Germany for a good two years for professional reasons, this time to the real countryside. There, too, I spoke openly and confidently about my sexuality. Of course, I didn’t introduce myself by saying, „Hello, my name’s Thilo and I’m bisexual,“ but I seized every opportunity that came my way. Usually, whenever someone made an insensitive remark, I’d be quick to say, „Listen, that’s completely unacceptable!“ And when the question then arose as to how I knew that, my answer was, „Because it affects me“ or „Because it’s about me“. I can’t recall a single negative reaction to such a statement. But of course, I was also very lucky in this respect. I was a member of my employer’s family, and we held a special position in the village. That can be a curse or a blessing. In my case, fortunately, it was a blessing.

That has shaped me too. Since then, I’ve changed jobs quite a few times and have been out from the very start wherever I’ve worked. I’ve always mentioned my commitment to the queer community straight away in job interviews. And whilst it may occasionally have been a reason not to hire me, from my admittedly privileged perspective, that’s not really a disadvantage. Who wants to work in a biphobic workplace anyway?

In 2011, I met my now wife. In 2012, we heard about the open bisexual meet-up at the Sonntags-Club. In January 2013, we attended this meet-up for the first time and immediately had a stall at the Motzstraßenfest, which was organised as an offshoot of this meet-up. In 2016, my wife and I got married. In 2018, BiBerlin e.V. was founded out of the Sonntags-Club meet-up. And in 2024, we launched Europe’s first publicly funded Bi+ resource centre, run by BiBerlin e.V.

My story is a special one because, in my personal development, I’ve enjoyed a great deal of freedom, a lot of support and also a great deal of luck. Perhaps, looking back, I’m romanticising certain aspects, and so some memories are more pleasant than the reality of the time. Fortunately, I had the strength and self-confidence to stand my ground. But without a community, without the people who stood by me, things could well have turned out very differently. I’m a football fan, so for me it’s important that no one is bigger than the team or the club. But everyone has to play their part in ensuring it stays that way.

It was a brilliant and absolutely packed party that we’d both hosted. Now we’re left alone in the chaos, dozing on a mattress in the middle of the room. The day has already begun. A new year! He’s gorgeous with his long blond hair and delicate features. No wonder so many people are smitten with him. I’m enjoying spending so much time with him and doing things together.

When he suddenly touches me, it takes me completely by surprise. I thought he was asleep. A moment that opens up like a door. I turn towards him, but keep my eyes closed. He, too, pretends it’s just a chance touch in his sleep. Or so I think. We gently rub our bodies against one another. Eventually, we fall asleep.

Over a latte, he makes a nice comment. But we talk about other things. As we part, I give him a quick kiss. For a long time afterwards, I’d hoped we’d become intimate again. Sometimes we’d lie naked in bed together. But my advances weren’t reciprocated. I think he didn’t dare any more. The moment had passed.

It was my first tender and romantic experience with a man. It was an exciting time. We were young.

Sometimes I look back with a smile. Men and women have come into my life and left again. But that one moment will always stay with me. Perhaps it was love. So unfulfilled, yet still beautiful.

A few years ago.

My feet carry me lightly. They seem to be floating. I’m on my way home, enveloped in a feeling of validation and liberation. My first Bi+Meetup.

In the middle of summer, I happened to walk past this huge flag in shades of pink, purple and blue at the CSD. Lots of people had to hold up this flag. After a while, someone asked me. I took a piece of it and didn’t let go of it until the very end. We then folded it up together: „Why don’t you come to the meeting?“

I saw a few familiar faces when I turned up at the Bi+ regulars’ get-together. Nowadays, I host Bi+Meetups, and I ask others how exciting their first visit was. All the conversations I’ve had over the years have been a constant source of comfort. Here, I can also dress in a feminine style, as I’ve always wanted to but never dared to.

These days, I’m delighted when new faces turn up at the meet-ups. I hope this safe space can help them. Outside of these meet-ups, too, I try to be the person I’ve always wanted to be. Confident and strong.

The other day, a new colleague introduced himself: „I’m so-and-so, I do this and that, and I’m straight.“ No, that’s actually never happened. But it would have been a good way to start a conversation. „Since when? How did you realise?“

Coming out: it’s complicated – it’s not a ‘must-have’ and it’s not a seal of approval either!

But when did you come out? „On all sorts of occasions,“ I’d say. In a diverse society – however much I might wish for it – I simply assume the „worst“: the person I’m talking to is different from me. Visibility is important and helps combat prejudice! Coming out can also encourage others to come out too.

And whilst the visible protests and resistance on Christopher Street, at the Stonewall Inn in 1969 and later were so important, the situation today remains the same, yet is nonetheless different.

And if anyone wants to ask me, they’re welcome to. There are lots of answers. Because we’re all different.

„My doctor says I must have caught it recently, and the only person I’ve had unprotected sex with is you,“ I wrote in the chat. „And you really should get tested for it,“ I added. I would have phoned as well, but we hadn’t been in touch for several weeks. And I wanted to bring the matter up in a completely matter-of-fact way, without placing the blame on anyone.

All right, the last few times I was annoyed by his drug binges. When we went out, he only really got going when the rest of us were already tipsy and ready to head home. And then in bed, he was all the more horny. Maybe that was the point. But I wasn’t really in the mood, even though his bum felt lovely as he stuck it out towards me. And as I was just about able to manage it, it happened again. Without a condom.

It felt all right, too, because we’d been together for quite a while and I trusted him.

We never talked about it. Nor was it a proper relationship. At least, not one we’d actually talked about. I bumped into him again by chance a while later. He didn’t look well. Maybe it was the drugs. I really don’t know why I can’t handle this better. I can only count myself lucky that, apart from that one time, it all turned out all right. Now everything’s fine again – at least for me. I just don’t know if I’ve really learnt this lesson.

At Aidshilfe Hamburg, the Youthwork team is responsible for providing sex education to young people. Our main focus is on running three- to four-hour school workshops on sexual health and queer education, but we also act as a partner at fairs, festivals and parties with information stands, and provide low-threshold access to free safer sex products. The team consists of federal volunteers, interns, dual-study students, volunteers and one full-time staff member who leads the team. I myself joined the department as a Federal Volunteer in 2024 and have now been working here for about a year and a half as a dual-study student in a sort of assistant role to the department head. In this role, I carry out my own projects, including the interview project for our queer educational work, which is described in more detail below.

As a team, we believe it is very important for young people to have easy access to diverse sex education. Perhaps this is because many of us share the experience of a school life and youth which, looking back, would have benefited from more sex education, more role models and more visibility of queer issues. From our own experience, we know how difficult it can be to understand yourself when the words aren’t there. To accept yourself when your own identity isn’t talked about, or isn’t discussed as if it were something completely „normal“ and healthy – something that can bring joy to life.

Our school workshops on sexual health do not focus exclusively on queer perspectives, but do include them in order to convey a nuanced picture of sexuality and challenge one-dimensional sexual scripts. Explaining the biological realities behind sexual practices often labelled as „queer“ – through questions such as „what is the prostate?“ – can help to dispel such labels and are intended to foster an open understanding of sexuality, in which there is not just one ‘correct’ form of sex – and from which, ultimately, all participants benefit, regardless of their gender identity or sexual/romantic orientation.

In reality, it is not always possible to live up to these high standards in our workshops in quite the way we would ideally like. Particularly in the „Plietsch“ workshop, which explicitly focuses on queer education, we frequently find ourselves engaged in discussions of principle that ultimately touch upon the very democratic understanding of how we live together.

Challenging workshops: when one’s world view leaves little room for other perspectives

We don’t have much new to tell some classes: the pupils already have a great deal of knowledge of their own and have no problem linking the concept of „solidarity“ with that of „being an ally“. Looking out for one another and showing moral courage are part of everyday life, or are at least positive concepts with which they want to identify. Diverse opinions and ways of life may not inspire activism in everyone here, but they often spark curiosity or a fundamental sense of acceptance.

On the other hand, there are classes where we encounter a difficult underlying atmosphere. Attitudes there range from „That’s got nothing to do with me, so I don’t care about these people (and their experiences of exclusion)“ to openly queer-hostile statements. Empathy and solidarity with queer people are often rejected by a chorus of voices. The importance of solidarity with people who are „different“ from oneself has to be explained, and even then it doesn’t always seem to get through.
„Why can’t everyone just be normal?“ asked one pupil, exasperated, at the end of a workshop – and by „normal“ she meant „heterosexual“. That doesn’t exactly give you the impression that you’ve achieved much.

From pessimism to serenity: don’t let anything hold you back

I still remember clearly how, after a series of challenging workshops, we sat together at a loss; frustrated, shaken and increasingly pessimistic about the success of our work. During that time, I had to rethink and redefine a great deal so as not to write off the workshops and our work as a failed project. What does „success“ mean to us, and what constitutes a „successful workshop“? Should a sense of success always come when we receive as much approval as possible, or isn’t it actually much more successful when we are given the opportunity to
To be able to speak to children who, whilst holding strong views about „these queer people“, have probably never actually met a self-assured, openly queer person?

Ultimately, our job is not to dissuade people from their views. Young people in particular often have very strong opinions, but I put this down to their stage of development and lack of experience. When I was a teenager, I also thought I understood the world; indeed, looking back, I’d even say I was a very conservative teenager. This perspective helps me not to take hostility and rejection in the workshops too seriously. These experiences should not shake my „faith in young people“. On the contrary, since my own shift in perspective, I have been asking myself this question with even greater urgency: what are suitable, better methods for fostering empathy and filling terms and labels with human stories? What methods can we use to convey a message to the pupils without providing a platform for the regurgitation of statements fresh from the Manosphere and the like?

How can I sow a single seed – „queer people are people just like you and me“ – rather than planting an entire rainforest straight away, in the hope that this thought will linger somewhere in the back of people’s minds and, every now and then, cast doubt on their rigid worldview, like a tiny, unsettling spark?

New approaches: moving away from desk-based work towards queer stories.

When I joined the workshop team, we were mainly using two methods. Firstly, the „Queer Memory“ approach, which explains terms relating to gender identity, sexual and romantic orientation, and relationship models, whilst also addressing concepts such as „heteronormativity“ and „being an ally“. This was followed by group work involving fictional biographies. The school groups were asked to create a poster addressing questions such as „What difficulties does XY face?“ and ‘What fears or worries might XY have?’.

I increasingly took a dislike to the way the biography was written. It reduced being queer too much to the role of a victim. It focused on difficulties, problems and injustices, and I wondered what sort of impression young queer people were getting of „queer life“. In our group, at any rate, it suggested a life full of difficulties and fears. I didn’t like that, as I knew first-hand how much joy, self-love and a sense of community can be associated with a queer identity. So the biographical exercise was replaced by the Ally Method. We’d found the Ally Method on the topic of solidarity in the Queere Bildung methods pool. We adapted it into a group activity in which the pupils considered why it’s important to be an ally and what that might look like in practice. The answers are compiled on the ‘Ally’ poster, which they take back to their classroom at the end.

What both methods – the Biography Method and the Ally Method – had in common was that the pupils were engaged in group work using worksheets. In some classes, this „school-like“ approach worked, but in many it did not. A modern method was needed that combined the empathy-based approach of the biography method with the solidarity-based approach of the ally method, whilst still managing to hold the pupils’ attention.

The interview method

The idea for the interview method was born. I envisaged interviews in which a wide variety of queer people would talk about their experiences, come across as approachable, and, in particular, give queer pupils the courage they need for the future. I drafted the project description and faced the big question: which stories should feature on our screen? As I mostly work on my projects alone, I had to set myself a limit from the outset: a maximum of ten interviews and a maximum of five minutes per interview in the final cut. It was also important to me to expose pupils to stories that reflect queer realities in all their facets and complexities, whilst also offering a hopeful, optimistic outlook. I selected the interviewees from my own circle of acquaintances or approached small organisations to collaborate.

As of July 2026, I have seven articles featuring people from the trans, inter, queer Muslim, Christian-queer, Vietnamese, Colombian, bisexual, gay, genderqueer and non-binary communities, as well as one article by a queer person who experiences disability in society. I am currently keeping two further articles open, or rather, I am still looking for interviewees regarding an aromantic/asexual perspective and a queer BPoC. An interview with two older lesbians is in the pipeline. The articles are based on semi-structured interviews. The participants were given a sheet with guiding questions, from which they could choose questions themselves. The interviews were largely recorded freely by the interviewees, and then organised by me into a uniform structure during the final edit: introduction, what are the challenges of being queer, what are some positive experiences
I’ve done this: a wish for society / for the pupils / for the future.

Insights into queer perspectives: L. and S.

This section aims to provide a brief insight into the perspectives of L. and S., both of whom were interviewed. L. is a genderqueer, bisexual person who experiences disability in society. S. is a gay vicar. Both provide examples of a theme that runs through many of the interviews: they combine identities that society often portrays as incompatible, or does not portray at all – and thus fails to present as a possibility. As L. explains: „I did know people who are gay … but I never asked myself the question, ‘Hmm, maybe I’m attracted to the same sex too.’.

“It wasn’t until people on social media made me realise, „Hmm, I actually quite like that,“ that I realised I’m bi.„ She continues: “I certainly very rarely see representation of people who have a disability and are also, for example, gay or trans. It feels like there are only two options: either someone has a disability or they’re part of the LGBTQ community. And I very rarely see someone who is both.” S. also says: “I’m quite open about it, but it always leaves people looking a bit puzzled. I do notice there’s a certain scepticism – how can you work for the Church and be queer, be gay… Can you even be openly queer at all?”

It is precisely at these crossroads, however, that human resilience and the strength to overcome boundaries are revealed – to challenge social assumptions in order to find one’s own new paths and live one’s own truth. Contradictions become a unifying element, and perhaps it is precisely this synthesis that makes the interviews so multi-layered and thought-provoking. Vikar S. says: „I believe that where we are all actually similar as human beings is in our desire for a sense of belonging, for community, and for a safe environment.“

In an ideal world, the Church can offer this – despite serious failings in the past: „I believe the Church can, at least to some extent, fill a gap … to provide a safe haven for people. And to show them that they are loved, that they matter, that they have a place and do not have to disappear into invisibility.“ L. points out that „diversity doesn’t just mean sexuality and gender identity“ – people with disabilities are part of it too. For example, July is Disability Pride Month – this could do with a bit more visibility, both in society at large and within other queer communities.

Integration into a methodological framework

The concept for integrating the interviews into a „proper“ methodology was developed by the team. By the end of the method, the pupils should have understood that these are not just terms; there are real, complex people behind them who are more than a label, more than a stereotype – they are multidimensional people just like myself, and their struggle for a non-violent, dignified existence concerns me too. Based on this, four key questions were formulated for the subsequent discussion session:

1.) Have you ever felt „different“?
„Feeling different“ can affect anyone, and this reflection on one’s own life – the question „In what context have I felt this way?“ – is intended to create the inner space to build, through one’s own personal and biographical context, an understanding of and empathy for the feeling of „being different“ experienced by queer people.

2.) What did you find interesting in the interviews?
This is deliberately neutral wording, designed to give pupils the opportunity to ask themselves: did that trigger something in me? What might it trigger in me? Joy, unease, confusion – and what might that say about me? These questions do not need to be discussed in front of the whole group. However, they are intended to provide food for thought regarding the assumptions one might hold and the feelings associated with queer issues and queer people. Small moments of unease can help to gradually break down internalised ideologies.

3.) Imagine your best friend is being excluded. How can you support them? The question then follows: Would you do the same for someone else? How can we generally stand up for one another? Then the ‘Ally’ poster comes into play again, on which ideas can be jotted down.

4.) Why is it important to be an ally? This question now explicitly brings us back to the concept of „being an ally“. Unlike with the ‘Ally Method’, however, the pupils can work with the perspectives they have experienced and build on what they have learnt from the interviews
has. This question will probably best reveal the extent to which we have been able to foster empathy and solidarity in the pupils through this method.

Conclusion: Reflection and experimentation

The seven interviews are moving, relatable and very human. I’m really looking forward to seeing how the pupils respond to them, and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank
To all the interviewees for their wonderful contributions. Nevertheless, I must also critically examine my own approach – for example, how do I deal with my position as the one who decides whose story is (or isn’t) told? A selection must be made, but there is always a critical element to the process. Ultimately, however, I would also like to pay tribute to my own work and that of the whole
Teams, for having developed a new and exciting approach to our queer education.
Now it’s time to give it a go and see if it stands the test of reality!

The commercialised gay sauna is an invention of the post-war sexual revolution, as well as an integral – albeit not uncontroversial – part of and symbol of modern gay culture. It is regarded not only as a place where physical intimacy is shared, but also where individual and collective queer identities have been – and continue to be – formed. Historical evidence shows, however, that saunas and baths fulfilled similar functions in many earlier eras, and that this tradition dates back to antiquity.

Roman baths as the precursors to the gay sauna

In ancient Rome, public baths – also known as thermae – were not only places for personal hygiene, but above all important centres of social life. People would meet there to discuss the latest taxes, politics and the empire’s military campaigns whilst bathing. The thermae were highly diverse, not only in terms of their architecture and the facilities available within them – such as pools of cold and warm water, dry and steam baths, and relaxation rooms – but also in terms of their clientele. There were baths for patricians and plebeians (the upper class and everyone else), separate baths for women and slaves, and Rome’s wealthiest citizens often owned their own private baths, which were impressive for their splendour.

The classical scholar Asa Eger wrote about Roman baths as queer spaces. In the surviving historical accounts and literary works, he found evidence that sexual advances between men took place in these venues. For instance, in Titus Petronius’s *Satyricon*, one of the characters, Eumolp, seduces his friend’s son in a bathhouse in Pergamon. In his treatise *On the Happy Life*, Seneca the Younger, in turn, praises the hottest and darkest rooms of the baths, where one could seek the company of other men. It is also striking that some baths decorated their rooms with suggestive, erotic or even pornographic frescoes. They were also frequently built in the immediate vicinity of brothels. One example of this is the suburban baths in Pompeii.

Roman sexuality: different from our modern categories

It is worth noting that the Romans had a completely different attitude to sex and sexuality from the one we have today. For example, no distinction was made between „heterosexual“ and „homosexual“ sex. Of paramount importance was the position one occupied within the social hierarchy of the Roman state. This, in turn, determined which forms of sex were acceptable and which were not. Adult Roman citizens enjoyed full rights, including sexual rights; provided they took the penetrating role during sexual intercourse, they were permitted to have sex not only with women but also with a younger man or even a boy, with a foreigner, a sex worker or a slave.

Eger describes the Roman baths as „queer“ spaces, not only because they were a place for sex between men, but also because it was possible there to subvert traditional gender roles as well as social norms and hierarchies. In a society where clothing and physical appearance (e.g. beard growth) provided clues as to a man’s age, social status and role in sexual intercourse, nudity placed all bathers on an equal footing and enabled potentially intimate encounters that would have been frowned upon or forbidden outside the baths.

Ottoman Hammams and European Fantasies

The Ottoman Empire was one of the largest in history and is the predecessor of modern-day Turkey. The Ottomans developed their own form of bathhouse, known as hammams. In addition to their hygienic and social significance, they also served an important religious function, as they were used as places for ritual ablutions. Architect Burkay Pasin examined them as queer spaces in his doctoral thesis.

The researcher points out that, in the European imagination and culture – which was shaped by Orientalist fantasies, myths and oversimplifications – the hammam functioned for centuries as a highly sexualised space. A recurring motif can already be observed in 16th-century European travel literature and, above all, in 19th-century French painting: naked figures, not infrequently also white (i.e. European) women relaxing together in the hammam. The mere fact that a man would not have been allowed into the women’s hammam proves that this is nothing more than a fantasy.

Hammams as places where men meet

However, even the Ottomans themselves often held on to the notion of the hammam as a place for casual sex, although this mainly involved encounters between men. Pasina refers to classic studies on Ottoman hammams in which occasional homosexual practices are mentioned. These are said, however, to have been confined to baths frequented by people from the lower social classes. The hammams in the city of Bursa, in particular, are said to have had a bad reputation.

Homosexual behaviour was associated primarily with the staff and masseurs at the hammam, the so-called tellak, were associated with this. They were often portrayed as young, delicate and effeminate men. Some of them earned a little extra money by offering sexual services. This phenomenon was already described in 1686 in the book with the telling title Dellakname-i Dilküşa („The Heart-rending Book of the Masseurs“). Allusions to sex between men recur frequently in classical Ottoman literature. In the 16th century, there was even a distinct genre of poetry intended to extol the beauty of male bodies whilst bathing (hammamiye).

The emergence of modern cruising culture

In modern times, rapid population growth and the unchecked influx of people from the countryside into the cities, combined with widespread poverty, posed a challenge for local authorities. Only a few particularly wealthy individuals could afford the luxury of their own bathroom, whilst the majority of the population used the public bathhouses that were being built on a massive scale at the time, most of which were accessible free of charge or for a small fee.

In the 19th century, urbanisation fundamentally transformed life in the cities. Traditional rural communities declined in importance, anonymity increased in the rapidly growing cities, and religious and moral standards became more relaxed. This created new opportunities for anonymous, casual sex in public places – a practice that came to be known as „cruising“ amongst men.

New York, Paris and the regulation of public baths

George Chauncey described this phenomenon in his book Gay New York This is vividly illustrated by the example of New York. At the end of the 19th century, the city had a disproportionately large number of single men due to the influx of cheap, international labour and overpopulation. As they were forced to share a flat or even a room with strangers, they began to satisfy their sexual needs in public places – often with other men.

The best evidence of the popularity of public baths as venues for sex between men is provided by reports of police raids on these establishments. For example, in 1876 the police raided the Parisian bathhouse Gym Baths which was notorious for the debauchery taking place there, and arrested six men and youths aged between 14 and 22. They were charged with indecency, whilst the manager and two employees of the baths were charged with „promoting pederasty”. A similar raid took place in New York in 1903, when the police stormed the Ariston Hotel Baths on a Saturday evening in February. At the time, 78 men were present; 34 of them were arrested and at least 16 were charged with „sodomy“.

Scandals in Vienna, Munich and Budapest

Such scandals also occurred in German-speaking countries. The setting for one of them was the Vienna Central-Bad (now known as the „Kaiserbründl“), which still exists today; a regular visitor there was the younger brother of Emperor Franz Joseph, Archduke Ludwig Viktor, was a regular visitor; in 1904, he was slapped in the face whilst attempting to make advances towards a man.

Another scandal took place in February 1909 at the Maximilians-Hofbad in Munich. According to reports, rumours had been circulating for years „here and there in Munich“ that things at the establishment were „not entirely above board, and that the male social elite, in particular, frequented the place for certain reasons“. On the third floor of the baths, which remained off-limits to uninitiated guests, there are said to have been veritable orgies in which, amongst others, high-ranking officers and members of princely houses took part. The complaint was lodged by a newly hired employee, but the owner, Max Reininger, managed to cover up the scandal and have the court rule that he was supposedly unaware of the events.

The trial could not go beyond the finding „that, whilst indecent touching and acts had indeed taken place at the Hofbad between the bath attendants and some bathers, these were not punishable offences“. The whole matter came to nothing. Visitors to the Lukasbad public steam bath in Budapest were less fortunate: at least ten of them were sentenced in January 1910 to fifteen days„ imprisonment each “for offences against public decency”.

In the early 1930s, however, a whole host of self-righteous moralists warned that fornication was rife in bathhouses. Franz Scott, for instance, raised the alarm that two women would often rent a separate room with a bath in order to use their shared bath as an opportunity for intimate contact. Heinz Dalberg also pointed out that prostitution took place in many bathhouses and that, allegedly, there was nothing „one could not have – trained female and male staff are available for every kind of perversion“.

The modern gay sauna

Although gay saunas also existed in the decades that followed, they experienced their real boom in the 1960s and 1970s, at the height of the sexual revolution and the gay and lesbian emancipation movement. In the West, their operation was generally associated with greater freedom, though not everywhere. For example, in 1981 in Toronto, there was a series of coordinated raids on four gay saunas, which were operating under the cover name Operation Soap („Operation Soap“) and resulted in the arrest of 300 men. This does not, however, mean that there were no such places in the Eastern Bloc, even if they functioned only unofficially as meeting places. One example of this is the municipal baths on Teatralny Square in Wrocław (Breslau), which feature in Michał Witkowski’s semi-autobiographical novel Lubiewo have been immortalised as a queer place.

Nevertheless, the culture of gay saunas – and, by extension, the entire queer culture – suffered a severe blow in the 1980s with the outbreak of the HIV/AIDS pandemic. Ultimately, gay saunas in particular were demonised as „hotspots“, leading to the closure of many of these venues and the withdrawal of some of the clientele from the gay scene. The moral panic associated with the pandemic persisted for a long time, well into the late 1990s, and in some places even longer.

For this reason, many saunas are now heavily involved in prevention and awareness-raising work. Leaflets, information boards, free condoms and lubricants, and in some cases even psychological support, are now standard features in saunas. There is no shortage of challenges: Alongside old and new (MPox) STIs and dealing with the use of illegal substances in the context of chemsex, the experiences of discrimination faced by many queer people are a very pressing topic for discussion. Above all, racism and unrealistic, harmful body ideals sometimes prevent the gay sauna from becoming the Safer Space will be what she promises to be.

Bibliography:

Chauncey, George. Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Making of the Gay Male World, 1890–1940. New York City: Basic Books, 1994.

Dalberg, Heinz. Behind Closed Doors: A Factual Report. Leipzig: Lipsia-Verlag, 1932.

Eger, Asa. “Age and Male Sexuality: ‘Queer Space’ in the Roman Bathhouse?”. In Age and Ageing in the Roman Empire, *Journal of Roman Archaeology*, 2007.

Halperin, David. One Hundred Years of Homosexuality, and Other Essays on Greek Love. New York City: Routledge, 1990.

Higgs, David. Queer Sites: Gay Urban Histories since 1600. London: Routledge, 1999.

„Materials“, WhK Quarterly Reports I, Issue 3, April 1910.

Neuhold, Helmut. The Other Habsburg: Homoeroticism in the Austrian Imperial Family. Marburg: Tectum, 2008.

Pasin, Burkay. A Critical Reading of the Ottoman-Turkish Hamam as a Queered Space, PhD thesis, Middle East Technical University, 2014.

Scott, Franz. The Lesbian Woman: An Exploration of Counter-Sexual Female Eroticism. Berlin: Pergamon-Verlag, 1933.

Setterington, Ken. Righting Canada’s Wrongs: The LGBT Purge and the Fight for Equal Rights in Canada. Toronto: Lorimer, 2022.

Witkowski, Michał. Lubiewo. Kraków: Ha!art, 2005.

I – Radical Faeries: Chaos and Negotiation

We sit in a circle under a tree. Whoever has the talisman speaks their mind. Everyone else listens – with an open heart.

The Heart Circle is a central element in community-building within the Radical Faeries. Since the late 1970s, this community has been seeking alternative ways of living to homonormative realities. Faeries meet, usually in the countryside, to form a community for one or two weeks.

In many conversations this week, people have been talking about the “community”. But what exactly does this word mean when, in the Heart Circle, some of us have shared that we don’t really feel we belong at this gathering?

I don’t think my own sense of belonging depends on this particular group – because this is the first time I’ve come to a gathering with a partner.

I am startled out of my thoughts – loud recorded music, dancing faeries. I try to find a spot on the sprawling grounds where the music doesn’t reach. I’m annoyed – during the Morning Circle, where organisational matters were discussed, there was no mention of music that might be found disruptive.

What keeps drawing me back to the Radical Faeries is the desire to approach things differently from how we do in our everyday lives. That makes me all the more indignant at this unilateral action. Personal freedom ends where the freedom of others is curtailed.

At the next Morning Circle, I’ll bring up the issue of music, and through discussion we’ll work together to find a solution that suits everyone. Community requires negotiation, not mere assertions.

II – Asocial Media: Grindr as a Rejection Machine

As I start thinking about community, I’m fed up with Grindr yet again. The app describes itself as “the world’s largest social networking app for LGBTQ people”.

I’m on the app to find sex, intimacy and validation. But the online search for love – Mr Right and Mr Right Now – can sometimes be quite difficult: we’re constantly confronted with an algorithm that increasingly favours a very specific body type.

There are quite a few perfectly toned torsos to be seen in my neighbourhood – but on closer inspection, they’re actually 4 kilometres away. Dozens of chat messages go unanswered, and even when some sort of conversation does start, it soon gets bogged down in “What’s up?” and “What are you into?” and swapping dick pics.

And so we sit scattered in front of our screens, remaining disconnected. Social media isn’t social: Grindr is becoming a machine for rejection and isolation.

It’s a familiar story: a young queer person leaves their home village for the big city. The app is their first port of call for finding like-minded people. But the attractive young man who opens the door also opens up a world of hedonism and euphoria.

After the euphoria came the crash, the loneliness, the question: Am I good enough? Do I even belong here? Am I loved for who I am, not just for what I pretend to be?

On Grindr, I start to doubt not only my attractiveness, but also my very humanity. So I delete my profile and the app yet again, resolving to make connections and find sex in real life.

III – Chemsex: A Sense of Belonging in the Risk Community

When I first started going out on the gay scene in the mid-1990s, the motto was: the more masculine, the more attractive. Under no circumstances was I allowed to come across as effeminate. I began to control my voice, my movements and my gait.

Before long, I was hanging out with party people. Ecstasy helped me overcome my shyness and flirt with men. Over time, the party scene evolved into “Party and Play”. What connected me to others were drugs and extreme sex: at that time, bareback sex was still considered dangerous, so we turned it into a fetish. Perhaps it was this ‘risk community’ that made me feel like I really belonged for the first time.

We crossed boundaries to set ourselves apart from those who marginalised us. We flouted the rules because those who followed them had made them up without asking us. We were a close-knit community of wounded souls who, little by little, began to inflict physical harm on one another as well. We fell ill because we were labelled as ill.

I was diagnosed with HIV a few months after I’d discovered crystal meth, which allowed me to get closer to other men and feel more at ease with them than ever before. That “blending together” on Tina was a very real antidote to years of loneliness and feeling like an outsider.

Although I was part of certain circles of friends, I always felt somewhat out of place in this “community” of gay men who were primarily concerned with maintaining a good reputation and looking even better.

Later, I learnt that it was probably my illness, my addiction, that sought to cut me off from the world and isolate me, so that I would always have a reason to carry on using.

IV – AIDS: Collective trauma as a unifying force

The stories I hear and read about the AIDS crisis suggest that a community is at its strongest when there is a common enemy. All of a sudden, lovers, friends and acquaintances were dying. All of a sudden, the community found itself facing a two-headed monster: the invisible virus and society’s failure to provide assistance.

Lesbians, gay men and queer people stood together in order to survive. ACT UP, for example, aimed to use targeted actions to bring the issue of AIDS to the public’s attention and to put pressure on politicians who were failing to act. ACT UP was founded at the “Lesbian & Gay Community Services Centre” in New York.

In the late 1990s and early 2000s, with the introduction of the first HIV drugs, and later TasP [JMDA1] and PrEP, I experienced a very hedonistic gay scene – parties and a cult of the body as a counterpoint to, and a defensive reaction against, the horror of the preceding years and the images of emaciated, dying bodies. We celebrated because we had survived the virus, perhaps in much the same way as our predecessors celebrated the Gay Liberation movement in the 1970s.

The legacy of the AIDS crisis may run deeper than we realise. To this day, this hedonism remains deeply ingrained in parts of the scene – as a search for closeness, a breaking down of boundaries, physicality, and sometimes also numbness. For some of us, the party never ends. For some of us, it ends when illness, loss or exclusion strike once again.

I wonder whether we can create a community in which no one is shamed for being ill, using substances, needing help or not fitting the idealised image of the desirable body. A community that doesn’t need a common enemy, but is characterised by care and solidarity – and a willingness not to let one another down, even when things get complicated.

V – Queer Community: Inclusion is exclusion

Gay and lesbian, LesBiSchwul, LGBT, queer: the community to which I belong has been known by many names. Our lowest common denominator: the experience of being different as a fundamental experience, of being cast out, of coming out.

But that is often where the similarities end. How different can people be whilst still seeing themselves as part of a cohesive community? Can people like us, who have learnt from childhood to be suspicious of others simply to survive, even form loving relationships with one another?

It seems almost impossible for the LGBTQ+ community to unite across the boundaries defined by these letters. We internalise stereotypes and hold them against one another. The muscular physique, the effeminate hand gesture, the lesbian’s short haircut: we draw conclusions about a person’s character and background – and thus about their identity – based on their outward appearance.

The queer community – like any other community – operates with an ‘inside’ and an ‘outside’. But who is included, and who is excluded? Who includes others, and who excludes them? Who is privileged, and who could use these privileges productively not only for themselves but also for others?

Perhaps the queer community does not even exist; perhaps it is merely a phantom. The political aims and needs of the individual sub-communities are so diverse that we find it difficult to formulate clear demands for society as a whole.

A good place to start might be to listen more closely to people who look different or are different from us. A good place to start might be to look for what we have in common rather than our differences.

VI – 12-Step Programmes: Community through Listening

Once again I’m sitting in a circle, once again I’m listening to other people and their experiences – this time at a meeting of the Crystal Meth Anonymous self-help group. For nearly ten years now, I’ve been forming what are probably my deepest friendships here. A friend who has only recently joined the community explains that he has moved house many times in his life, always on his own. When he last moved, acquaintances from CMA stepped in to help him at short notice.

In CMA and other 12-step programmes, we share our experience, strength and hope with one another. By telling each other how we recovered from addiction and are finding our way in life, and by listening to one another unconditionally time and again at meetings, genuine empathy develops.

Perhaps there are clues here as to how other communities might function. Speaking at meetings is not about convincing others, but about expressing one’s own feelings. To accept another person, I do not have to understand them, but I should at least listen to them when they show their vulnerability.

Another factor is consistency: even today, I still attend meetings two or three times a week, where I’ve been meeting the same people time and again for years. By now, I know their stories and there is a deep sense of trust between us.

Of course, the communities of CMA, NA (Narcotics Anonymous) and AA are not without their conflicts either. But I find that, for the most part at least, they are free from hasty judgements. Nobody is excluded here, because this is about survival. The only requirement for membership is the desire to stop drinking or using drugs.

VII – Cruising: Temporary Utopias

I’ve been in a relationship for three years. It’s a privilege, a sense of having found my place, of having solid ground beneath my feet. But my boyfriend lives in another country, and we’re in a polyamorous relationship. So I want to continue forming relationships with others. The search for intimacy and a sense of belonging is a deeply human trait.

Lately, I’ve increasingly felt that I’m less desirable because of my age. More and more young people have better and better bodies, better and better sex, and better and better lives. That’s how it feels when I look at the world – especially the digital world.

Once again, I’m deleting my Grindr profile and heading off to the Grunewald for a bit of cruising. After finally having sex on my third lap of the woods, I’m lying naked in the sun, thinking about all the communities to which I – to a greater or lesser extent – belong or have belonged.

It’s becoming clear to me that the more aware I am of the space I’m in at any given moment and what its rules are, the better I can navigate it.

Among the Faeries and in queer spaces, I find emotional and political engagement with myself and others. In the spaces of the 12-step programmes, I find friendship and recovery. What’s more, my age and experience work to my advantage here. In Grunewald, I find serenity, sex and fun. Some of these communities are more enduring, others more fleeting. But that doesn’t make them any less real.

Community may be temporary – but it requires, at the very least, a willingness to negotiate, to listen, to fail, to allow for pain and joy – and to start again.

 „Wichsen“, „jerking off“, „masturbating“, „onanising“, „solo sex“ – there are many terms for self-pleasure.  What’s interesting is that some words, such as „Wichser“ (or „wanker“ in English), have a distinctly negative connotation – they’re even swear words – which highlights the fact that masturbation has had a very ambivalent reputation and was even considered taboo for centuries.  That only changed with the sexual revolution of the „68 movement.  In a film from the 1970s, the American comedian Woody Allen once joked that “Masturbation is sex with someone I love”. From then on, masturbation was no longer quite so heavily stigmatised.

Masturbation: between old taboos and new myths

It is worth taking a look back at history, for even in ancient Rome, „laying one’s hand upon oneself“ – which, incidentally, is what the Latin root of the word means – was considered a major taboo. Men who masturbated, in particular, were accused of lacking masculinity and having a „feminine nature“, and all manner of illnesses were also attributed to masturbation. Among the ancient Greeks and Egyptians, however, the view was much more positive: In ancient Egypt, solo sex was even associated with fertility, good harvests, sufficient water in the Nile and many other positive things. By the 19th century, however, masturbation had once again come to be viewed negatively, and was often even banned. Religion played a major, though not the only, role in this. 

All of this, even though it was a long time ago, still has an impact, says sex educator David Schulz, who works at „BikoBerlin“, an independent organisation that provides further training for educational professionals in the field of sex education. There are still taboos and prejudices.  „It’s not so much the classic myths that used to be around, such as: “Masturbation makes you go blind’ or ‘you’ll grow hair on your hands’ or things like that. But the link to nutrient loss is definitely very widespread. In other words, the idea that people shouldn’t masturbate because you lose a lot of nutrients. This is particularly common in the gym scene – the idea that there’s a kind of energy loss and that you no longer seem as masculine, that you lose your masculinity.”

How old feelings of guilt live on in new movements

But such prejudices are not confined to the „Manosphere“ – that extremely cis-male-dominated scene; the so-called „NoFap“ movement, which emerged around 2011 in online communities, also promotes abstinence from masturbation as a means of achieving increased energy, focus, masculinity and social success. The movement combines pseudoscientific arguments with traditional ideals of masculinity and a vague critique of capitalism directed at the porn industry. However, there are no clinical studies proving the negative effects of normal masturbation or the positive effects of abstinence – yet this does not seem to be dampening the popularity of these sometimes far-fetched theories.

Religiously influenced feelings of guilt certainly play a role, even today, whether amongst Christians, Muslims or other believers. David Schulz says: „There is definitely a link between the themes of shame and guilt surrounding solo sex and religion. But I wouldn’t go so far as to generalise that across all religions – that it’s a sin, or that sex should only be for God, for reproduction, or within heterosexual cis contexts. There’s also an undertone of anti-queer sentiment, or the idea that any form of sexuality is frowned upon. However, this only applies within the conservative circles of these religions. It’s certainly not the case for all Christians or all Muslims; rather, it’s prevalent in the conservative branches, and they tend to be particularly vocal.“

Masturbation: between moral norms and everyday reality

Just how deeply rooted masturbation is in society was already evident in the United States in the late 1940s – at that time still a deeply conservative country. The reports by the sexologist Alfred Kinsey came as a shock to American society. Kinsey demonstrated that masturbation was so widespread among men and women that it spanned all social classes, professions and levels of education. There was such a gulf between moral norms and lived reality that it could no longer be ignored on empirical grounds.  Yet all too often, that is precisely what happened – in keeping with the mindset that ‘what cannot be, must not be’. Just as with the issue of homosexuality, masturbation was hushed up for many years.  

The emergence of the internet and the widespread availability of pornography since the late 1990s brought a new dimension to the debates. What had previously been a private form of behaviour that was difficult to measure was now linked to a specific form of media consumption – pornography, which had not been illegal since the late 1960s, fostered a greater openness.   Today, in the age of social media, some posts are now warning against young people and children consuming pornography too early and too intensively, and possibly masturbating incessantly.  

David Schulz from „BikoBerlin“ believes, however, that it is not the consumption of pornography in itself that is the problem, but rather the lack of analysis of what is being watched: „But this is something that concerns us all, even those who neither consume nor produce pornography. And when it comes specifically to young people, our approach is always to give them the opportunity to make sense of what they’ve seen. And we advocate answering the questions that then arise. That’s the important thing here, because people aren’t automatically traumatised just because they’ve watched a porn film once. What’s really harmful is silence.“

Masturbation, fantasies and one’s own sexuality

Sex educator Schulz says that there are indeed differences between masturbation among heterosexual men, homosexual men and women, for example in terms of frequency, social acceptance or its significance for the individual. In surveys, men tend to be more open about their masturbation habits and to do so in greater numbers, whilst women are more cautious. For trans people, the key factor is the stage of their transition they are at. Dissatisfaction with their genitals leads some trans people to refrain from masturbation – at least temporarily, according to some sex researchers. However, the evidence on this point is still rather limited.    

It’s worth noting that masturbation is always, to some extent, an exploration of one’s own fantasies. In some strictly regulated relationships, it can even lead to scenes of jealousy when one partner masturbates – perhaps even whilst watching porn, explains sex educator David Schulz.  Another issue is certainly that young adults sometimes prefer to go it alone, indulging in their sexual fantasies whilst masturbating – as this is the best way to imagine them without having to cater to their partner’s possible desires.  „The pandemic has set things back considerably in terms of social and sexual behaviour,“ says Schulz.

Why masturbation has more to do with freedom than with guilt

On closer inspection, the history of masturbation is also a history of fear. Fear of the uncontrollable body, of the individual’s autonomy, of the imagination as a subversive force, of loss – of energy, of semen, of God’s grace, of social control. Throughout history, society has projected its deepest fears onto this private act.   What changed was not the act itself. It remained what it had always been: a fundamental experience of the human body, deeply rooted in our nature. What changed was the significance that a society attributed to this act – and, with it, the power it could wield over those who performed it.

The idea of masturbation as a vice, an illness, an addiction or a sin has always been a construct of guilt – and guilt is one of the most effective instruments of social control known to any culture.  The fact that medicine and psychology have long since declared this guilt to be unfounded represents a significant step forward for civilisation. The fact that shame, taboos and misinformation nevertheless persist worldwide, including in Western societies, shows just how deeply ingrained cultural influences are – and how slowly even those beliefs change for which science has long since found clear answers.

Yet the story of masturbation is not over yet. It continues to be written in schools, in therapy rooms, in online forums, in religious communities and in the quiet struggles that every person has with their own body. And, as sex educator Schulz points out – and this is also worth mentioning – there is, of course, always such a thing as „too much“ of anything, including masturbation. However, as long as it does not lead to physical or psychological harm, everyone should be free to do their own thing.  The history of taboos and prohibitions is far too long for people to restrict themselves today – that is the unanimous view of many sex researchers.

„All queer, all loud! Everyone here who dares!“ - As soon as you enter the Banane Autonomous Youth Centre in Erfurt, there is a certain energy in the air. It is one of those evenings that is more than just a concert. One that shows what is possible when people come together to strengthen each other. One that is loud and at the same time deeply solidary.

Rap as attitude and solidarity

An anti-fascist rap evening took place here on 6 December 2025. Organised as a benefit concert for the Queer Centre Erfurt, it quickly became clear that it wasn't just about rap music and shrill lyrics, but about visibility, cohesion and concrete support.

One song that sets the tone for the evening is „Coming Out Bernd“ by Thuringian artists TRAUMFRESSER and HAZEL. The song was originally released for Pride Month 2024, a politically charged year with state elections.

When it echoes through the room: „Dismantle heteronorms! Smash tradition! Backward-looking people will be amazed at how lovingly we're hitting the brown shit!’, then it's not just provocation. It is attitude. And it is supported by the audience.

Why support is so important

While the crowd gathers in front of the stage, it becomes clear in the background why this evening is necessary at all. The Queer Centre in Erfurt has existed since September 2021 and is funded by the Thuringian state budget. But this funding is anything but secure. Year after year, the centre has to tremble again: Will the money be granted again? Can the rent and staff still be paid? The first few months of the year in particular are characterised by uncertainty - a situation that saps energy and makes long-term prospects difficult.

This is precisely why a large number of acts from central Germany have joined forces. Whether it's DER NEBENWIDERSPRUCH from Halle, TRICKEL and TRAUMFRESSER from Weimar or SOLJANKA MC feat. CHAVVYNASTY and HAZEL from Jena: they will all be on stage together that evening - without a fee or reimbursement of travel expenses. What unites them is the desire to support the Queer Centre. And this in a city where right-wing violence is at an alarming level and queer people in particular are repeatedly the target of attacks!

This attitude is also evident behind the scenes. The AJZ „Banane“ team works entirely on a voluntary basis. Admission is based on donations, and even proceeds from the bar and the merch stand end up in the common pot. It is an evening that is fuelled by voluntary commitment from start to finish.

Mobilisation, doubt and full response

The preparations were anything but a matter of course. „Posters were put up all over the city,“ says main organiser IZZY BÜRGERMEISTER-LIPPENSTIFT, himself part of TRAUMFRESSER. They also mobilised online, a share pic went viral on social networks, collected over 270 likes and was shared many times. For a comparatively small event, that is quite remarkable. Nevertheless, the uncertainty remains: Will enough people turn up? Will it be enough to really make a difference?

But the AJZ does not remain empty. On the contrary: around 70 to 80 visitors turn up throughout the evening. For a room that can hold around 100 people, that's a great response. The atmosphere is great. People are rapping, dancing and chanting along.

In the end, IZZY draws a clear conclusion: „For Erfurt and the size of the location, I am very satisfied.“ But as he himself emphasises, the real benchmark is a different one: the amount of money raised.

When solidarity becomes concrete

And here, too, the evening lives up to its claim. A total of 856 euros was raised. 481 euros of which came directly from the visitors„ donations. The AJZ “Banane" contributed a further 375 euros. This is a clear sign that solidarity is not just a word here.

„My expectations were definitely exceeded!“ says IZZY looking back. And indeed, this evening shows how much is possible when many small contributions come together. When people share their time, their art and their resources.

What remains is more than a number. It is the feeling of having been part of something. A community that refuses to be intimidated. A community that is loud when it needs to be - and loving when it matters.

That was probably the greatest strength of this evening: It showed that resistance is not just about protest, but also about caring and solidarity. That culture can create spaces in which people feel safer.

What remains of this evening

When the karaoke machine is switched on towards the end, the boundaries between stage and audience are finally blurred. It no longer matters who is performing and who is watching. Everyone is part of the whole.

And perhaps that is precisely why one sentence resonates for a long time:

All queer, loud and here, who dare.

John Sherbaz