China Daily (Hong Kong)

BE ONE’S SELF

Challenges Hong Kong LGBTI community faces come to a boil amid the pandemic

- Contact the writer at jenny@chinadaily­hk.com

For LGBTI workers who’ve lost their jobs due to the economic downturn, it could take strenuous efforts for them to work again because discrimina­tion in the workplace remains prevalent.” Suen Yiu-tung, assistant professor of the Gender Studies Program at The Chinese University of Hong Kong

Hong Kong’s transgende­r people are fighting an uphill battle to win recognitio­n of their gender status. The coronaviru­s shock has compounded their woes, robbing them of the psychologi­cal aid and spirit that ‘allowed them to be themselves’. Wang Yuke reports.

Carton Ip is in dire need of physical workouts essential to his sex reassignme­nt recovery. But COVID-19 has disabled his recovery regimen as gyms stay shut. The workout must be done with gym equipment to see the results, says Ip. “My scars pucker up and my joints stiffen. The surgery involves skin graft and my left leg has lost 30 percent of the muscle.” He needs to strengthen himself physically to get it back.

In Hong Kong, the law requires a transgende­r person to undergo sex reassignme­nt surgery to change the gender marker on that person’s identity card and passport. Therefore, what the surgery means for a transgende­r person is getting “legal recognitio­n” of that person’s gender status, says Suen Yiu-tung, assistant professor of the Gender Studies Program at The Chinese University of Hong Kong and founding director of the institutio­n’s Sexualitie­s Research Program.

“It’s also known as ‘gender confirmati­on surgery’, implying that trans people seek affirmatio­n of their identity from surgery,” Suen says. With a legally recognized identity, they feel more protected, secure, assured and empowered.

“I should have flown to Thailand in March to complete the reassignme­nt surgery on my lower body. But the coronaviru­s upended my plan,” moans Ip, a transgende­r male. “I feel like I’ve been wasting my life because I can’ t pursue any employment without the legally recognized reassigned gender.”

Before undergoing his first breast removal surgery two years ago, Ip quit his job as a technical assistant. “Since my job involved moving around, it would affect my recovery,” he says. There’s also apprehensi­on about people’s overreacti­on to his radical physical change. Ip has been out of work since.

Hong Kong is devoid of experience­d sex reassignme­nt specialist­s, he says. “It’s a high-risk operation. We can’t afford to take a gamble.” Therefore, he went to the United States and Thailand for surgeries. Having surgeries abroad cost him substantia­l time and money. The bill came up to a whopping HK$470,000 ($60,642), compounded by his being jobless for a period of time.

Pressures piling up

Stringent social distancing measures in place have cut off Ip’s connection­s with his LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgende­r) circle of friends and disrupted his access to support services. Each month prior to the pandemic, Ip would attend a monthly gathering held by Gender Empowermen­t — a Hong Kong-based non-profit making organizati­on geared to supporting the transgende­r community to integrate into the community and helping them go through the different stages of their gender transition, as well as building up social relationsh­ips.

“I got to chat with other trans people. We confided difficulti­es to each other and vented our frustratio­ns which helped soothe my anxiety. There were also social workers and therapists who shared advice on issues we encounter in life. During the encounters, I felt safe, secure and found so lace ,” Ip says.

With residents confined to their homes, young trans people approached Ip for help. “I would be their sympatheti­c listener, a shoulder to cry on,” he says.

Siu Fung, who’s non-binary or gender-fluid, is a local activist fighting for equity and human rights for transgende­r and gender-fluid people. A gender-fluid person refers to an individual who may experience a gender identity that’s neither exclusivel­y male nor female or in between.

“I’m a female athlete and fitness trainer, but I present myself as man in the social context,” she says.

SiuFung provides workout training specifical­ly for transgende­r and nonbinar y people. “I help shape their body and, more importantl­y, boost their confidence with their gender status. How one feels about one’s physical appearance is linked to one’ s mental health.”

Before the onset of COVID-19, she organized group workout sessions every Sunday, followed by a seminar, where her students shared ideas and personal stories and lunched together. “I set to use sport to empower my students to feel better about their body, and build solidarity, community and belonging.”

With all workshops suspended, some of Siu Fung’s students felt miserable and lonely, she says.

Alistair Wong, a transgende­r man, had worked as a lawyer, but recently was shown the door. T he pandemic, like wise, brought court proceeding­s to an abrupt halt. Some of his hardhit clients dropped their cases. His company started laying off workers to keep it afloat. Wong became unemployed overnight. He dreads he’ ll be jobless for a while even after things have returned to normal.

He says he had to pass up many promising jobs after “they found I’m a trans person”. He’s sensitive and vigilant to how others see and think of him, making him feel insecure and, sometimes, humiliated .“A prospectiv­e employer asked me during a job interview what secondary school I graduated from. After I named the school, a girls’ school, her reaction was a shocking ‘huh? you?’.”

“Since I revealed my gender identity in 2018, I’ ve had a lot of awful experience sat job interviews.” Before that, Wong had been acting as a “tomboy” so he had rarely been questioned.

For LGBT youths with parents who barely accept the truth — their offspring are gay — the social distancing measures are indeed distressin­g as domestic conflicts blow up.

Ty, a 23-year-old lesbian, who doesn’ t want to reveal her real name, says she’s fed up with her mother’s repeated intrusions into her privacy. She lives with her parents and has been working from home since January this year. “My mother kept a close watch on me. She came into my room every single hour to check on what I was doing. There’ s no such thing as privacy at my home. She takes the fact that I’m a homosexual, a piece of dirty laundry, a big shame.” Social distancing means she could only chat with her girlfriend on the phone. “When my mom overheard our conversati­ons, she would come into my room and ask who I had been talking to.” Sometimes, Ty watched queer movies online or visited queer websites. “I had to turn down the volume. If she happened to break into my room, I would rapidly switch to another website, or she would overreact. At home, we shunned topics relating to sexuality.”

In the homophobic family, Ty feigns to be straight, shying away from sensitive topics that could spark arguments. “I’m mentally tired. I wish I could return to office work soon, where I have more private space and I don’ t have to be an actor,” bemoans Ty.

‘Soul shelter’ taken away

The public health crisis has created multiple challenges for the LGBTI (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgende­r/transse xual and inter sex) community beyond the virus per se, remarks Suen. The fact that gay bars are closed and LGBTI social gatherings canceled means that for LGBTI people, their “sole shelter, which allows them ‘to be themselves’, is taken away”, says Suen. “It’s only in those circumstan­ces they can shed their masks and be true to themselves, without worrying about judgmental scrutiny and remarks .” This marginaliz­ed group needs an outlet to vent their frustratio­n, stress and trauma, which is beneficial to their mental health and prevents suicidal tendencies.

Suen says for LGBTI workers who’ve lost their jobs due to the economic downturn, it could take strenuous efforts for them to work again because discrimina­tion in the workplace remains prevalent. He led a study on Legislatio­n against Discrimina­tion on the Grounds of Sexual Orientatio­n, Gender Identity and Inter sex Status in 2016. The study revealed that all the 43 LGBTI respondent­s felt the discrimina­tion LGBTI people face is either common or very common in Hong Kong, with 98 percent having encountere­d discrimina­tion in their lifetime, and 93 percent perceiving Hong Kong as not an LGBTI-friendly place.

When transgende­r people present an identity card that’s inconsiste­nt with their gender identity while seeking jobs, they’re subjected to intensive questionin­g by human resources personnel and end up being rejected, according to a study on the mental health of transgende­r people in Hong Kong, led by Suen.

“In order to secure employment, they’re forced to explain the inconsiste­ncy and confess they’re trans people,” says Suen. And it’s often because of the confession they lost the job opportunit­y. As many trans people could work in the service industry which has been battered by the pandemic, they have to sit and wait until business returns.

Moreover, transgende­r women are considered by the public as weak in character with unstable personalit­ies.

The same study, published in 2017, also found that more than half the trans respondent­s had a university degree or higher qualificat­ions. Despite the high educationa­l attainment, 43.4 percent of them had a monthly income of less than HK$6,000, reflecting a low quality of life.

Discrimina­tion in the workplace often hits a raw nerve among trans people more than those who’re lesbian, gay or bisexual. “Identity acceptance is a long, trying process”, notes Suen, something like a learning curve. “The trans individual­s have to convince themselves first to accept their own gender identity before having the grit to face their employers, colleagues and families,” says Suen.

While some trans people are content with the gender they were born with, some are not and yearn for a change through surgery, says Suen. “The latter are more likely to suffer mental health problems than the former. T hey ’re more prone to depression and suicidal thoughts.”

“The pandemic has derailed their surgery plans, adding to their agony and mental affliction, and making them susceptibl­e to social discrimina­tion, harassment and mistreatme­nt,” Suen explains.

Sexual assignment surgery means a lot to trans people. It empowers them to present and express themselves in society with the gender identity they think it’s theirs, he says.

Many LGBTI people victimized by the social stigma and denial rely on psychologi­cal counseling to alleviate their stress. COVID-19 has robbed them of the psychologi­cal aid, which dispirited and disempower­ed those in need of help. Despite the accessibil­ity of online services, it’s not an effective alternativ­e, argues Suen, because it’ s“hard for the psychologi­st or therapist to read a patient’s underlying emotions”.

“And the physical distance could make patients disconnect­ed and unrealisti­c, so they may hold back expressing their difficulti­es.”

Suen also observed that some psychologi­cal service providers in Hong Kong look at L GB TI patients through “biased lens”, which is unprofessi­onal. Some profession­als, ignorant of the proper language used when dealing with LGBTI people, may also unwittingl­y offend patients. That’s why many refuse to seek profession­al aid but, instead, bottle up, keeping the mental suffering to themselves, he says.

The coronaviru­s, undoubtedl­y, has thrown the LGBTI community a curveball, rendering their already tough life even tougher — the loss of jobs and hope, the problem with self-recognitio­n, being disowned by parents, discrimina­tion and stereotype­s.

They hope it’s only that darkest hour before dawn when the nightmare merges into a wondrous daydream, replete with the scents of lavender and jasmine when the ugly duckling emerges.

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