Is There Hope for Trans People in BC?

There was a time when I believed that here, in my home of British Columbia, I could live my truth without fear. I held on to the illusion that the rising tide of hatred and anti-trans rhetoric spreading across the globe wouldn’t reach me. I thought the progressive values of my province and country would protect me, that I would be safe from the cruel and dehumanizing discourse unfolding in places like the United States, the United Kingdom and elsewhere.

But the past two weeks have shattered that belief. Reading through the news stories in The Tyee and LGBTQ Nation, and opinion pieces in the Washington Post and Medium, I feel crushed. The weight of this realization wears on me, and I pen this lament with profound sorrow.

I was heartbroken to learn about the Sept. 18 death of Kesaria Abramidze, a beloved trans model and influencer who was brutally stabbed to death in her home in the country of Georgia the day after lawmakers in her country passed draconian anti-LGBTQ2S+ laws. It was yet another grim addition to the worldwide tally maintained by a group affiliated with the Transgender Day of Remembrance that records the loss of one trans person per day.

And a reminder that these deaths are not isolated incidents. They are a direct consequence of the hatred anti-trans policy breeds.

Not included in this sombre tally are the deaths by suicide of countless souls of all ages who lost hope of ever living peacefully as their true selves. Since my transition, I have lost six trans friends this way. The youngest was 20 years old, and the oldest was my age.

I cannot help but feel these deaths as a personal blow because these lives, and the often violent ways in which they are taken, reflect the precariousness of my own existence as a trans woman in Vancouver, B.C., and that of countless trans people around the world. To be trans today means living with the constant threat of violence or the gradual erosion of our rights.

I’m watching as conservative forces continue their assault on trans rights in the United States. In Alabama, a ruling by the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals reinstated a cruel policy requiring transgender people to undergo gender reassignment surgery in order to change the gender marker on their driver’s licences.

This ruling is not just an affront to the trans people of Alabama; it is a harbinger of what could come for others, including here in Canada, if we are not vigilant.

The ruling dehumanizes trans people, reducing us to nothing more than our reproductive organs, and implies that we are less deserving of rights because of who we are. It is an attack not just on our legal rights but on our very existence.

I’m almost 74 years old and transitioned 16 years ago at the age of 58. For my generation who came of age in the 1970 and ’80s, and those before me, the stakes were once even more dire. We lived in a world where to speak our truth could mean losing everything — our freedom, our dignity, even our very lives.

To confess our inner struggles with gender was to risk being locked away in institutions, branded as mentally ill or criminalized simply for existing.

Silence was survival, and every day we remained hidden was another battle won against a world that sought to erase us.

But that world has not vanished, and its shadows still reach into the present, threatening to drag us back into that darkness.

An increasingly hostile political climate

The situation in Canada is growing more concerning by the day. Once seen as a bastion of LGBTQ2S+ rights, my country is now beginning to feel the ripple effects of the hateful politics that have taken root in the United States.

The rise of Pierre Poilievre and the federal Conservative party’s silence on trans issues is deafening. Poilievre’s refusal to engage with the reality of trans lives, his casual dog-whistling to bigots and his party’s flirtation with anti-trans rhetoric leave me deeply unsettled.

I fear that Poilievre’s government, should it come to power, will slowly erode the rights we have fought so hard to secure. I also worry how this dynamic will manifest itself in the B.C. provincial election, since John Rustad and his Conservative Party of BC seem to be cut from the same cloth.

But it is not just the silence from politicians that weighs on me — it is the increasing boldness of anti-trans protesters across this country. Recently, protests against sexual orientation and gender identity education erupted countrywide, their message steeped in fear-based misinformation.

These protests, though framed as “protecting children,” are thinly veiled attacks on LGBTQ2S+ individuals, particularly trans people.

They are fuelled by the same lies and misconceptions that have been weaponized against us time and time again: the fear that we are somehow dangerous, that our existence poses a threat to the well-being of others.

These protests spread panic and fear, convincing parents and communities that inclusive education programs like SOGI are harmful, when in reality they are designed to foster understanding, acceptance and respect for all students, regardless of their gender identity or sexual orientation.

It is disheartening to see how easily fear can take root in the minds of those who refuse to see the humanity in us.

These protests are not isolated incidents; they are part of a broader campaign to roll back our progress, erase us from public life and force us back into hiding.

‘Not the Canada I thought would protect me’

The broader Canadian political landscape has become infected with vitriol that once seemed so foreign to us. In Parliament, the chaos and hatred we’ve seen south of the border have begun to take hold. Just this week, MPs were harassed and threatened outside of Parliament, with shouts of “Hang the traitors” echoing in a scene reminiscent of the insurrection at the U.S. Capitol.

This is not the Canada I believed in, not the Canada I thought would protect me. I can’t help but feel a deep sense of betrayal.

In this moment, I think of younger trans people — the ones just coming out, the ones who are still figuring out who they are, the ones who face a world that feels increasingly hostile. I think of how much harder their path is becoming than mine ever was.

When I transitioned 16 years ago, it felt like the world was slowly moving in the right direction. Yes, there were obstacles, but there was also hope. Now, I fear that hope is dwindling. I worry for the young people who see these rulings, these protests, these policies and this hatred and wonder if they will ever be able to live their truth without fear of violence or repression.

There is a growing sense of hopelessness, and it’s hard to shake. The stories in the news this week are just the latest in a long line of attacks on trans people, a reminder that our existence is constantly being debated, legislated against and targeted.

Yet amid this despair, I cannot help but feel a spark of defiance. I have lived through too much and seen too much to give up now.

We must continue to fight, not just for ourselves but for the younger generations who will inherit this world. We must fight because to do otherwise is to allow the voices of hatred and ignorance to win. I am weary, yes, but I am not done. The road ahead may be difficult, and the forces against us may be strong, but we have faced worse before and will continue to survive.

In the end, this is a lament not just for the state of the world but for the loss of hope that once burned so brightly in me.

I lament for the world we thought we were building, for the future that seemed within our grasp.

But I also know that lament is not the same as surrender. As long as we live, as long as we fight, there is still hope. And that hope, though dim, is worth holding on to.