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Is Italy’s Catholic-led society hampering its LGBTQ rights?

Italy’s dependency on religion and tradition has stood in the way of LGBTQ rights, even after the country’s legislation was on the brink of being revolutionised last autumn.

β€˜I never thought that liking other guys was a β€œreal thing”,’ says Luca Lacerenza, a 22-year-old actor from Milan. β€˜It didn’t hit me until I fell in love with a man, which is when I realised: there’s nothing wrong with me being gay.’

β€˜I came out to my best friend at university in 2019,’ says Bianca Lega, a 21-year-old student based in Bologna. β€˜Most people were okay with it because they’re open-minded, but my mum took a year or so to understand it β€” she had to grow a lot.’

β€˜I knew what the words β€œgay” and β€œbisexual” meant, but I never stopped to think that there was a community of us, or that the world was full of people like me,’ says Francesco Flenda, part-time actor and Milan-based student.

These young Italian voices are some of many that have been striving for policy change β€” from dealing with the climate crisis, to opening borders, to refugees.

Last November, their voices were answered when MP and gay rights activist Alessandro Zan proposed a bill that would criminalise violence against LGBTQ Italians and implement LGBTQ-friendly education into the public-school curriculum.

According to recent surveys, Italy’s LGBTQ+ population is between 4% and 6% of its 60 million inhabitants. By legalising full gay marriage and outlawing anti-LGBTQ+ hate crimes, up to 3.6 million people could live their lives abuse-free.

Unfortunately for Zan, the Vatican challenged the change in legislation in June, arguing that the proposed bill breached the Lateran Treaty of 1929, which recognised the Vatican City as an independent state.

The letter explained concerns that Catholics would face legal action for expressing their opinions on LGBTQ+ issues and demanded that Catholic schools be exempt from the government’s plans to make 17 May the national day against homophobia and transphobia.

Flenda highlights the way some Catholics β€˜handpick’ points from its ancient religion to suit its needs: β€˜The Book of Leviticus, where they took the idea that homosexuality is β€œbad”, also states that by a certain age parents should sell their daughters as slaves. The Church is intrusive in ways it doesn’t need to be.’

Right-wing politicians like Matteo Salvini and Giorgia Meloni have also taken the Church’s stance, adding that the bill will censor the Bible and Catholicism’s freedom.

The urge to block this bill has received further support from conservatives warning that it could be a case of β€˜liberticide’, and some concerned lesbian and feminist groups who fear that recognising gender identity could put women’s rights at risk.

Backlash doesn’t come as a great surprise though. Especially not for Lega, Flenda and Lacerenza, who have grown up unaware of the existence of an LGBTQ-friendly community.

Lega had to work hard to get her mother to understand her sexuality when she first came out. She says, in the end, it was just about being realistic about the situation. β€˜I’m her daughter and it’s something she needed to accept about me,’ Lega adds.

Flenda was a victim of toxic masculinity throughout secondary school. β€˜It never bothered me,’ Flenda says. β€˜But in middle school, one guy used to call me β€œfrocio” (pouf), even when I wasn’t aware I was into guys yet.’

The 21-year-old student laughs about other conversations he had with boys in his class. β€˜The typical question I’d get asked was: β€œBoobs or butt?” And I’d just build up a fake type because I was never quite comfortable admitting my feelings for men.’

The north has improved though, Lacerenza says. β€˜When I first came out, no one I knew talked openly about being gay, or the spectrum of sexuality and genders,’ he recalls. β€˜But now it’s safer to live here.’

Lega agrees, adding that while Bologna is perhaps the country’s most LGBTQ-friendly city, Italy still has a long way to go.

Last month, Lega witnessed a man and woman tell two girls to β€˜go back to the mountain they were raised on’. The woman pointed to her six-year-old daughter and asked how she was going to explain this to her.

β€˜Bringing her daughter into it was disgusting,’ Lega says, sighing. β€˜But this is the sort of behaviour you’re still going to find everywhere.’

She adds that the subject of gay women remains taboo in Italian society: β€˜When I say I’m gay, people always ask me a hundred million questions. Once, a guy was puzzled at the fact that I like having intercourse with women β€” he just couldn’t wrap his head around it.’

She believes bringing LGBTQ talk into the school curriculum could help reverse this and help refrain people from normalising the community.

β€˜Whenever I come back home to Milan, I’ll overhear my sister’s friends making jokes about sexuality,’ Lega explains. β€˜Men are especially prone to making fun of other men for being β€œweak” or just not fitting in with cultural norms.’

The Zan bill, which is arguably the country’s biggest hope in tearing down norms, has completely divided Italy, with 62% voting for it to be passed. Among those under 30, this figure rises to 75%.

Lacerenza says if the bill passes, it could be β€˜an amazing moment for anyone that has had to pretend to be someone else their whole life’. But he cautions that it will only help people if it’s amendment-free. β€˜Because otherwise, it’s more about political parties’ interests than human rights.’

In an ideal world, Lega hopes people won’t go up to her and say: β€˜You can’t be gay because it hurts my ideals.’

β€˜We need to eventually realise that people loving other people doesn’t harm anyone,’ Lega adds.

β€˜Violence and discrimination do.’

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