''I’m a queer woman in my thirties, working as a medical doctor in Greece. I’ve always been drawn to caring for people, but also to questioning the systems we live in. Politically, I believe in solidarity, equality, and that healthcare and rights should never be privileges for the few.
Life as an LGBTQ+ person in Greece is complicated. Within my close circle of friends and chosen community, I feel loved and free to be myself. In public spaces and at work, however, I remain guarded. People often assume I’m straight, and correcting them isn’t always easy or safe. Visibility comes at a cost — with stares, comments, or subtle hostility reminding me that acceptance is still conditional.
I feel torn about the political situation. While there have been positive steps, like marriage equality, other issues — such as the continued ban on blood donation — feel like regression. The political climate remains largely conservative, and LGBTQ+ rights are often reduced to symbolic gestures rather than driving real structural change. I dream of a country that fights inequality in every space — hospitals, schools, the streets — not just in rhetoric.
When it comes to safety, I can say I feel safe enough, but never completely. I’m not overly concerned about physical violence, but I do think about how we’ll be perceived in public, whether someone will shout something, or how I’ll be judged at work. True safety would mean not having to calculate these risks constantly. Being an outspoken woman only amplifies this burden, and heterosexism remains a daily reality.
I don’t feel that my identity is truly embraced by society. At best, it’s tolerated — provided it stays out of sight. There’s a message of “we don’t mind what you do, just don’t show it too much,” which isn’t acceptance but rather enforced invisibility. As a queer woman, I often feel erased — either oversexualized or ignored altogether.
I have experienced discrimination, both subtle and direct. Sometimes it’s homophobic jokes from colleagues, assumptions from patients about having a husband, or the looks we get for simply holding hands. These moments may seem small in isolation, but they accumulate, and the emotional weight of that is real.
Despite all this, I want to stay hopeful. The younger generation gives me courage — they’re more open and willing to challenge the status quo. Still, progress is slow, and real change will take time. For me, the future of LGBTQ+ rights in Greece must go beyond legislation. It has to be a cultural shift, where being queer is no longer seen as brave or solely political — just normal.''
mARINA
''I am Nefeli, a Greek bisexual woman living in Athens. I’m a single mother of a son. My academic and personal interests revolve around sociology, anthropology, gender studies, and feminism in the Global South. Through poetry, I aim to give voice to those who are often silenced — refugees, migrants, and LGBTQ+ individuals.
My experience as an LGBTQ+ person in Greece has largely been shaped by privilege. I grew up in a liberal, politically engaged, middle-class family in central Athens, in a supportive environment that embraced difference. I came out early and was accepted in my home, schools, universities, and activist circles. Within this microcosm, my queerness was never something to hide. Discrimination has been rare and fleeting in my personal life.
However, I recognise that my reality is not universal. My safety and freedom are shaped by my identity as a Greek, white, cisgender, fem-presenting woman from a supportive family background.
True safety in Greece is a privilege mostly reserved for white, rich, heterosexual men.I can express affection more freely, but in certain areas, the fear of verbal or physical violence becomes more real. For trans women, even central Athens can feel unsafe, as daily life in Greece is shaped by an uneven intersection of geography, class, gender, ethnicity, and cultural background.
My identity is acknowledged and affirmed within my chosen community — a circle of kinship that provides a vital space of belonging. Outside of that, however, recognition is often conditional. Governmental and corporate pinkwashing serve as hollow gestures rather than signs of true progress. Greek society remains deeply rooted in heteronormative and patriarchal ideals, where the notion of the “Greek family” is strictly defined, and queerness continues to be viewed through a lens of deviance.
While I have not frequently faced direct discrimination, the pain experienced by others in my community is deeply felt. Discrimination is not only personal — it is collective. The harm inflicted on one body reveals the vulnerability of all bodies within that shared social space. My sense of safety and identity is inextricably linked to those around me, and their oppression reflects the wider structures of exclusion we all navigate.
Looking to the future, I am not optimistic. As long as the current government continues its rule, I fear that LGBTQ+ rights will either stagnate or regress. Despite occasional symbolic gestures, the state maintains conservative values, strengthens ties with the orthodox church, and prioritises traditional family structures over inclusivity. This political environment, paired with austerity and growing inequality, disproportionately harms the most marginalised members of the LGBTQ+ community. Without genuine political commitment and structural change, the promise of equality in Greece remains out of reach.''
nEFELI
