Unseen

by Reggie Yates

  While sharing the story, Sohail was able to laugh in hindsight at the websites he’d visited, which had confirmed any doubts his mother and father might have had about his sexuality. His browsing history was, shall we say, colourful. Rainbow levels of colourful. Sohail was confronted by his dad, who said ‘I know the secret you’re keeping from us,’ and that conversation was the beginning of the end.

  Bounding over and greeting me with a huge hug, Sohail was smiley, warm and happy to see me. Now, I’m not saying when I meet people for the first time they usually give me a healthy dose of the stink eye, but given the difficult nature of his situation I didn’t expect anywhere near as much confidence.

  The son of Pakistani immigrants, Sohail was raised in the UK, but in a home devoid of British influence. With honour and shame the biggest issues constantly causing cross-generational conflict in Pakistani homes, his sexuality caused a fracture in the family.

  His parents saw his homosexuality as an illness, and had attempted to ‘cure’ it via exorcism – saying prayers over his body, and bathing him in ‘holy’ water. His mother felt so strongly that she cast him out. ‘If you murdered someone, I’ll still accept you, but you being gay; I can’t accept you for that.’

  So broken by the process, Sohail nearly took his own life. Knowing he needed to get out, he escaped and hadn’t spoken to his family in over a year. Now openly gay, he was sharing his story online but still hadn’t found himself confident enough to be physical with another man. Sex had become scary for Sohail and the idea of two men kissing made him feel repulsed, as he was still unable to shake the homophobia indoctrinated during his more fundamentalist days.

  I couldn’t believe that this was happening in London. I found it surreal that my life and home all of a few miles away could be so different. His parents were disgusted by his nature, but losing family was the most painful thing for Sohail, especially as the cause for the split was him being his true self.

  Homosexuality is an unnatural manifestation of a natural desire

  At the time of shooting, there were 1.5 million Muslims under the age of twenty-five in the UK. Finding out this stat mid-shoot emphasised the importance and power of imams for the Islamic community. We approached 200 mosques to ask an imam to discuss Islamic attitudes towards homosexuality, and they all said no. Finally, an imam in Edinburgh agreed to do it.

  We met outside Whitechapel station in London in the heart of one of the biggest London Muslim communities. Agreeing to feature in the film against the will of his mosque, the young imam was difficult to engage. His nervous demeanour and suspicious tone made the chat less conversational and more of a back and forth.

  At this point in my progression as a filmmaker, I’d learnt the hard way how not to make difficult conversations about me. I’d become better at separating myself from the issues I’d encounter on screen, allowing my personal beliefs to drive my questions, rather than my emotions force me to end conversations early. I’d had a solo pep talk in a bathroom mirror about not getting angry at anything offensive he might say. Unfortunately he hadn’t.

  From the jump he wore a heavy frown and eyed me closely. I cautiously asked my first question and his answer was a brilliant indication of what was to come. ‘Homosexuality is an unnatural manifestation of a natural desire.’ In my head rung out ‘Here we go again’, but I persevered. Surely he’d had young Muslim men come to him for advice about issues pertaining to sex or sexuality, I thought, and he had. ‘You can tackle it,’ was his instant response.

  So sure of his methods, he went on to explain that he’d received emails from younger men at the mosque who’d experienced gay feelings. His take was that it’s not justified following such emotions. He had instructed the young men to live a celibate life if they couldn’t quieten their homosexual urges.

  I feared the young imam’s literal interpretation of scripture wouldn’t make him much use to anybody who came to him for help. His advice was unrealistic and not grounded in anything resembling reality.

  I’ve always made a point of not only seeking advice from my peers but also going out of my way to consult elders when I’ve encountered those tougher to manage and understand moments in my life.

  Religion has never been a major influence on my value system, but regardless I’ve always felt that respecting and learning from faith is far more important than criticising it. That being said, learning from the teachings, mistakes and successes of the past I see as just as important as questioning them. In meeting Sohail and talking to the imam, I was getting a clearer picture of how difficult that could become should scripture be a major part of your life.

  As much as I’d like to believe you might know me by now, I was raised to believe you should never assume. I say that as I’d hate for any of you to be reading this thinking I’m staring down my nose at any one religion or its followers. My history with faith has had me living almost a third of my life with two different religious books under my pillow. I explained earlier, Islam and Christianity were the schools of thought I belonged to and so I know from personal experience that not all Christians reject homosexuality and not all Muslims hold extreme views.

  I feel annoyed that I had to type that, but it has to be said. Making films covering particularly sensitive subject matter means trying hard to ensure I’d never offend anyone watching, or more importantly my loved ones. My sister is born again, my mother is Muslim and how they feel about what I say publicly matters.

  With this in mind, presenting a broad section of views was paramount and thankfully the team had decided to send me to speak to the man on the street. Back in Whitechapel I was grabbing men and women leaving prayer outside the local mosque, as I wasn’t allowed in with the cameras. Some declined, but those who did speak to me were honest and had a thankfully varied set of opinions.

  One man saw homosexuality as a major sin, but didn’t see sexual preference as taking one out of the fold of Islam. His belief was that you could be Muslim and gay. While some men I spoke to were adamant that following a religion meant you were to follow everything the scripture dictated.

  In my lifetime alone, Britain has become far more accepting and tolerant and the signs are everywhere from pop culture to the stuffiest of political institutions. At the time of filming the episode, 60 per cent of the UK backed gay marriage, but support was lowest with Asian and black men.

  Homosexuality is a white man’s disease

  Max’s story of being disowned by his father painted a sad picture of losing family in an effort to find happiness. But Max had found acceptance in the city outside of the family bubble and surrounded by like-minded revellers at a popular club night.

  Urban World Pride is a massive club night held at legendary gig venue in London. Max described it as a safe space where young gay people of colour can feel comfortable. Offering a surrogate family of men and women in the same or similar situations, the party was packed with people of colour. Coming out and being disowned or remaining closeted with a life totally separate from one’s family was, Max explained, going to be the reality for the lion’s share of the thousand-plus party goers.

  As I walked in I had a strange moment of seeing a venue I knew so well in a totally different light. Young black and Asian guys were walking in with hoods on and full tracksuits and trainers looking every bit the archetypal rudeboys. But they were paying to enter a gay party and were desperate to get in as quickly as possible without being seen. Some even ran the minute they clocked the camera and my stupid face off the telly.

  The camp, over-the-top few were definitely in attendance, but the majority of the room had that roadman look and attitude synonymous with straight street guys. Black girls with skin fade haircuts just like mine hugged their gorgeous girlfriends in tight dresses as I watched in silent awe. The room represented a world I’d never even known existed and I felt so stupid. Of course this had always been here, of course my gay equivalent had places to go in London, just like I did.

  I’d been going to this p
lace since my teens for club nights and to watch live music, it was somewhere I knew well, but not like this. Bashment and dancehall was the predominant sound of the night and the hypersexual dance moves that went along with it were in full swing. The only difference was that the dance floor was rammed with men dancing with men.

  Huge muscular Rasta men daggered sweaty guys in the centre of the dance floor. For the unaware few of you about to Google daggering, I implore you to do so as it’s both the most insane thing to watch, but takes on a whole new level of surreal when it’s two men doing it. I wasn’t judging or disapproving; I was having a great time! My eyes were wider than they’d ever been as every few minutes presented a picture I’d genuinely never seen before.

  I spotted a turban in among the melee and followed the man into a separate room labelled ‘Desi Room’. I walked in on a room thumping with Bangra music where gay Sikh and Muslim men were having the time of their lives. As soon as the camera followed me in, everyone ran in different directions, as, unlike Sohail, they clearly hadn’t shared their true sexuality yet.

  In classic house party fashion, I ended up having a long chat with a friendly woman on the staircase. Nicole was a twenty-one-year-old gay woman who’d only recently come out. Pretty and friendly, she explained how her Jamaican roots and upbringing saw her have at times confusingly conflicting feelings.

  Convinced that it was harder to be black, gay and male, she was raised by a father who taught her that being a gay man was both immoral and wrong. She was raised to believe homosexuality was ‘A white man’s disease’, as in Jamaica that was what was taught. Admitting an ongoing conflict, Nicole spoke about not ever wanting to see gay men kiss or hear about gay men having sex, regardless of her being gay herself. She was fully aware of how contradictory her feelings were, and admitted to not being able to help the way she felt. Her struggle with her own ideas about homophobia seemed, in some ways, not too dissimilar to Sohail’s.

  When I’d met Tallulah, however, I’d realised that this was a woman on the other end of the spectrum. She was proud of who she was and even more proud that she’s become that person, given the difficulties she’d faced.

  I was back in Burton on Trent, and in a local wig shop with Tallulah where she was trying out different looks. With every new blond bob or shoulder length, floppy thing, she looked like an entirely different person. If you know black women, you’ll know just how important hair can be. In the case of Tallulah it was of paramount importance as it was a small detail that not only helped her look and feel more feminine, it hid elements making her look distinctly more male.

  Throwing on a dark wig cropped into a bob, I joked that she looked like the Posh Spice era Victoria Beckham. Loving the look but quickly taking it off, Tallulah rejected the wig as it drew attention to her Adam’s apple. Conscious of her features, especially those that accentuated her previous life as Aaron, she did everything she could to hide her jaw and neckline. The shop was small and busy with black women shopping for weaves and wigs. Tallulah would occasionally deal with looks and louder than intended whispers of ‘Oh my god, that’s a man.’

  Tallulah was at the beginnings of her transition, and had a further four years to go on the National Health Service waiting list. Excited about the distant but important operation, she explained the intimate details of the scariest procedure, the Vaginoplasty.

  Building a vagina after removing the penis, according to Tallulah, a patient would have to spend up to six months in recovery sleeping with a dildo inserted to prevent the open wound from healing shut. That was an insane amount of time in what sounded like a pretty uncomfortable position.

  Giggling like a little girl, Tallulah had somehow managed to make me regress and become an old man simultaneously, not quite knowing how to deal with such an intimate conversation. Battling to fill the silence, I went for the stumbled, ‘Well, that’s a long time … some might enjoy it I suppose,’ to which she replied, ‘At least it will be quite … deep.’

  Tallulah’s father Simon had been in and out of her life but was building a strong bond with his daughter since coming out of prison. He invited us round to the home he shared with his new partner and their children. Simon was huge but made me instantly feel at home with an abundance of charm and warmth. Having missed a large chunk of his child’s life, Simon wondered if being raised by women, and having no male influence around, had been a factor in Aaron becoming Tallulah. I guess in a way, he felt responsible.

  The newspaper Tallulah showed me when we first met was how her father found out about the transition, during a heated debate of ‘which one’s a bloke’ while in jail. Pointing out Tallulah in total shock, Simon described staring at the paper surrounded by other inmates and saying, ‘That’s my kid.’

  Unlike her grandmother, Simon had accepted Tallulah as a woman, making no reference to Aaron and never missing a beat in referring to her as female. He was warm and accepting and protective of his blood. Simon told me about his background of being one of the only black kids in his middle-England school life. He explained identifying with his daughter’s struggle of standing out due to who she was while being chastised for it. Expecting her ex-con father to judge her, I felt better about my presumptions ahead of meeting Simon and was pleasantly surprised by Simon’s progressive attitude.

  I left excited for Tallulah and her future knowing she might have had a long journey ahead, but her support system was clearly growing and stronger than ever.

  I stayed in the Midlands as Derby Pride was fast approaching and I invited Sohail to join me at what would also be my first gay pride. He was still coming to terms with his sexuality and I saw the event being much smaller than its London equivalent as the perfect opportunity to be a part of the majority on a much more manageable scale. Travelling to the event I checked in via text, then calls, but the agreement to join me from Sohail felt increasingly less likely the longer the day went on.

  The day rolled on and my first pride was much more sombre than I’d expected after seeing so many images and videos from the hectic London affair. Derby Pride was very white and very middle class, with a brass band and middle-aged women handing out pink ribbons. Although totally coming from the right place, the event was predominantly made up of older people attending in an effort to show support, rather than a celebration by and for the people in question.

  Sohail hadn’t arrived and I’d given up on his attendance; I was disappointed as I’d wanted to see the day through his fresh eyes not just my own. As we walked the town centre, I was one of four faces of colour in the crowd watched by passing shoppers who stopped and stared trying to work out what was going on. The walk ended at a small park populated with a stage and marquees. As the event started to fill up, it began to feel younger. It wasn’t a huge Pride celebration, but there wasn’t any opposition or anti-gay sentiment in the air.

  I’d waited for hours and there still wasn’t any sign of Sohail. I went to leave and as I made my way towards the exit, a smiling nervous Sohail wandered in. Emerging from the crowd in a tracksuit, he broke into a huge smile and I threw my arm around him, spun him on the spot and walked him towards the main stage.

  He’d never been around so many openly gay men and women and worried about standing out as he felt out of place. He was the only young Asian at the whole event and he explained that he probably wouldn’t have stayed long if I hadn’t been with him. Convinced he was seen as an Asian Muslim first and a gay man second, his paranoia was screaming he wouldn’t be accepted. I worried I’d made a mistake and stepped away with the team to have a quiet word about leaving early with him as he felt so out of place.

  My conversation with my producer and director lasted all of five minutes, but by the time I returned, he’d found a small group of dancing men in front of the main stage and joined them. It took less than a few minutes before Sohail was pogoing with the pack at the front to some horrific dance record. The music was assaulting my ears but my focus was on just how beside himself he looked. Sohail was ha
ving the time of his life and seemed to be finally letting everything go for the first time ever.

  My train home beckoned and I took on the role of embarrassing guardian trying to pull him away, asking him to follow me out. Sohail politely declined with a smile as he’d decided to stay and have a night out in Derby with the guys he’d met.

  Sohail’s internal conflicts and residual homophobia I’d witnessed on first meeting him seemed to have evaporated. He was suddenly surrounded by what he used to look upon with utter disgust. It was his first Gay Pride and he was finally embracing who he truly was.

  The Extreme UK series was difficult to make on so many levels. Behind the scenes with the production team, the edit was long and complicated. I understood that having my name in the series title opened me up to a level of criticism that would go on to be unavoidably personal. I pushed back on a few things, but it quickly got to the point where I’d pick my battles, regrettably letting some issues go.

  Being frank, I found this film in particular was a struggle as we were dealing with sensitive subject matter and my team was made up almost entirely of new faces. Being front and centre of a documentary while belonging to a team can be a difficult balancing act, even if the film is supposed to be your baby.

  I felt disappointed that the film wasn’t perfect, but I’d learnt a valuable lesson in not allowing the runaway train to end up out of my control, especially if the film had my name on it.

  In my mind, the final film just didn’t create the moment I was hoping for. I moaned to friends and family ahead of the airing, and was encouraged to, what was it again? Oh yeah, ‘Stop being a bitch and trust in your performance.’ Cheers bro. My brother Cobbie never fails to keep it raw, real and unpolished.