Last night I had a dream that I was walking down the street and saw two men holding hands. They walked past me unselfconsciously, glowing, completely taking it for granted that it was safe to do so. Out in the open, on the high street, I haven’t seen any gay couples holding hands recently.

In my dream I realised a certain freedom of expression, which in day-to-day life is totally constricted by a series of beliefs. Such beliefs could be broadly described as homophobic, though they often fail to be identified as such. Working in much more subtle ways, homophobic prejudice is disguised as the normal or natural way things should be.

Among the set of prejudices, there is one in particular that I’d like to address. I want us to reflect on this belief that homosexuality should be, indeed already is, tolerated, so long as it’s behind closed doors. A problem made all the more devastating by the fact that for most, it does not appear a problem at all. Which makes it a bit tricky to tackle, though hopefully not too controversial. But then I am writing from an openly lesbian and feminist position, so perhaps, in matters of sexuality, there is not much that is too controversial for me.

Clever and confusing prejudices prohibit us from easily recognising how our thoughts affect the quality of life of others: “I’m not homophobic” I hear you remark, “I just don’t see why gay people have to go on about it”, “why do they need to be in our face?” “I don’t mind it” I hear you say, “but gays getting married, just isn’t natural”.

How is it possible that the laughter I hear at the possibility of “same-sex marriage” is construed as “not homophobic”? How is it that such a naming of same-sex partnerships as illegitimate can disguise itself as a position of tolerance, or acceptance? While marriage might seem the most private of concerns, it is also the most public. If same-sex partnerships were recognised, they would be made public. Gay marriage might smash those “closed doors” once and for all, or it might not, but I’d hope at least, that it would certainly be harder for prejudiced people to slam them in my face.

Something I am told very often, as an out lesbian, is that “we’re very relaxed about sexuality in Malta”. Such a statement is often followed by comments about how many gays there are – “oh yes, I know so and so who’s gay” – and about the presence of gay bars. So relaxed about sexuality, you say. Yet almost all women are terrified of kissing one another in the street. And those who are terrified are those who tend not to admit it. I have been a gay woman leaning in to kiss another – in a restaurant, on the beach, on the high street – and I have seen the look of fear in her eyes. Pleasure turns into disgust. Without the safety of being behind closed doors, most people who have intimate relationships with other people of the same gender, do not feel very “tolerated”.

There is a strange contradiction in many gay and bisexual people’s accounts of their own experiences of homophobia. “What’s the problem? We’ve never had it so good” I heard a man say in a gay bar. Perhaps he finds it difficult to name how homophobia works. Probably he wants to deny the extent to which it affects his life, takes pride in defying the negative stereotypes others impose on him.

But he knows as well, that in public places heterosexual “tolerance” does not permit the exchange of small, physical intimacies, such as kissing on the mouth, or gazing into the eyes of a lover (which in fact, is often much harder to pull off without feeling ashamed, than exchanging physical touches, such as holding hands.) Why is it that behind closed doors – in the spaces of the gay bar, at home, at a friend’s dinner party – such feelings of shame, or even fear, do not prevent people of the same gender from displaying tenderness and affection towards one another?

Those “closed doors” are no mere catch; they make homophobia possible. They suggest that in some way, sexuality belongs behind closed doors. That all sexuality is a private matter. But when you are not heterosexual, you may notice quite the opposite. Every physical exchange between a man and woman is a confirmation that all the restaurants and bars, the high street, the shopping centre, are places of heterosexual intimacy from which lesbians and gays often feel excluded; they refrain from expressing physical intimacies knowing that their gestures of affection are unwelcome. Sexuality, even heterosexuality, is not a private matter at all. It is displayed in shop windows, on television screens, in the seating arrangements of men and women at restaurants. It is not simply behind closed doors.

This is how “gay bars” have become important to the creation of gay communities and identities. In this world where there is a severe lack of social space which enables lesbians, gay men and transgendered people to build a community in what often turns out to be lifelong friendship – many of us cannot build such communities in our homes (if we live with our parents, or are worried about what the neighbours might say), in our schools (if we are too afraid to tell anyone that we are queer, worried about how parents would react), in our churches (if we are told that our feelings are inappropriate), or perhaps more importantly, at work (if spiteful jokes about fags and dykes are still considered funny, and the one openly gay person is constantly the subject of office gossip), and of course, in the media (we only have one openly gay media figure, Sandro Mangion, also the current co-ordinator of the MGRM) – the gay bar becomes an important social space.

The problem however, is that while gay bars are historically significant places where, since the beginning of the 20th century, all kinds of people have met to escape the normative trappings of heterosexuality, they are still somewhat “behind closed doors”. This is aside from the fact that there isn’t a single lesbian bar in Malta, or any public women-only space (aside from convents, which might not be the most appropriate meeting places for lesbians).

The proliferation of on-line gay, bisexual and transgendered communities in the virtual spaces of web sites similarly attests to the need for public arenas where people are protected from heterosexist prejudice. Yet unfortunately this is just another realm “behind closed doors”; accessible at the touch of a fingertip against a keyboard, yet often removed from everyday physical encounters. So close, yet still so far away, so behind doors. In the building of their communities, gay and transgendered people need more than separate spaces of acceptance.

So next time you are in a public place and you lean in to kiss your partner, or reach to hold their hand, it might be a good time to reflect on how much you take that freedom for granted. Or conversely, next time you hesitate to be affectionate with your same-sex partner, it might be a good time to remind yourself that a kiss can be a political protest – a realisation that at least you accept yourself – as well as an expression of affection.

Sarah Cefai is a working member of the Malta Gay Rights Movement (MGRM). She is a postgraduate scholar in gender studies who moves between Malta and the UK. She can be contacted on [email protected].