Image: The Spinoff
Image: The Spinoff

SocietyOctober 11, 2020

‘Soul-destroying’: What conversion therapy in NZ looks like

Contributing writer
Image: The Spinoff
Image: The Spinoff

After two unsuccessful petitions in 2019, Labour is finally promising to ban conversion therapy in the upcoming election. Sherry Zhang talks to Anna* about what conversion therapy was like and what a ban on its practise would mean. 

“It makes me want to cry. It makes me feel seen, like I’m not just making shit up.” That’s how Anna, who underwent conversion therapy as a young adult, describes the news that Labour will ban the controversial practice if re-elected.

Conversion therapy is a pseudoscientific technique that attempts to change or suppress someone’s sexual orientation or gender identity through shaming, emotional manipulation and/or physical trauma. The practice is primarily used within religious communities and has been linked to severe mental health issues, including depression and suicidal ideation. It has already been banned in Queensland, Madrid and Ontario, and specifically for minors in Germany, Ecuador and Brazil. 

National leader Judith Collins also opposes conversion therapy. “I’m a parent and I have said to my son, and I hope other parents would also say this, ‘Just be who you are!’ That’s unconditional love … Not trying to convert your child to anything else,” she told Gay Express. Still, the party has no policy on conversion therapy – or any rainbow policies – for the 2020 election. Along with Labour, the Greens, the Māori Party and The Opportunities Party have also voiced support for a conversion therapy ban. 

A ban would make it in an offence for people, entities, or organisations to offer, advertise or perform conversion therapy on another person. This includes performing conversion therapy as a professional, such as health practitioner, teacher or social worker. It would also make it an offence to knowingly remove a person from New Zealand for the purposes of conversion therapy. 

So what does this damaging practice look like in New Zealand? Anna, who grew up in a tight-knit church community in Hamilton, talked to The Spinoff about what the experience was like for her.

For a long time, Church was the only source of community Anna had. So it was immensely traumatic when prayer groups turned into conversion therapy.  (Photo: Getty Images)

What was it like learning about your sexuality? 

I always knew I was attracted to women. But I didn’t think it meant anything. It was only when I was around 18 years old, that someone I had a crush on had a crush on me back! I was like “woah, I’m not straight”, and it’s been a fucking whirlwind since then. 

What kind of experiences did you have with the church? 

When I was about 16, our youth pastor sat down and had a chat with us about homosexuality. She said, “you might feel like you’ve got some feelings for your friends who are the same sex as you, but it’s just a phase because you’re going through puberty”. 

I remember arguing with her: “But my cousin’s gay, and she’s old. So it can’t be puberty”. Our pastor also always told us that her husband was never her type, but one day she looked at him, and thought “wow I’m kinda attracted to him.” So I questioned her, what’s the difference? I asked because it didn’t make logical sense to me. 

A lot of people were homophobic behind each others’ backs in the church. I used to live in this house of church leadership and someone who was a lesbian had found us on this Christian flatmate website and came and viewed the flat.  After she left, everyone was like “ew no, what if I want to shower and walk around in my towel?” After that, we had a church dinner at someone’s house and it just went on and on, them expressing their disgust. At that point, I was out to myself. 

That’s a lot to take in. You mentioned that you came out of the closet and then went back in. What happened?

When I first came out, I had people picking me up from my house to take me to prayer circles. It was confusing because they were telling me to go to the healers because I was hurt. But I was hurt because I was having moral conflicts – they thought I was hurt because I had fucking demons inside of me. 

I cared about these people a lot and so I’d go with them. I felt pretty coerced into it. What else was I going to do with these people showing up at my house? Everything felt overwhelming so I moved to a new town. But the only way I knew how to make friends was through church. So I went back to church and I went back into the closet because I wasn’t going to be able to make friends otherwise. 

A lot of people, think of conversion therapy as structured camps. But for you, it was people you loved and cared about turning up at your doorstep.

Absolutely. The second time I came out, I was still living in that church leadership house. I had these people I thought were going to be my bridesmaids telling me to watch videos of Sy Rogers. He was someone who used to preach about being an ex-gay Christian and so they’d send me these links. Or I’d get home and [his videos] would just be on the TV because “if you really loved us, you’d just sit down and watch it”.

Sy Rogers would say: “I’m married with a wife now and kids, but I still have to be careful when looking at men so I’m not tempted.” Well you’re still gay then, aren’t you? I just couldn’t take it seriously. You’re still fucking gay, you’ve just dragged your wife and kids into it. 

I had people doing prayer, sending me bible verses every day. People telling me they couldn’t be my friend anymore, and threatening to leave the church if I didn’t leave. 

I have the misfortune of being friends with people who’ve been exposed as being paid conversion therapists. Sometimes I still feel funny talking about conversion therapy because it doesn’t look like me sitting in a therapist’s office going through that. It looks like pastors taking me out for coffee. 

What did it feel like for you during that time?

These are people that I loved so I felt pretty mad at myself. I literally went on top of a mountain and shouted at God, “WHY ME?” It was pretty soul-destroying, and that time in my life could have been the end of my life. But it wasn’t, thankfully. It felt like I was being ripped apart by my community. People were saying stuff like “we can’t have the youth thinking it’s OK to be gay, we can’t have people being like you”.

How did you start healing from that experience? 

It was a long process. I started going to actual therapy and my therapist said: “I’m so excited for you. You’re a beautiful, charming and intelligent person. And I’m excited for your future.” It really stuck with me. It made me feel powerful because I felt so weak against the church for so long. I couldn’t even walk down the street, because [other members of the church] would cross the road to avoid me.  

I wasn’t specifically trying to heal about my sexuality but heal as a person. I was trying to remember that I’m not a bad person. I’m a good person. 

What’s your relationship with the church now?

Even with all these people telling me these shitty things, I was still committed to my faith [for some time]. I used to think about becoming an ordained pastor, and making my own church for the rainbow community.

But now, Christianity and I are not friends. That’s also because I’ve learnt more about Christian involvement with colonisation. I’d say I’m spiritual because I believe in Māori atua, the spirit world. But Christianity, in my opinion, has caused so much pain to the rainbow and the indigenous community.

It’s well established that conversion therapy doesn’t work, But last year, a ban on it failed to become law because of concerns around religious freedom. How did that feel for you? 

I was gutted … It made me angry that our prime minister, who everyone thinks is so cool, acknowledged that it hurts people, but brought religious freedom into it. All the other religions don’t have that much fucking freedom. 

For the next election, Labour has promised it will ban all forms of conversion therapy, not just conversion therapists. What does that mean for you?

It makes me want to cry. It makes me feel seen, like I’m not just making shit up. I thought they would only ban it for therapists. 

I was 21 when this all happened, and I’m concerned about other young people who rely on the church. Maybe their home lives aren’t the best … that’s why I was with the church. I’m worried about other young people being coerced or consenting under duress to this practice because it’s the only way to have community. 

I don’t think people understand the risks. People who go through conversion therapy don’t have perfect lives and they’re being taken advantage of. 

It’s worse for people to tell me I was demon-possessed and that the love I have for somebody else is the same as murder. It’s way worse than someone punching me in the nose because they’d get arrested for punching me in the nose. 

I identify as takatāpui. And in our pre-colonial history, we had a space and we were accepted. I’m a descendant of Tutanekai, Hinemoa and Tiki. It’s good to know that it wasn’t always this way. 

*name changed for privacy

If you would like to talk to The Spinoff about a conversion therapy experience, email sherry@thespinoff.co.nz.

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    Supporters listen as US President Donald Trump speaks during a Make America Great Again rally in Green Bay, Wisconsin, April 27, 2019. (Photo credit: SAUL LOEB/AFP via Getty Images)
    Supporters listen as US President Donald Trump speaks during a Make America Great Again rally in Green Bay, Wisconsin, April 27, 2019. (Photo credit: SAUL LOEB/AFP via Getty Images)

    OPINIONSocietyOctober 11, 2020

    I love my family. My family love Trump

    Supporters listen as US President Donald Trump speaks during a Make America Great Again rally in Green Bay, Wisconsin, April 27, 2019. (Photo credit: SAUL LOEB/AFP via Getty Images)
    Supporters listen as US President Donald Trump speaks during a Make America Great Again rally in Green Bay, Wisconsin, April 27, 2019. (Photo credit: SAUL LOEB/AFP via Getty Images)

    ‘Silence is complicity’, they say. But what do you do when speaking up could irreparably damage the relationships you value most?

    It was the Facebook post that did it. I normally don’t go there, at least on that social media platform. I go on Facebook for fun, and to keep connections warm. Going political sours all of that and, frankly, activates algorithms I don’t want to be included in. Beyond the desire not to be politically manipulated in that way, scientific studies suggest you can’t effectively influence opinion by challenging deeply held political beliefs, even when you can provide clear contradictory evidence.

    So why stir things up if it won’t actually accomplish anything? I don’t get a thrill out of conflict like some seem to.

    That said, there is an election coming up in the US, my homeland, and even before the recent protests reached a crescendo I was starting to hear a drumbeat that seemed to sync with the beating of my heart: silence is complicity.

    And so I did it. I spoke up. I chose a Washington Post article that compared data about the spread of the coronavirus with statements by President Trump (particularly interesting in light of his recent diagnosis). In my Facebook post I asked, politely, “Please don’t vote for this man.”

    I held my breath before hitting “post” because I knew there would be a reaction. But not acting, for fear of sparking a backlash, meant abdicating my right to participate in a democratic society. Algorithms be damned.

    The reaction was swift and in some instances bruising. I was told to “butt out” because I don’t live in the USA anymore. Even though I’m a dual citizen, still file US taxes and the majority of my family lives there.

    I was “unfriended” and labelled a “hater”. However what disturbed me wasn’t the labels or the name calling. It was about how deeply personal politics has now become, a particularly painful challenge when it exposes a nerve: the tension between loyalty to family and other deeply held core values.

    A campaign supporter reacts as candidate Donald Trump signs her button during a campaign event in Nevada, March 2016. (Photo: Ralph Freso/Getty Images)

    When I was a child, I would weep when we left my father at home to spend summers with extended family. It felt like my heart might never heal. The same scenario would play out when we’d pile in the car and return home to him, but leave everyone else behind. It seemed like we lived a world away, and I was afraid our close connection might fade away.

    Why does family connection feel so precious, so special – and yet so fragile? Because, ideally, on some deep level it’s where we feel safe, understood, accepted, loved. And the danger of losing that connection, for whatever reason, threatens our sense of self, happiness, emotional stability and security.

    But today, increasingly, our sense of warm connection to loved ones is being challenged in fundamental ways, as one American woman revealed in a searingly honest personal essay about disagreeing with her father, an ardent Trump supporter. After reading about her experience, I’m beginning to understand how families ended up on opposite sides in wars or alienated for generations.

    With the stress of the global pandemic, and political polarisation only deepening, it’s highlighting how many of us are living with this increasing cognitive dissonance. We are beginning to question whether people we care about deeply might not really know us at all, or if we have fundamentally different values. And it’s not just happening in the US.

    The shock of that realisation can feel like a virtual slap in the face. When that divide becomes so crystal clear, it seems almost impossible to know how to navigate forward.

    As soon as I posted the article on Facebook about Covid-19 data, a family member messaged back, warning me not to believe everything I read. And they were right, to an extent. In this era of sophisticated disinformation campaigns, it’s important to remain alert to how easily we can be fooled. But I built a successful career on reporting, research and a concerted effort to remain objective. I have a trained editorial eye. When that family member messaged me, that was apparently ignored or forgotten. Another message from a loved one claimed the media is at the heart of a Deep State conspiracy. Again, I spent 20 years of my life in the news business.

    While I’m no longer a practising journalist, I still see the world through a journalist’s eye. I observe, do my best to draw the right lessons, and try to make it all make sense. But now the field I dedicated so much of my life to is being denigrated; journalists are being vilified and sometimes even beaten. The media is being called an enemy of the people by a sitting president.

    Rising above is getting harder to do. I feel like one of those cartoon characters with round eyes open wide – I keep rubbing them as a little squeegee sound effect plays in the background, trying to make sure what I’m seeing really is happening.

    Donald Trump at the rally in North Carolina where the crowd chanted ‘Send her Back’ about US Rep Ilhan Omar (Photo: Getty Images)

    In response to that fateful Facebook post, someone also used the term TDS, or “Trump Derangement Syndrome”. It was a phrase I hadn’t read before, but it opened my eyes even more.

    “Derangement” is a powerful word. It perfectly captures the lens through which one side sees the other right now. Ironically I was surprised when I read that TDS is most often used by Trump supporters to describe anti-Trumpers. A Psychology Today article even characterises it as a “folk category” of mental disorder based on an extreme “fear and loathing” of the 45th president. I recognise TDS in myself at times, and I try to fight if it rears its angry head: when I have a visceral reaction, a feeling of anger or disgust.

    I realise this kind of reaction means I need to step back and engage my prefrontal cortex. At that point I ask: What’s triggering me? Am I overlooking anything? Am I considering other perspectives? I try to talk it out with someone. This takes a concerted effort: it requires a heavy virtual doorstop to keep an open mind and apparently a secure ego. As a research professor at USC put it, “to consider an alternative view, you…have to consider an alternative version of yourself”. That’s a tall order but a critical skill we all need to master if we want to find a way forward.

    Continuing to approach discussions like head-on confrontations, pitting one set of deeply held beliefs against another, doesn’t lead to progress. It only deepens polarisation. People start digging in. Tensions heighten and hearts harden. And if I “win” my political point, I may rupture a relationship forever.

    This feels like a zero sum game. To me, that’s too high a price to pay – even with loved ones who stand firmly on the other side of the political fence. So I’m agreeing to disagree, even if it requires that I disengage. Even though that feels a lot like giving in.

    Maybe it’s a deeply ingrained sense of duty, or perhaps a childlike idea about what family really is. I can’t really answer the question: other than by blood or by marriage, what actually makes family my people? But family still feels fundamental to who I am.

    By deciding not to engage, I know that some might accuse me of not being strong enough to consider an “alternative version of myself” or to prioritise my political ideals. But I wonder, is the only way to create change in society by sacrificing relationships for our beliefs? What about the deep psychic pain that causes? Isn’t not inflicting pain a value too? Or is it simply social conditioning?

    I know I’m not the only one having this silent debate. It’s happening around the world. Many are wrestling with their consciences as society struggles to progress.

    Still, in the midst of all of my questions one argument seems always to rise to the surface. As the authors of a study on political beliefs put it, “Few things are as fundamental to human progress as our ability to arrive at a shared understanding of the world…human knowledge and human cooperation depend upon such feats of cognitive and emotional flexibility.”

    Flexibility. There’s a powerful word. Flexibility means opening our minds, elevating our discourse, debating respectfully, actively trying to understand and sometimes taking a step back.

    And how about cooperation? There’s power in that word too. It means working to preserve even the tiniest shred of common ground.

    I’ve always recognised the role of agitators on the edges of society: their more extreme actions nudge the needle in the centre toward change. I deeply respect those who choose to stand firm on their ideals and values at great personal cost. But they are part of a larger equation.

    Progress also requires cultivating the flexibility to forge a peaceful way forward, together.

    And maintaining the peace to preserve the love within my family is where I feel compelled to start.

    Society