by Oana-Maria Moldovan
What cannot be seen does not exist, right?
I remember a moment from Oradea Pride last year: a yellow light flickering in a hidden room. Drawn to it, I moved forward, but the outlet by the entrance was both too close and too far, like something visible but untouchable – something meant to exist, but not for human hands.
Then the light went out. Someone turned it off. But that’s okay. We grew up hearing stories about how our parents did their homework by candlelight during the communist era. Now, a group of young people laid down coloured candles on the floor.
A tall boy in a black shirt, someone I’ve known since childhood, urged them to find their lighters and ignite the candles.
Everyone sat down in an ad hoc circle in the darkened room. To my left, someone was talking about freedom. I sat there, wondering: nearly thirty-five years after the Romanian Revolution, why are the pictures still black and white? Why does it feel like the banned radio stations never stopped playing in the background?
Our parents once protested for democracy. Over sixty young people protested for freedom this past week during Oradea Pride’s second year.
If you remember last year’s Oradea Pride Marked a Milestone for Romania (if not go check that one out) was all about friendship, making history, safe spaces, and pride.
Last year, Oradea Pride marked a significant milestone for Romania, drawing attention to the LGBTQ+ community’s fight for equality and acceptance. This follow-up explores the developments, challenges, and progress made since that pivotal event.
This year, however, it was all about protesting for human rights, for lighting a candle in a dark room and hoping, with your tears dried on your cheeks and your tobacco scattered all over the floor, that no one will come to blow the flame away.
A Little Piece of Queer History
If last year I told you all about the hardships LGBTQIA+ Romanians had to go through history, especially under the Communist Regime, this year, I want to talk about something else.
The first publicly and legally known LGBTQIA+ organisation in Romania was (and still is) ACCEPT, which began as an informal group in 1994, becoming an official organisation in 1996, at a time when members could be imprisoned for ‘homosexual propaganda.’ The mission was clear: to remove homosexuality from the Penal Code. Back then, Article 200 imposed prison sentences for consensual same-sex relationships and was enforced by a well-organised institutional network dating back to the communist era.
All queer and gender non-conforming individuals were inhumanely treated in prisons, with homosexuality considered a criminal offence.
Some say that it took just two witnesses to denounce you, leading to persecution, blackmail, harassment, and imprisonment. Survivors of that time still recall the raids, investigations, loss of freedom, and humiliations in prison.
In 1996, ACCEPT launched a significant advocacy program for LGBTQIA+ equality in Romania. By 1998, the last person imprisoned under Article 200 was released by presidential decree. In 2000, Romania adopted its first anti-discrimination law protecting LGBTQIA+ people. Finally, in 2001, Article 200 was repealed.
The first Pride in Bucharest, then called the ‘Diversity March,’ was held in 2005, organised by ACCEPT despite local authorities’ attempts to stop it. But in 2008, Parliament banned same-sex marriage through a change in the Civil Code. So while homosexuality was no longer criminalised, it became a civil issue, which remains the case today.
This is how the art of protesting for LGBTQIA+ rights was born in Romania.
The Romanian History Book
A bit of history – or perhaps folklore – that is crucial to the context is the legend of Oradea’s Fortress. You’re going to appreciate the analogy and the irony here.
The story goes that during the reign of King Ladislau I in the 11th century, two angels appeared to him in a dream, instructing him to build this fortress to protect his people. The fortress was shaped like a star, intended to bring luck, and for a time, it did.
Oradea became known as The Big Fortress City in Hungarian, German, and Czech, The Fortress of Angels in Polish and Slovak, and even The City of Angels in older Russian and Ukrainian history books.
And yet, this mediaeval fortress, originally built to provide protection and safety, has now become the very symbol used by one group to strip away that safety from a minority community.
Public Opinion and Christianity in a Secular Country
Truth be told, I was tempted to centre this entire piece exclusively on public opinion and the officials’ disinterest and hostility. However, focusing solely on the negative – the ongoing struggles in more conservative countries around acceptance – wouldn’t do justice to the full picture.
What I mean is, in more Western, developed countries, there’s often a stigma attached to places like Romania and their views on minority communities.
While the situation here isn’t as dire as some might imagine, it’s far from ideal. For instance, while organising the event, Ark Oradea – like many other similar organisations in the country – encountered a familiar obstacle: the Religious Right.
To understand this, you need to know that Romania is predominantly Orthodox. However, there’s a region with a strong Greek Catholic history, which includes two counties, one of which is Bihor, where Oradea is the capital. Over the past few years, this area has seen a growing Neo-Protestant influence.
You’re probably thinking that Christianity – or any religion, for that matter – shouldn’t preach hate or oppose human rights. And you’re right. But it’s important to grasp what a traditional and conservative country implies. Keep in mind, that less than thirty years ago, homosexuality was illegal in Romania.
Even if you understand these dynamics, you then have to confront the reality of corruption in countries with struggling economies and a history of oppression.
There’s a somewhat derogatory term in Romanian, ‘habotnic,’ often used to describe Pentecostals who are so dogmatic in their views that they become bigoted.
This is what’s been happening in Oradea. Major Neo-Protestant Churches, led by Pentecostals, Baptists, and Evangelicals (who don’t even have a Church in the city but came from Timișoara), have tried to block any pride-related events. They’ve done this by ‘renting’ and occupying as many public spaces (in this case, parks) as possible, making them inaccessible to Ark Oradea.
Not Long Ago...
Oradea City Hall has barred the LGBTQIA+ community from gathering. Following in the footsteps of Poland, Oradea is on its way to becoming the first city in Romania to attempt being ‘LGBTQIA-free,’ effectively censoring visibility for the community – they kind of already did that if you think about it.
The Oradea PRIDE event, set to take place in the Fortress’ Park on August 11, has been banned by the local administration, which refused to approve a public assembly for the LGBTQIA+ community. This information comes directly from responses given by Mayor Florin Birta – who is an active member of one of the Churches involved.
City Hall claims that a Baptist and Pentecostal gathering was scheduled at the same time and place – in all the parks. However, this event was only publicly announced late on Friday, the 9th, after various national media outlets questioned the lack of prior promotion.
The decision to cancel PRIDE Park was made without consulting the event organisers, raising serious concerns about transparency and fairness in Oradea.
More than 500 (in total) queer people and allies were planned to attend, but they were left without a space to celebrate the previous weekend.
This is not to say that Ark had no room. The organisation did indeed get access to one tiny room; hidden.
However, the room in question was made available not by City Hall officials, but by Visit Oradea (in charge of tourism and culture). I’d even argue that is important to note here that that space is usually used as an art gallery.
All the Things They Were Afraid Of
Note: you will see some changes have been made to the original program of the event.
On the 8th of the Month, on a Thursday, started with the Opening of Oradea Pride 2024 at 4:00 PM (EET).
When I first arrived I got hit in the face (metaphorically) with the picture of a bunch of kids – sixteen to twenty-one years old, give or take – sitting nice and quiet on two benches near Building E of the Fortress. This was the place where, in a small room at the end of a hallway on the first floor, the activities would take place.
They said ‘hi’, a little shy, almost speaking all in the same voice; like they were this one singular entity. None of them seemed prepared for what was to come. Too young, too innocent, for what they were about to experience and feel.
At 5:00 PM, the first panel of the event began. The topic: legal recognition of same-sex families, featuring Florin Buhuceanu and his partner Victor Ciobotaru from ACCEPT, Claudiu Marconi from Rise Out, and Simina Tulbure from the Political Party REPER.
The panel began with a powerful speech from Iulian Dițiu, the President of Ark Oradea. He spoke from the heart: ‘Pride isn’t just a celebration; it’s our way of proving that we won’t back down, that we exist, and we’ll keep fighting until every single one of our human rights is recognized.’
Then, Florin Buhuceanu hit us with a truth that cut deep: ‘Criminals can get married, even from behind bars. Minors can get married if their parents agree. But we? We’re still denied that right.’
Claudiu Marconi summed it up perfectly: ‘Here in Romania, Pride is still very much an act of protest.’
The first day continued then on until 10:00 PM with Exhibition Opening: inVIZIBIL #4 (ACCEPT) (translated: inVISIBLE) in the same space. The room was small, almost suffocating, yet it was filled with so much life and color that it overflowed. Each piece is on display.
Note: the first day was, in other words, exactly how I expected it to be.
On Friday, the second day, the event kicked off with a local artists and producers fair. Though it was scheduled to run from 11:00 AM to 3:00 PM, things started to unravel around 1:00 PM (pardon my language, but that’s when everything went sideways). I want to walk you through this step by step, so bear with me.
First came the press release from Ark Oradea, followed by the local news coverage and the mayor’s passive-aggressive response. Then came my own moment of panic when, over a table cluttered with soda cans, empty cigarette packets, and a bag of peaches, I realised what was really happening: erasure from public spaces.
Just after 3:00 PM, the decision had already been made to hold a protest on Saturday, and the discussion on climate justice with Alex Trandafir was cancelled in favour of an impromptu group meeting. This was the turning point – the moment when everything felt more lively.
By the time the slogans were already chosen national press outlets were already talking about it.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the second evening of Oradea Pride unfolded. At 6:00 PM, we gathered for the screening of ‘Quietlands’ directed by Denisa Cîșlariu (who we met), and ‘Return to Reims’ (d. Jean-Gabriel Périot, 2021), carefully curated by Paul Șoptirean.
Note: the peaches still felt bitter in my mouth when I got home and I realised in horror that I had three lighters on me all along.
The day began under the city’s watchful gaze. By 10:30 AM, everyone met in front of the theater, a quiet resolve in the air. At 10:50 AM, the group was already in front of The City Hall, knowing that every step was a step towards visibility – some in frightful ways.
Note: we’ll talk more about this part later on.
At noon, ‘Winter Boy’(d. Christophe Honoré, 2022) was screened, a film about grief, sexuality, and colours. Following that, at 2:00 PM, ACCEPT hosted a support group for parents of LGBTQIA+ youth. The atmosphere was one of shared vulnerability and strength, as parents opened their hearts to understanding and supporting their children.
Note: while the support group was held, a political populist party came into the fortress and started filming the people present at the event, some of them being minors. One of the videos ended up on social media. Their leader (an ex-convicted criminal) was yelling in it about them wanting the community ‘to keep their paws away from children’ – the irony.
By 4:00 PM, the room shifted to a different kind of learning with the “Applied Philosophy” workshop led by Philosophy Babes, Diana Miheș, and Ioana Chirilă. Ioana spoke with quiet wisdom: ‘The thing about love is that it’s not something regular, it’s this frail thing that develops over time.’
Meanwhile, a volunteer offered a stark reality: ‘They think that here we have orgies and steal children to drug us and them. They should come here to see what’s going on.’
While the workshop was taking place an older gay couple came with their three kids to say “We saw what was going on and came all the way here to see you. I imagine many of you have heard about us in the press (there was a scandal a few years ago about the two men wanting to adopt). We came to show that it can be done, it’s not a dead end, it can be done.”
The day’s events were interwoven with the inVIZIBIL #4 Exhibition, which ran from 12:00 PM to 6:00 PM.
As night fell, the party planned at Lokal was moved first to Anonim, and finally found its home at Urban. The location shifts reflected the fluidity and resilience of the community in a way.
The final day of Oradea Pride was meant to be a day of community, with workshops and activities scheduled from 12:00 PM to 7:00 PM. But the forces against us proved strong, and these events were modified – a reminder that the fight is far from over.
Truth be told, this was a day for tears, both good and bad.
However, at 4:00 PM, Ark Oradea reclaimed some space with a Queer poetry open-mic, led by Eva Maria Luca also known as ‘Cerneală Înaltă’ (translated: ‘High Ink’), where voices rose in poetic defiance over the sound of soft music.
Note: this is what they were so afraid of, a bunch of young people reciting poetry.
As the day drew to a close, we gathered once more at 8:00 PM for a screening of ‘Call Me by Your Name’. The inVIZIBIL #4 Exhibition remained open, its presence a quiet but powerful
statement: we are here, we have always been here, and we will continue to exist – seen or unseen.
Note: after four days I arrived home, with only one of my lighters still in my purse. I’ll keep it hidden, maybe they’ll need it next year as well.
One Protest and a Bunch of Prayers
Now that we discussed the schedule we can also examine what else has happened and why.
Thursday, August 8th
On Thursday Iulian informed me that, some people – I was expecting no more than two hundred truthfully – who are part of the already mentioned Churches are going to be doing events in the Fortress’ Park on Sunday (maybe even sooner).
Friday, August 9th
I could pinpoint the exact time and place on Friday when everyone – and I mean everyone – was ready to protest in front of The City Hall; the moment when one of the volunteers said the following slogan: ‘City full of colourful buildings, and you are afraid of a rainbow.’
The preparations for the protest were in full swing. On Friday, signs were made, each one a powerful statement of resistance and hope. The anticipation for the next day was palpable, with everyone knowing that Saturday would be the moment to light the candles.
Saturday, August 10th
Saturday arrived with a sense of quiet determination. As people began to gather, signs and flags were distributed, and the energy in the air was electric. The march started at the theater, moving steadily towards the City Hall.
Contrary to what many had expected, the protest was peaceful. There was a moment of tension when a former colonel arrived, shouting insults from his car before parking to make a scene. But the protestors responded not with anger, but with calm – telling him, ‘We wish you to be loved.’ It was a decisive act of defiance, choosing love over conflict.
Among the protestors were parents, standing in solidarity with their children. After an hour, the march continued, voices rising with renewed strength. The chants echoed through the streets: “Equal rights for everyone.”
Saturday’s party
The party was originally planned to be held at Lokal, a venue that had been abruptly shut down just a day before Pride, under the pretext of selling alcohol to a minor. The irony was hard to miss – I had been there when the alleged incident occurred, and at the time, no one seemed concerned about this so-called minor; but this is just a tidbit.
With Lokal out of the picture, the event was moved to Anonim, a lesser-known spot that had promoted itself as 'queer-friendly.' But barely two hours after the change, they called to inform Ark Oradea that the building’s owner had decided not to allow the event. The scramble to find a new venue began, with mounting pressure.
Iulian then said to me, clearly: “We can’t, we just can’t move the date, cancel the event, or even take it outside the city. The party has to happen and it has to happen in a central spot.”
In the end, an underground club at Urban was reserved, though not without challenges. Despite the hurdles, over two hundred queer individuals and allies gathered there to celebrate. Entry was free, but donations were welcome at the door. The event went on, a testament to the community’s resilience and determination to not back down.
Sunday, August 11th
It seems that the Neo-Protestants were genuinely spooked by a group of young people reciting poetry – believe it or not.
Over two thousand attendees from the three churches previously mentioned gathered in the fortress amphitheater (not in the park, mind you) to discuss the quest for enlightenment – kind of ironic, if you ask me.
Meanwhile, these people were casually strolling around and filming the young queers and allies lounging on the benches outside. To keep things under control, Iulian decided it was best to have most people stay safe upstairs in the designated event room.
The park did get some use in the end, but only the entrance area was utilized, and that was mainly for 5-6 small groups of ten people each, standing and praying together. Ultimately, the whole affair seemed to achieve little more than scaring a few teenagers and young adults.
The Yellow Candle
I don’t think there is much left to say. The light has been cut off and the candles have been lit. The tall boy I once used to do drama club with spoke softly to the people about the idea of not being allowed to exist and be seen in public spaces. People ate peaches and grapes and the ice melted in their coffees.
I heard, once again, someone mentioning democracy, and I thought to myself: how long will it take until we can speak about freedom in the same way?
Edited by Emily Duff