Brutal attacks on three gay men in Sligo – which resulted in the deaths of two, Aidan Moffitt and Michael Snee, and serious injuries to a third, Anthony Burke – should have triggered soul-searching in Ireland about the ongoing struggles and discrimination faced by the LGBTQ+ community.
Instead, newspaper headlines this week focused on how the killer – who was sentenced to life – met his victims and his mental state: “Gay app sicko” and “Dating app monster”.
In the aftermath, I often heard surprise from straight people that hate-motivated attacks like this could still happen in modern Ireland. There is a prevalent idea that the fight for LGBTQ+ rights ended with marriage equality in 2015. But I heard no disbelief from LGBTQ+ friends. Anger, sadness and shock at the brutality of the killings, yes. But surprise? Never.
“Go die, pedo” because you’re advertising a countryside hike? Welcome to Ireland in 2023
That’s because most LGBTQ+ people are used to living our lives with the threat of danger, especially if we show affection to partners in public or are gender non-conforming. Figures from March 2023 show that hate crimes had increased by 30 per cent over the last 12 months, with LGBTQ+ people the second-most-targeted group after racially motivated attacks. That’s not to mention the underreporting of homophobic slurs, language and threats.
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It’s even worse online. Part of my job at Mayo Pride involves monitoring our social media channels. Literally every post has multiple replies with death threats and slurs. “Go die, pedo” because you’re advertising a countryside hike? Welcome to Ireland in 2023.
These attacks could just as easily have happened in Dublin. But LGBTQ+ people in rural areas have felt them all the more keenly. Added to societal and internalised stigma is the isolation. James O’Hagan of LGBT Ireland points out that the main difficulty faced by LGBTQ+ people in rural areas is the lack of “a connection to community that would reinforce your freedom to be yourself”. O’Hagan adds that “you don’t have the confidence that the services you’re relying on would have progressive views”, which “creates fear about whether you’re able to be open”.
The isolation of older LGBTQ+ people makes them particularly vulnerable. The victims of the Sligo attacks were all in their forties and fifties. The main physical space for them to meet people like themselves in person would have been a bar in Galway, a two-hour drive away. So, even more so than their urban counterparts, rural gay, bi and trans men rely on apps. Grindr, which allows users to interact with a set number of profiles based on distance, is the most popular. But geography plays a big part here, too. In Dublin, your grid won’t get more than 5km away. But in the countryside, your options are very quickly more than 60km from you. The Sligo killer was well aware of this fact: he targeted gay men he perceived as vulnerable, asking potential victims if they lived alone.
Grindr can be a tool to make friends or find romantic or sexual connections, but it can also be a grim place. Particularly in rural areas, there are a lot of blank profiles, adding to a perceived sense of shame. Ageism, racism and body-shaming are rife. Perhaps for these reasons, it is youth-focused: 77 per cent of its users are aged 34 and under.
Aged 19 I tried to take my own life, motivated by a belief that I would never fit in because of my sexuality
For rural LGBTQ+ people, that means there are few to no physical spaces to meet each other and the apps can quickly have a detrimental effect on our mental health. This compounded with a lifetime of societal shame and stigma creates a perfect maelstrom.
But didn’t the Marriage Equality referendum in 2015 fix all this, you might fairly ask? Although that was cathartic, a life defined by shame and a feeling of not belonging cannot be undone in eight years.
Take my example. I’m 37. Aged 18, I was an expert at living a double life and carefully policing my behaviour. It is so painful to me now that I thought this was a normal way to live and never questioned the mental toll it was taking. Aged 19 I tried to take my own life, motivated by a belief that I would never fit in because of my sexuality. Well into my twenties, I kept my boyfriends hidden. I’m far from alone. Research shows that LGBTQ+ people are more likely to struggle with addiction and a 2016 report by LGBT Ireland laid bare the shocking fact that 21 per cent of LGBT people have attempted suicide.
It is so painful to me now that I thought this was a normal way to live and never questioned the mental toll it was taking
A question I get a lot, from both straight friends and while doing press for Mayo Pride, is why do we need Pride events when “there is no straight Pride”? The answer is that old and young, LGBTQ+ people are still subjected to shame and fear. A survey last year by BelongTo found that 76 per cent of LGBTQ+ students felt unsafe at school.
We need to catch up with the rest of Europe by passing the hate crime Bill. And online platforms must be held account for spreading extremist and hateful content.
Pride is also more important than ever. It is the antidote to shame and fear. Gathering together builds communities, which is how we fight back against rising anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric and violence. Rural Prides have flourished in the last few years, driven by hard-working and dedicated volunteers. If you’re LGBTQ+, get involved as much as possible. For the wider community, your support is as vital as ever. Donate to an LGBTQ+ organisation and support your local Pride event.
The murders in Sligo are a sad reminder both of how far we’ve come, and how far we’ve yet to go. The modern Irish LGBTQ+ rights movement was ignited by the brutal murder of Declan Flynn in 1982. The five young men who killed him all walked free with suspended sentences.
This time, justice was swift, and the community has once again shown resilience, courage and strength. But that makes it no less painful to come to terms with the fact that two men died in horrific circumstances, just for being themselves.
If you are rural LGBTQ+ and struggling, LGBT Ireland can help. Call 1800-929539, 6.30pm-10pm Monday-Thursday, 4-10pm Friday, 4-6pm weekends