BOGOTÁ — Anguish is the word David Zuluaga, a 26-year-old Colombian, uses to describe his teenage years, when he realized he was attracted to men. Having always heard of homosexuality as a sin, he could barely process his own orientation. And he came to conclude that this was a problem to be fixed.
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On March 19, Colombia’s lower legislative chamber began to debate a draft law banning so-called conversion therapies known in Colombia as Efforts to Change Expressions of Sexual Orientation, Identity or Gender (ECOSIEG). The bill, known as Inconvertibles (“Unchangeable”), would prevent all forceful and abusive measures on members of the various gay communities (the LGBTIQ+ collective), with the pretext of curing individuals of their sexual orientation or gender identity.
If approved — after several debates and a vote in the Senate — and promulgated, the law would make Colombia the ninth country in the world to ban such practices.
Religious “therapies”
The UN considers such therapies a form torture, and Rep. Carolina Giraldo, a Green Alliance legislator behind the bill, said that the issue is about “non-violence, human dignity and respect for human rights.”
The bill’s opponents allege it will violate other, religious or professional rights. Religious authorities are behind almost half the therapies carried out on gay or transgender Colombians. The global not-for-profit organisation All Out believes around 22% of LGBTIQ+ Colombians have been subjected to such cures — and most were under 20 years old, as was Zuluaga’s experience.
Zuluaga was born in El Carmen de Viboral, a city of 62,000 southeast of Medellín. He was a timid child and always felt he was different though he could not quite tell how. At school he was bullied, which prompted two suicide attempts when he was 11. His family was not particularly religious but was involved with local church, where he was a choirboy.
At age 12, Zuluaga joined a community of Catholic laymen called Lazos de Amor Mariano (“Bonds of Marian Love“), for which his cousin was a local coordinator. As part of this prayer group, Zuluaga said he felt welcome and accompanied for the first time; he learned the guitar, sang, participated in different activities.
“It was my social place, where my friends were and my only support network.”
“I did everything to save money to go on my first retreat. I became a devotee as a missionary,” he recalls, adding that by the age of 13, he was totally involved in the group and its work. Created in 1999 in Medellín, Bonds of Marian Love devotes itself to guiding members toward Christian life.
Today, the association is present in Colombia and 16 other countries. Its members include two conservative Colombian legislators, and the country’s former national police director, Gen. Henry Sanabria, who was dismissed in April 2023 following accusations of harassing police personnel into joining costly spiritual retreats.
Recent investigations have shown that Bonds of Marian Love’s positions on homosexuality and contraception are reactionary; the group is thought to believe in the efficacy of cures or therapies to rid individuals of any gay inclination.
Abuse and isolation
At 14 years old, Zuluaga had his first “cure,” after admitting finding men attractive. “My cousin decided to start my conversion to exorcise ‘the homosexual spirit,’ as they called it,” he said. The process entailed day-long prayer sessions, fasting, putting stones in his shoes and “mortifying” himself for Jesus and Mary so they would help free him.
“It was always treated as a spirit or something that had taken possession of me, of which I had to rid myself,” he said. For more than a year, he undertook fasts, which provoked vomiting and caused a gastric ulcer. The Marians welcomed his constant vomiting as signs the purge was working.
Zuluaga was then isolated from other community members, who were told to pray for his “very strong conversion process.” He said he felt like a “moral leper.”
He was subjected multiple times to the Blessing of Mary the Helper, a day-long ritual performed in retreats that he compares to “a kind of exorcism done by laymen.” The rite involved throwing him to the ground, forceful physical contact and prayers “to remove the homosexual spirit.” Once, a missionary elbowed him in the stomach to make him vomit.
Despite the spite of the traumatic nature of the procedure, Zuluaga said he was convinced the Marians intended “to help him be saved,” so he did not leave the community.
“It was my social place, where my friends were and my only support network,” he said.
The other side of the coin
Aged 16, Zuluaga wasn’t sure if he should go to university after finishing secondary school. His cousin, the Marian director, suggested he embark on a life of solitude and celibacy for Christ, so Zuluaga entered a seminary, with the intention of giving his life back to God, to be pardoned.
Over the first year, Zuluaga noted some glaring contradictions: the priests, spiritual guides and even older seminarians engaged in “sexually suggestive” conduct toward him. He decided the seminary was not his place and left.
After a bout of depression, Zuluaga entered university to discover LGBTQ activism and people who talked openly about their sexuality. These encounters helped him rethink his memories, and conclude that the Marians had simply been abusive and violent. He also reflected on the cost of each retreat and on their failed promises to exorcise the gay spirit.
“Give life a chance to teach you its lessons gradually.”
Today, at 26, Zuluaga’s spiritual nourishment comes from literature, art and the power of symbols to bring people together. He teaches at a secondary school and is convinced that education plays a role in making people compassionate and accepting of diversity. While he agrees with the principle of activism, Zuluaga is happy to live a quiet and honest life.
He fondly recalled the first time he dared make a seductive move: it was with another boy who had left the Bonds of Marian Love after a similar therapy.
Thinking back to the “confused little child” that he was, Zuluaga wonders how he allowed himself such suffering. Today, he would tell his 12-year-old self not to rush to conclusions nor despair.
“Give life a chance to teach you its lessons gradually. The path to self-contempt leads to death,” he says, adding that he would gladly help anyone avoid such torment. He encourages any child who feels different “to see the strength of that difference.”
