The power of memory and the urgency of now: Why Pride still matters
By Kristi Pinderi
It’s May 2012. A small group of us – just nine friends on bikes – are on the Boulevard of Martyrs in Tirana, Albania. The same boulevard where, every May, the communist regime once staged grand military parades under the watchful eye of dictator Enver Hoxha, who had sealed the country off from the rest of the world. That day, we had decided to hold the first Pride event in Albania, which we called Tirana (P)Ride.
We began pedaling in the rain – soaked, determined – followed by a handful of journalists and a heavy police presence. I still remember the adrenaline, the raw pulse of freedom, the kind of excitement I had never felt before. When a group of young men threw homemade tube bombs at us (the 49th second in that video), I was so charged by the moment I barely registered what was happening. Thick smoke filled the air, but we were unhurt. We kept riding, rain pouring down, all the way to the end.
That excitement came from something deeper: in our minds, our struggle as trans, queer, and LGBTQ+ people was connected to so many other struggles around the world, throughout history. For generations, 2S/LGBTQ+ people have been villainized, erased, suppressed, criminalized, surveilled, blackmailed, arrested, and killed. We’ve been depicted as ‘deviants’ and ‘predators,’ castrated, institutionalized, lobotomized, traumatized, imprisoned, tortured, executed, publicly shamed, excommunicated, fired, denied housing and medical care, disowned by families, excluded from school curricula, pushed toward suicide, harassed online, and threatened in our basic freedoms.
Pride Month – and other days of remembrance – aren’t just for 2S/LGBTQ+ people. They’re for everyone who has lived through and inherited a common past, shaped by a false story – one that excluded some of us simply because of our gender identity, expression, or sexual orientation.
Pride is not just an event. It’s a meeting point between our shared past and our collective future. It begins in the violence of personal isolation – a quiet, everyday violence that keeps many queer and trans people intimidated, lonely, and afraid. That isolation eventually explodes in the form of public protest. That’s why Pride, more than a march or a parade, is a spirit – a force that lives on not through numbers in the street, but in our capacity to recreate and reimagine what it means to exist.
Whether we’ve been directly affected, supportive allies, or simply unaware, there’s something healing about coming together to talk, learn, and celebrate. When we agree that we can no longer accept the conditions of the past, Pride becomes a meeting ground for anyone willing to work toward a better, more inclusive future.
So, understanding that Pride is a healing process – what can we do?
I would say: start by raising your flag. For me, flying the rainbow flag has always felt like an act of self-liberation. It’s a way of saying: I can no longer accept that people in my community are isolated, violated, intimidated, and excluded for who they are and for who they love. By raising the flag, I’m choosing to be part of the collective solution – and to take an active role in it.
Here are four simple ways to symbolically “raise your flag”:
- Change your profile picture on social media to include 2S/LGBTQ+ colors or symbols. Some people may ask about it – an invitation to start a conversation. Not everyone will agree, but some will understand.
- Join a public event dedicated to the 2S/LGBTQ+ community – and share the link with friends! If someone asks why, that’s your golden chance to talk.
- Read a book about 2S/LGBTQ+ experiences or history – and talk about it. This is a collective process of learning more about the people who may already be part of your family, workplace, or neighborhood.
- Display a small sticker on your laptop, your car, or anywhere visible. It may look like just a sticker, but to someone else, it can be a symbol of safety – an invitation to speak, to be seen, and to be heard.
The Pride event I co-founded in Tirana has grown into a powerful space of healing for Albania’s queer, trans, and non-binary community. It grows larger every year. Since 2017, I’ve lived in Canada with my partner. I’ve returned to school, become a social worker, and now serve families and children while also doing research at the intersection of queer studies and child welfare. I’ve attended many Pride events and lived through many Pride Months. But I will never forget that first time in 2012.
One of the journalists – Benet Koleka, reporting for Reuters – pedaled alongside me and asked how I was feeling. I told him: “We made it.” Those three words have stayed with me ever since. We made it wasn’t just about surviving fear or overcoming shame. It was about something bigger: our collective act of re-storying an injustice. It is about resistance and resilience.
Happy Pride.
Let’s keep making it – together. Every day.
