A Rainbow as Red as Blood

When soldiers of the Soviet Red Army’s 322nd Division liberated Auschwitz on January 27, 1945, they found around 7,000 inmates—most of them sick, emaciated, or dying. Among them was 33-year-old Karl Gorath, a medical orderly from Bad Zwischenahn, near Bremen. Karl had spent several years in the camps after being arrested in 1937 by agents from the Reich Central Office for the Combating of Homosexuality and Abortion, which operated as part of the Gestapo’s Second Executive Department. The combination of responsibilities within this arm of Hitler’s secret police is peculiar—at least in one sense, the Gestapo was a passionate defender of the right to life.

Karl was not persecuted for involvement in abortion, but because he had been denounced by a "jealous lover." He was sentenced to internment under the infamous Paragraph 175 of the German Penal Code, which criminalized homosexuality. The law had been in effect since 1871; the Nazis simply made the penalties far more severe. Nearly 100,000 men were arrested under it over a few decades, not only in Germany but also in annexed territories of the Third Reich. Around 50,000 were convicted, and between 5,000 and 15,000 ended up in concentration camps.

Many prisoners from Alsace were sent to the notorious Struthof-Natzweiler camp near Strasbourg, where Slovenian writer Boris Pahor was also imprisoned. Among them was Alsatian Pierre Seel, arrested by the Nazis shortly after their occupation of the region. In his testimony, he described unimaginable cruelty by SS guards against prisoners held under Paragraph 175. They pulled out their fingernails, forced them into sexual acts with each other, and raped them with wooden sticks. Pierre’s lover, an 18-year-old named Jo, was stripped naked by the guards in front of him, a tin bucket placed on his head, and then German shepherds were sicced on him. The dogs tore the boy to pieces.

Karl Gorath survived the war in Auschwitz, where he had been transferred as punishment for helping Polish inmates. His years in Nazi camps were filled with suffering and unspeakable brutality, but he was lucky enough to live. So was Kurt von Ruffin—also known as Kurtis von Reidffin—a prewar German film actor and opera singer who, before the introduction of the standardized pink triangle, wore a prison uniform marked with a large letter A. The "A" stood for Arschficker—a vile slur that survived the Nazi regime and is increasingly used again today on social media and in the public discourse of certain “dissenting” individuals and public figures.

Not all were as strong, stubborn, or fortunate as Karl, Pierre, and Kurt. Of the 5,000 to 15,000 homosexuals imprisoned in the camps, around 60% died—the highest mortality rate among prisoner categories who were not targeted for total extermination, but for so-called “re-education.” The belief that homosexuality is an illness or degeneracy that can be cured or corrected also outlived the Nazi era and still has many supporters, including in Slovenia.

Accurate figures on how many homosexuals were interned remain unknown, largely because many survivors chose not to reveal the reasons for their imprisonment—and for good reason. Many were re-incarcerated after the camps were liberated, under the same law. The Allies and postwar German authorities—especially in the police and judiciary, where "former" Nazis were plentiful—insisted they serve out the sentences handed down by Nazi courts. When Karl Gorath returned to court in 1947, he was met by the same judge who had sentenced him before the war. "You again!" the judge barked—and sent him back to prison.

Homosexuals were also the only group of Nazi victims who received no compensation for the time and suffering they endured in the camps. In the eyes of the authorities and much of public opinion, “perverts” had gotten what they deserved. Paragraph 175 was not removed from the German penal code until 1969. About 50,000 homosexual victims of Nazi persecution had to wait until 2002 to be formally pardoned. German Chancellor Angela Merkel later issued an official apology on behalf of the government.

Placing the current rise of intolerance toward LGBT+ people in the historical context of Nazi crimes is a sensitive matter—but a necessary one. Today’s hatred is not a repeat, but a continuation. This doesn’t mean calling everyone who denies equal rights to homosexuals a Nazi, or labelling those who feel uneasy around gay people as fascists. But it is absolutely right to confront those who deny others their rights out of prejudice, with the truth about the injustice and suffering caused by political exploitation of hatred toward homosexuals in modern European history.

Prejudices stem from many places—family upbringing, ideological blindness, religious indoctrination, or discomfort with one’s own sexuality. They can’t be eliminated overnight. Dialogue, listening, explanation, and counselling are needed. Changing deeply entrenched prejudice requires patience and time—but not at the expense of respecting human dignity and rights.

A civilized, democratic society that respects human rights and freedoms is based on protecting individuals and minorities from the will of the majority—not on facilitating or legitimizing the violence of the majority against the few.

Understanding this historical context is also important because political attempts to exploit prejudice and hate toward the LGBT+ community are on the rise again. I’m not saying everyone who panders to these instincts is a Nazi, but that doesn’t mean we can ignore the fact that similar emotional triggers—deep-seated prejudice and hatred—are once again being pushed for political gain, just as they were before, with such devastating consequences.

Today, in some parts of Europe, intolerance toward LGBT+ people is growing once again. Equal rights for homosexuals, along with women’s reproductive rights and migrants, have become the scapegoats in a populist triptych. Politicians exploit hatred against these groups to seize or maintain power.

In this light, the first Pride parade in Maribor and the now-traditional one in Ljubljana send a powerful and meaningful message—one that all people of Maribor and Ljubljana, and all Slovenians can be proud of. In defending the rights and dignity of LGBT+ people, we also protect our own rights and our own dignity.

It’s a way of honouring the historic role of the first LGBT organizations in Slovenia, which in the early 1980s expanded the space of political and personal freedom for all Slovenians, regardless of sexual orientation—and which, as a result, faced rage and humiliation from other parts of the former Yugoslavia. The organization Magnus, active within Ljubljana’s student association ŠKUC, did far more for an independent, democratic, and humane Slovenia, than many of today’s self-proclaimed patriots who call gay people slurs in the name of family values.

Those who were upset or angered by the Pride parade in Maribor or Ljubljana, those who think of themselves as tolerant because they’re fine with homosexuality “as long as they do it at home,” those whose mouths are full of insults—think of Karl, Kurt, and Pierre. Before they open their mouths next time, they should think of Jo—and the German shepherds.

They should remember that red in the rainbow is the colour of blood that was shed.

And perhaps some of them will reflect on the fact that, despite all the pain and injustice they have endured—and still endure in some places—homosexuals do not respond with anger or vengeance, but with parades of pride, love, tolerance, and respect for all.

That takes a tremendous amount of humanity, dignity, principle, and courage.

The least the majority can do is follow that example—in their attitudes toward the minority.

For all of us. And so that “never again” truly means never again.