Marriage equality 10 years on: 'I lost count of how many times I was called a pervert in my home town'

Irish Examiner

21-05-2025

In May 2015, we made history. We said 'Yes' to marriage equality - a moment of jubilation, national pride, and profound relief. It was a beautiful day. Tear filled. Joyous. But that day came at a cost that has been ignored.
The months leading up to that vote were filled with noise, emotion, and exhaustion. The chaos of the campaign has obscured a fact worth remembering: the referendum was not necessary. It was an act of political cowardice.
I acknowledge Ireland has a tradition of using referenda to expand rights. Divorce and abortion are clear examples - but those votes were constitutionally required. Divorce was explicitly prohibited in the 1937 Constitution (thanks Dev) and abortion became a constitutional issue after the Eighth Amendment was introduced to prevent the expansion of rights.
Marriage equality was different. The Constitution never prohibited same-sex marriage. The KAL case didn't find a right to marriage equality, but it didn't establish a prohibition either.
Legal scholars were clear at the time: the government could have legislated for marriage equality. There was no constitutional requirement for a referendum. That didn't matter, as soon as the possibility of a vote presented a potential political cover, politicians ran for it.
They could have used their power to grant equal rights, but shirked that responsibility. Instead they made a community plead for equality on the doorsteps of their neighbours. Then they wrapped themselves in the rainbow flag, claimed the victory, and ignored the damage their decision had caused.
That moment of Yes was extraordinary. But it didn't belong to them. And the moment doesn't erase the difficult path to get there.
A survey conducted after the referendum found that fewer than ​​one in four LGBT+ people would be willing to go through it again. More than two-thirds of LGBT+ people reported experiencing distress during the campaign period. For us, it was not ordinary advocacy. It was painful, exhausting, and, at times, dehumanising.
Don't misunderstand me, I was proud to campaign with Yes Equality Galway - it was one of the best groups I've ever belonged to. There was joy in the solidarity. We ate a lot of ice cream. We laughed, a lot. Galway women are the funniest people on the planet, and if you disagree I will point out that Nicola Coughlan and Pauline McLynn were among our volunteers. It was a special community.
But make no mistake: it was also an emotionally challenging and deeply unfair experience. Knocking on doors as a ​single ​queer 20-something to ask strangers if you could hypothetically be allowed to marry someday was both surreal and humiliating.
I lost count of how many times I was called a pervert in my hometown. A decade on, I still feel a little unwell walking down some particularly difficult streets.
And because of the nature of a public vote, we had little choice but to smile through it all. To be polite and positive when people told us we were unnatural, a danger to children, or simply 'wrong'.
We were constantly assessed - our rights debated, our lives scrutinised. And while we kept it together, it hurt. And that hurt left​ ​a mark.
One of the most damaging dynamics of the time was the pressure to come out. This hit all LGBT+ people, not just advocates. The narrative shifted in those months. It stopped being 'come out when you're ready' and became 'talk to your family. Make it personal. Challenge their thinking.'
I still think of those ​young ​people. It won't have gone well for all of them. And even where it did, I regret that their coming out will have been tied to a plea for compassion rather than a desire to be your true self with the people you care about.
The politicians who celebrate the marriage equality vote as their legacy still refuse to acknowledge the unfairness attached to the referendum, and their role in it. They acted out of a desire for public approval, not political courage. Despite the pride flags they donned on stage, they continue to ignore the inequalities still facing LGBT+ families.
The referendum's affect globally
We also need to confront what our referendum symbolised globally. Ireland's vote became a blueprint for other ​countries.​​ In Australia, a postal survey replaced a referendum. They cited Ireland as their inspiration. In Taiwan, the popular vote on marriage equality failed - devastating for that community.
On the other side, referendums to restrict LGBT+ rights have gained popularity globally. We didn't simply find a novel path to marriage equality, we helped legitimise the idea that minority rights should be subject to popular vote. That's not a legacy we should be proud of.
I hope Ireland remembers not just the day we said "Yes", but the ​work​​path​ that brought us there. I hope we remember the names and faces of those who knocked on doors, who told their stories, and the generations of activists who fought for a fairer, freer Ireland.
This victory is theirs, and theirs alone.
Maria Ni Fhlatharta is a legal researcher and human rights advocate. She is Deputy Director of the Center for Inclusive Policy and Co-Chair of the Disability Rights Fund