Two Black Boys in Paradise imagines a space where two Black boys can love each other safely. Why did you feel the need to tell this story?

So many queer films and TV shows are so tragic, which reflects part of the queer experience, but it isn’t the whole picture for us. I wanted to show queer love and queer joy, and in particular Black queer love and joy. I hadn’t seen many stories like Two Black Boys in Paradise in the mainstream, certainly not from the British perspective.

Could you ever have imagined that this story, which began as a poem, would one day win the BAFTA for British Short Animation?

At the beginning, we took it one step at a time. Deciding to work together with Ben Jackson and Baz Sells of One6th Animation Studio was easy because they were so passionate about my poem, which we adapted into the film. It was quite hard for them to secure the funding for it, but once that was in place, it was a painstaking journey to make the film. Because it’s a stop-motion animation, it took a very long time, but once it was made, I knew it was fantastic, beautiful, important and would have a huge impact on anyone who saw it. The next stage was getting people to see it, getting the film into festivals, and we entered a lot of film festivals – over 200 submissions to film festivals – and we were selected for over 70 and have won over 30 awards. So when it came to the BAFTA, we were quite far into the journey and I knew how much people loved the film, so I did dare to believe we would win because all the signs were pointing in the right direction.

How did you react when the result was announced?

When the result was announced, I was stood beside my boyfriend and I asked him if I should hug him or kiss him because I knew this would go on TV and I wanted him to feel comfortable. He said I should hug him, so that’s what I did, and then I made my way to the stage to make the acceptance speech, which I had written the night before, and tried to get the words out, though my heart was racing. It was an incredibly overwhelming moment. It was one that felt like a great honour, and I was accepting on behalf of our director and producer, who was stood beside me, and our team of over 100 people that worked on the film, 25 of whom were in the auditorium at the BAFTAs cheering for us.

Did you feel that moment carried a significance beyond your personal achievement as a creator?

It did make me think of when Moonlight won an Oscar, I think because there are so few Black queer films that get mainstream recognition and success. And it felt like a massive payoff for the five years of work Baz and Ben, and the rest of the team, put into the film. I knew how much it was going to mean for them as filmmakers and the opportunities it would create for everyone who worked on the film.

When accepting the award, you spoke about the lack of representation of Black gay men on screen. What is keeping these stories on the margins?

I think we’re seeing great representation in literature and in theatre, but film and TV just cost more money, so there aren’t as many ‘risks’ being taken on things that might not pay off financially for those investors. I hate to talk about Black queer stories as a risk, but unfortunately that’s the language that’s being used when I speak to people in the industry; anything that isn’t straight, white, mainstream is considered niche and risky in terms of finding an audience for it and making back the money spent on it. I’m hoping there are films and TV shows in production that will have this meaningful representation that is so sorely needed.

Cyprus and Jamaica are very different geographically, historically and culturally. What have you inherited from each?

Cyprus and Jamaica were both British Crown colonies, so there is a shared history there in terms of colonialism and my grandparents on both sides coming to the UK as British citizens. I think my grandparents wanted their children and grandchildren to have good educations, to get on in British society and have the good life that they dreamed of having for themselves.

My heritage felt represented in my grandparents’ homes and then in the friends I had from those communities; so my Jamaican friends at school and the Cypriot friends I made at university and in my adult life. I grew up with Cypriot food and, to some extent, the language; although I could understand some Greek, I was never a confident speaker.

Because of my mixed heritage and growing up in London, I’ve always felt like I’ve belonged to many cultures, including British, Cypriot and Jamaican. As I’ve gotten older, I also recognise queer culture as my culture too.

How do these two worlds meet in your writing?

I’ve used Greek and Jamaican patois in my writing, in my poetry, fiction and non-fiction. I will say I’ve written fictional characters with my same heritage, poetry about my family on both sides and my mixed identity. Cyprus tends to feature a little bit more than Jamaica because I’ve come to Cyprus more often.

What did presenting your work at Queer Wave Cyprus mean to you?

I’ve admired the festival from afar and haven’t had the opportunity to visit Cyprus when it’s been on, so I’m delighted that my first time at Queer Wave is to screen a film and lead a workshop. I feel like I am contributing to the community while also benefiting from it. The queer community in Cyprus seems to be going from strength to strength, with various queer organisations and growing mainstream support for the community.

Is it true that your award-winning novel The Black Flamingo began with an image you encountered on the island?

The starting point for The Black Flamingo was the sighting of a real black flamingo on the Limassol Salt Lake in April 2015. That striking visual metaphor spoke to me in a very deep way and unlocked a lot of my feelings about being part-Cypriot but perceived as Black first and foremost.

When did you realise that the difference that once made you feel like an outsider could become a source of strength and creativity?

First, when I did drag performances as The Black Flamingo, dressing up in black feathers and high heels with makeup on, exploring my heritage and identity and celebrating through poetry, lip sync and burlesque. I realised how much I had to draw from in terms of my cultural background and creativity. Those early drag performances felt very liberating for me, and then when I wrote the book The Black Flamingo and put that experience into the character of Michael in the book, it reached so many people, and a character very similar to me became so loved by many, which made me feel loved as well.

You have said that you do not want to write as though you are representing the entire Black queer community, but rather your own experience. Can a personal story nevertheless acquire a collective meaning?

Absolutely. I think of Moonlight again, and I couldn’t put my finger on how the characters are similar to me apart from being Black and queer; however, just the fact of them being on screen, and that film winning an Oscar and straight people and white people going to see the film, made me feel like they might be more cognizant of my humanity because they’ve watched a film about Black queer characters. Similarly, with the TV show Pose, there are some elements of the club scene that were like my own coming of age; however, in the specific scenarios, I didn’t really face as much hardship as the characters did. I think it’s important for that hardship to be shown so that people realise what our community has collectively been through and how that affects us all in one way or another.

Do artists have a responsibility to take a stand?

I think by making art you are making a stand. By spending your time on art, you are saying that art in itself is a valuable thing. Then you may try and make money from your art, or you may spend time trying to get your art out there. Whether you are showing a film in a festival or performing poetry at an open mic or putting your work online, whatever that work is about, you are saying art has a purpose in the world, and that is a stance. For the most part, my work is advocating for the rights and humanity and love and joy of Black and queer people, and that’s because of who I am. And I think if I were a different person, my art would be focused on different issues and communities.

I think it’s important, when you can, to amplify voices from communities you feel are underrepresented, to share your platform, not to speak for people who can speak for themselves. But I definitely think sharing the art of people who are targets of hate or oppression is really important, so I appreciate how Queer Wave is platforming trans people and Palestinian people in the festival, as they’ve been doing for many years.

Looking back, what is the common story you see running through your work?

I think identity and belonging are the common threads, as well as love, whether that’s self-love, familial love, friendship love or romantic love. I love love, and I love writing about it.

I think my writing when I was younger was necessarily angrier. As I’ve gotten older and have a platform, I realise I don’t need to shout to be heard, and so I can be more gentle in my delivery. I can be more nuanced in the ideas I want to convey. I can take my time between putting work out. I can change my mind about things. I can take myself and my work in different directions, and I look at my work as a whole and my own growth, legacy, and try and keep my creativity fresh by trying new things, whether it’s writing for different age groups or writing books, for the screen, for the stage, working with music. I need to get my words out there to a variety of audiences.

What is it that you are still searching for through your writing?

I’m searching for confidence in my voice. I’m searching for beautiful sentences, lasting images, transformative moments, and things that people want to reread or rewatch, and that show something new each time. I’d like my work to be impactful on the first read or viewing. I want it to work on a surface level, on a deeper subtextual level and then also on a lasting subconscious level.

(Cover image: Thomas Sammut)

The organisers said the festival drew more than 2,000 people over ten days and screened more than 50 Cyprus premieres, both shorts and features, from over 36 countries, including Thailand, South Africa, Iraq, Ecuador, Georgia, Brazil and Croatia.

Feature winners

Festival-goers voted for the winners throughout the ten days. Plainclothes, a Sundance-winning psychological thriller set in the 1990s about a closeted police officer tasked with seducing and arresting men at a gay cruising spot, won Best Narrative Feature. A Song Without Home, which follows a Georgian trans woman seeking asylum in Austria, won Best Documentary Feature.

Other screenings included Hafsia Herzi’s Cannes-winning The Little Sister, Ivona Juka’s Cyprus co-production Beautiful Evening, Beautiful Day, Harry Lighton’s Pillion, and a centenary screening of the 1926 Swedish silent film The Girl in Tails. The festival closed with a sing-along screening of Jim Sharman’s The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975).

Other awards

Mathieu Morei’s Yaoi Dumb Bitch, about queerness and family, won Best Mid-Length Film. Best Narrative Short went to Italiano by Mehdi Davachi, an Iranian short about connection and resistance amid political turmoil. Best Documentary Short went to The Jezebels by Thanasis Tsimpinis, about community, sex positivity and safe spaces. Best Animated Short went to Two Black Boys in Paradise by Baz Sells, a stop-motion film based on a poem by Dean Atta.

Workshops and guests

The festival held four workshops: one on queer solidarity across borders with Palestinian artists from DARAQ Crew; a creative writing session led by BAFTA-winning author and screenwriter Dean Atta; a workshop on queer horror with George Rallis; and Trans Talks, a roundtable for trans people and friends initiated by Tanya and Garose.

Visiting filmmakers and guests took part in Q&A sessions. They included British artist Sam Ashby, who presented his anthology and introduced Rosa von Praunheim’s City of Lost Souls as founder of Little Joe; Flora Woudstra Hablé, with her short Destroy Me, Please; and Tsimpinis. Godisamang Khunou, Florenza Deniz Incirli and Merima Šišić spoke after the screening of Daughters of the Tallest Tree, an anthology of five documentaries from four continents co-directed by Cypriot filmmaker Incirli.

Audiovisual installations at NiMAC paid tribute to Paola Revenioti and Andreas Karayian.

Evening events included an audiovisual opening ceremony by φμδ, a drag show by Aphroditios themed on 1980s Berlin, a 20-minute waacking piece titled Tea Party, and late-night sets by DJs and collectives including DARAQ Crew, C’Est Demon!, Electrika, NANA and Trash Your Gender.

The marches will set off at 5pm from Eleftheria Square in the south and Kugulu Park in the occupied north, and meet outside the Home for Cooperation for an evening programme.

The buffer zone was chosen deliberately, the organisers said. It is one of the few places where Greek-speaking Cypriots, Turkish-speaking Cypriots and everyone who calls the island home can gather with as few barriers as possible.

History

The first United by Pride was held in 2022, when two marches from the north and south converged at the UN buffer zone. The organisers describe it as Cyprus’s first intercommunal Pride and the only Pride in the world held within UN-controlled territory. They also say it is the only Pride in the region entirely independent of sponsors and public funding.

According to its founding principles, the event is community-led and community-funded, independent of corporate money and political parties, with no politicians on its stage. Three of the four previous editions ran at a deficit, with the organisers covering the shortfall out of their own pockets.

Programme

Hosted by A Man To Pet, the programme features Karagoza, Caramel, the duo Tutti Canimlar (Isidei Preciado and Eryetis Canbozan) with their act The Kardesans, and performance artist Gravity Grave (George Rallis). DJs Nicholas and Nana will also play.

Political aims

The organisers said they would march for peace and reunification, for all communities living on the island, for Palestinian liberation, and for queer and trans liberation. They would also march for migrants and refugees, who they said are policed on both sides of the line.

Their announcement also pointed to the far right gaining ground in Europe and in Cyprus, and to Gaza, where it said people were still being killed a year into the ceasefire.

The organisers said they knew what a line drawn by someone else does to a place. “We have been living inside one for over fifty years. On 10 October we cross it,” they said.

Details of the artists, safety arrangements, volunteering and donations will be posted on the event’s website and Instagram as they are released.

The artistic director of Queer Wave talks to Phileleftheros about the festival’s evolution, the social pushback it has faced, the need to question our certainties, and a society that, he says, still carries a deep strain of misanthropy.

What exactly do we mean by “queer” today?

The concept of queer started out as a derogatory term, meaning “strange” or “odd,” and ended up being reclaimed and appropriated by the very community it was used to insult, so it could be reinterpreted. I don’t want to think of queer as an identity, but as the outcome of so many identities coming together to create something that is specific, yet can’t be fitted into a mould — because everything is different: every person, every lived experience. I find it fascinating to explore and recognise what queer can mean in each different context. There’s always a relativity to the way each community and each society unfolds historically, in different places around the world. That’s built into the definition of the word itself, a priori: what we understand as queer evolves, and has to keep evolving. And there’s something we already know through the lens of intersectionality: even here in Cyprus, a queer person lives their reality differently depending on their social class, on whether they’re of mixed heritage or a person of colour, as it’s called. I’d go as far as to say someone in the north of the island experiences it differently from someone in the south. Looking at it through queer theory — though I don’t like to dwell there — queer has a kind of futurity to it: it’s what hasn’t arrived yet. If normativity is what holds true today, queer sits outside it, and lets us imagine something that doesn’t yet exist, but will.

It’s interesting that your path to cinema started in physics. How did that transition happen?

I studied physics in London, did a master’s in quantum technologies, and worked in medical physics. And yet, all the while, a longing and a passion for cinema was growing inside me, nurtured by film festivals. I watched alternative, mostly non-commercial forms of cinema that opened windows onto different realities for me. Sharing those experiences, I began to realise that a lot of what I’d suppressed as a teenager or young adult maybe didn’t need to be suppressed at all. Sexuality goes beyond the heterosexual–homosexual binary. It’s a spectrum, even for people who think they know everything about their own sexuality. I believe it’s something that deserves re-examination, and that redefinition is always possible. These questions drew me further into cinema. Through film, I felt I was coming to understand things — both about myself and about society. In 2017, I applied to join the jury of Giornate degli Autori at the Venice Film Festival. When I was rejected, I realised how much it meant to me to be part of that world. I started volunteering at festivals, writing about cinema in London, and interviewing filmmakers. The following year, when I reapplied and got in, something clicked into place. I wanted to discover that world and bring back what I could of it to Cyprus. The fact that certain forms of cinema were missing from the island, combined with my own experience as a queer person, made me want to explore where bringing those two things together might lead.

How much has Queer Wave changed since 2020?

For starters, the first edition was held online because of the pandemic. The festival gradually evolved, and so did its programme. Beyond films, since 2021 we’ve had performances too — from drag artists and musicians to visual artists — and that seems to have helped the festival reach and resonate with circles beyond cinema, and with communities close to the queer community even if they don’t necessarily identify as queer themselves. What matters most to me, in terms of the festival’s long-term trajectory and growth, is that this year’s sponsorship allowed us to grow the team and create more professional working conditions. This year we had 250 submissions, so it matters that they’re now seen by more people, not just by me as artistic director. I never wanted to ask people to give their time and energy for free without being fairly paid. It’s a wider problem plaguing culture in Cyprus — and not only here. We didn’t want to be a festival that exploits its people, in any sense of the word. This year, the team is growing in a good way — new energy, new faces, different ideas are coming in.

Has the audience changed?

Interest had already started building back in 2020, and gradually an audience formed that was hungry for this kind of programming. I’m seeing more and more young people, especially from Gen Z, engaging with queer issues in a more liberated way, and their presence at the festival reflects that. At the same time, though, we get people up to 70 years old, as well as different social and artistic communities. There are no age limits. Talking about this, I’m reminded of Andreas Karayan, with whom Queer Wave has collaborated on joint projects — this year we’re honouring his work with a dedicated installation and exhibition.

Would you say Queer Wave is more of a cultural-activist event, or a cultural one?

It obviously has political dimensions, but that doesn’t necessarily make it an activist undertaking. It’s an action with political impact and significance, but for me, from the start, it was a festival meant to bring to Cyprus a kind of cinema that was missing here.

Why hadn’t it found space in Cyprus before?

The festivals that existed at the time, given Cyprus’s scale and relatively small programmes, picked out a handful of films each year with related content. But these films were certainly absent from commercial cinemas — although English-language ones always fared better. If we think of Barry Jenkins’ “Moonlight,” for instance, it played in cinemas because it was an Oscar contender and used the English language. It’s a queer film, I love it, but if we step outside the English language, mainstream forms of production, yes, there was a huge gap, and Cypriot audiences didn’t get the chance to encounter cinematic forms from other parts of the world.

What matters most to you when choosing a film for the programme?

This year, through conversations with the pre-selection team, I tried to be less rigid about form. Coherence and authenticity matter, but for me, what matters more is whether a film can move you emotionally, and then leave you with something to think about. In a ten-day festival with 67 films, there also needs to be plurality — the same themes shouldn’t keep repeating, and different realities need to be reflected, from femininities and trans experiences to sapphic and intersectional cinema. I think we’re past the point where queer cinema meant, first and foremost, cis gay men making films.

Have you ever faced backlash?

I remember, quite vividly, an MP at the time posting on Facebook that a film festival “normalising deviance” shouldn’t have received funding — and a flood of comments backing him up. More recently, I remember some young men protesting outside the venue, giving Nazi salutes, during the festival. No mob ever actually stormed in, but there has been pushback.

Have you ever self-censored out of fear of backlash?

As someone who thinks things through, there are always moments where you pause and ask yourself whether a choice is right, and why. But I don’t feel I’ve ever backed down on a film I believed in. This year, in particular, the programme includes films that could have fallen victim to self-censorship. Among them is Elliot Tuttle’s “Blue Film,” which stirred controversy worldwide and was rejected by several major festivals. It tackles very difficult subjects in a way that I find genuinely honest. I want audiences to watch it and judge it for themselves, rather than dismissing it outright. In that same territory sit literary works like Nabokov’s “Lolita,” a controversial piece of literature. We might admire the form, the craft — but we’ll obviously question the content and the dynamics between the characters. At the same time, the work itself creates the ground for difficult conversations to open up.

How important to you is Queer Wave’s bicommunal character, and the effort to make the festival a meeting point for the two communities?

It became clear as early as our online festival in 2020 that offering equal access, even on an online platform, wasn’t straightforward — because of rights that couldn’t be granted for territories outside the control of the Republic of Cyprus. That stirred something in us, and made us think about how important it is for actions like this to encourage reconciliation and connection. And historically, there’s something moving to me in the fact that certain battles had to be fought separately: Alecos Modinos in the areas under the control of the Republic of Cyprus, and Hüseyin Çavuşoğlu in the north, both fighting for the decriminalisation of homosexuality. Coming together through a festival like this mattered both to my own sensibilities and to the community that’s formed around Queer Wave. We’ve given, and keep giving, a platform to Turkish Cypriot artists, filmmakers and musicians — this year, Florenza Deniz İncirli is directing one of the films. I think that should really be a given, more broadly.

What do you see as the biggest institutional gap today when it comes to LGBTQIA+ rights?

We know there are gaps, and that exceptions and shortfalls exist in human rights — such as around adoption — while some bills on legal gender recognition, which mainly concern trans people, are still pending. Legally and institutionally, it’s unthinkable that not everyone enjoys the same rights. Of course, we’re seeing regression worldwide, even in countries we used to think were ahead of us on these issues. The notion of democracy as we knew it is being dismantled, and we’re living in cynical times. But beyond the institutional shortfalls, what troubles me more is where we’re heading socially. As far-right sentiment grows, what saddens me more is the misanthropy we carry as a society — and so much else is born from that. There’s a connection between the stripping away of rights, dehumanisation and violence, whether we’re talking about LGBTQIA+ people or the Palestinian people. If we didn’t carry that misanthropy within us, we wouldn’t be able to even conceive of trampling on the rights of any fellow human being, whether Palestinian or LGBTQIA+, and we’d make sure to close the corresponding gaps in our institutions and laws. But this regression across so many areas, and the various waves humanity goes through, have always existed historically. I remember something Judith Butler said this year that stayed with me: whenever we talk about regression, we can draw courage from the fact that a step forward came before it. Without steps in the direction we want, we wouldn’t even be able to talk about a step back.

Are there groups within the LGBTQIA+ community that remain less visible, or face greater obstacles?

LGBTQIA+ migrants, people with disabilities, and trans people are, I think, the clearest examples. More broadly, people with disabilities in Cyprus have less visibility than their fellow citizens. And intersex people — who we might assume make up a tiny share of the population — are among us, and their experiences aren’t discussed nearly enough. When we’re talking about surgeries performed at a very young age, which can cause harm ranging from neurological to reproductive damage, these are far too serious to be carried out without the person themselves understanding what’s happening to their own body. Certainly some people in Cyprus have gone through this too — operated on at a young age, by decision of parents and doctors, without even knowing themselves what had happened. Ultimately, it comes back to the same point: everyone has the right to self-determination over their own body and their own desires.

What would you like audiences to walk away with after experiencing Queer Wave?

I want people to come, even if they don’t identify as queer themselves — because beyond sharing distinctive works of cinema, or having the queer community feel represented through these films, it’s valuable for our own certainties to be challenged too. Let’s not forget that queer people themselves, before their moment of awakening, go through their own internal struggle and pass through different stages: denial, grief, anger, bargaining, and at some point, acceptance and the understanding that people don’t fit into boxes — that everything exists on a spectrum, whether we’re talking about sexuality, gender identity, disability, or so much else. So I’d like people to leave with a sense of unity and harmonious coexistence, with the feeling that it’s okay not to have all the answers. To arrive with questions, and leave with new ones too. And through that process, I think some answers will come too. The most important thing is that people come, get to know it, and feel it as something warm — because we’re living through difficult times. To feel that togetherness, to feel part of something bigger that doesn’t “swallow them up,” but accepts them as they are and welcomes them in.

INFO: Queer Wave 2026 runs at NiMAC from September 18 to 27, with a programme of screenings, performances and side events. More information and the full programme at queerwave.com and on social media @queerwavecyprus.

Banners for the LGBTQIA+ festival were vandalised on Wednesday night, according to organisers, who described it as an attack on queer visibility in public space.

In a Facebook statement, ACCEPT said the act destroyed more than a piece of fabric. It argued the vandalism targeted the idea that any organiser can promote their event and, more dangerously, that a community can publicly declare its existence under its own name.

“Vandalism is not an opinion,” the organisation said, arguing that anyone who disagrees with the festival has every right to say so publicly and in the open. Tearing down banners in darkness, ACCEPT said, is not disagreement — it is a clear message that some people are not entitled to be visible.

ACCEPT said that message extends beyond the queer community and LGBTI movement to every citizen who wants to know whether public space is open to everyone, or only to those who do not “disturb,” and only to those who hide in the dark to intimidate.

The organisation said the Cyprus Constitution and the European Convention on Human Rights guarantee freedom of expression and assembly for everyone — not just the majority — and that the state has a duty to actively protect these rights rather than merely tolerate them. It called on police to investigate the incident with the seriousness warranted by an act targeting a group because of who they are.

ACCEPT said it stands with Queer Wave and everyone creating culture under conditions of intimidation. “Public space belongs to everyone, or it isn’t public — and freedom of expression and assembly isn’t a privilege for the few,” the organisation said.

Queer Wave described the incident as “an attack on queer visibility in public space”, arguing that it should not be viewed as an isolated act but as an attempt to restrict the presence and visibility of the queer community in public spaces.

“In Nicosia, our visibility was attacked,” the organisers said, adding that the incident underscored what they see as the need for queer spaces and cultural events.

Queer Wave said the vandalism would not stop its work.

“We will not let intimidation silence us. We will continue to claim space, tell our stories and build our community,” the organisers said.

The festival, first held in 2020, returns for its seventh consecutive year from 18 to 27 September at the NiMAC exhibition spaces in Nicosia.

Its 10-day programme will include film screenings, performances and other events featuring work by local and international filmmakers and artists, with a focus on LGBTQIA+ experiences and queer expression.

Queer Wave 2026 is organised by the non-profit company Queer Wave LTD and is funded by the Deputy Ministry of Culture and the Department of Contemporary Culture.

Revenioti worked for decades as a sex worker. From the late 1970s, she campaigned for LGBTQI+ visibility and acceptance, becoming a central figure in Greece’s movement. In 1981, she began publishing KRAXIMO, a magazine of homosexual expression. In the 1990s, she organised some of the first Pride events in Athens, a revolutionary step for Greek society at the time.

Over the past decade, Revenioti focused mainly on documentary filmmaking, working with the Paola Team Documentaries group and covering historical, social and political themes centred on those on the margins of society. She also worked as a radio producer at RADIOMeRA. Revenioti joined the left-wing MeRA25 party in 2019 and stood as a candidate in the 2023 Athens A constituency elections, the June 2023 national list, and the 2024 European elections.

Journalist Danae Maragoudaki announced her death in a Facebook post, writing that Revenioti left behind “one of the most important chapters” in queer community history. Through KRAXIMO, her photographs and her documentaries, Maragoudaki said, Revenioti had steadfastly defended freedom and life itself. Maragoudaki, writing alongside co-signatories Eliza Triantafyllou and Vasilis Thanasis, said further details on the funeral would follow later in the day.

In an earlier interview with NEWS24/7’s Panos Kodonas, Revenioti reflected on changing attitudes over recent decades. Trans people, she said, had once been celebrated despite the marginalisation they faced 30 to 40 years ago. Since then, she added, gentrification had changed what society considered acceptable. She was critical of what she called a hypocritical society, saying people today had become anonymous and forgotten how to live and fall in love. She reflected too on her son, saying she was especially proud of him and that he had chosen her rather than the other way round, knowing everything about her and loving her regardless.