“The mid-1980s should have been our time of celebration. At last, in 1984, male homosexuality—our very bodies—was decriminalised in New South Wales. Yet almost immediately, a new crisis swept in, vast and merciless like a huge tornado.
It began as whispers. Friends who had danced with abandon and filled rooms with laughter suddenly wasted away. Fear spread faster than the virus. Doctors kept their distance. Families abandoned their offspring. Neighbours turned their backs. Those who stayed to care were treated like lepers on a distant island.
Bon could not stand idle. He joined ACON in its fledgling Community Support Network, trained as a volunteer, trained others, and became a visible emblem of compassion. He bathed men abandoned by friends, held hands through endless nights, cooked meals rich with comfort, and restored dignity when all else had been stripped away.
But Bon was more than a carer—he was a beacon. At Hyde Park Candlelight Rallies, his voice carried grief and hope to thousands, flickering with the flames. At home, hollow-eyed, he leaned into my arms. I whispered, “Let me give you healing hugs.” Together we wept.
We feared our rainbow community might not survive this onslaught of virus, fear, and condemnation. Yet Bon’s steady strength reminded us: love endures. Resilience lived not only in marches, but in the meals cooked, the tears wiped, the hands clasped.
Through devastation, we learned to care for our tribe with unconditional love. Buddies sat vigil at hospital bedsides. Lovers wrote obituaries with trembling hands. Friends stitched memory quilts and filled funerals with colour, humour, and music. Where society denied compassion, we gave it in abundance.
Outside, hostility was relentless. Politicians sneered at a “gay plague.” Preachers thundered “God’s wrath!” But inside our circle, candles flared, hands interlocked, and love was whispered into final breaths.
It was a war fought not with rifles but in wards, living rooms, and cemeteries. And still, courage bloomed. We marched. We lobbied. We sang through tears. The Star Observer filled page after page with names, yet love spread fierce and unstoppable.
We lost too many—artists, activists, lovers, friends. Entire futures vanished. And yet, as at the first Mardi Gras in 1978, we rose again. Shoulder to shoulder, we refused to surrender.
Yes. Love is love. And in the end, love won.”
