“Our goal was never just about protecting our own kids. It was — and still is — about making Iceland safer, kinder, and more human for all trans people,” says María Gunnarsdóttir, a parent of a trans girl and chair of a group called Trans Allies. The group recently kicked off a campaign in Iceland, getting people from all spheres of society to show solidarity with the trans community.
It started, like many things in Iceland, not with a loud protest or a viral campaign — but quietly, around kitchen tables. In conversations between parents who had found themselves standing on unfamiliar ground. Parents whose children had come out as transgender — in a small, tightly-knit society where everybody knows everybody — and where suddenly, questions began to outnumber answers.
Among those parents was Birna, parent of trans kid who started meetings, says María Gunnarsdóttir.
“For a long time I kept hearing the same thing,” María tells me. “That parents needed their own space. A place where they could stand together, learn, ask questions, and — most of all — support their children.”
Our goal was never just about protecting our own kids,” María explains. “It was — and still is — about making Iceland safer, kinder, and more human for all trans people.
Back then, in 2019, Iceland already had organizations like Samtökin 78, the national queer association, and Trans Iceland, a group run by trans people themselves. But there wasn’t yet a place for parents — for those standing beside their children, sometimes bewildered, often protective, always loving.
So María started asking around. She spoke with the chair of Samtökin 78, with members of Trans Iceland. What would it take to build something new?
And then, on January 14th, 2019, she was invited a small group of parents from a closed Facebook community to an in-person meeting.
That was the night Trans Allies — Trans Vinir — was born.
A movement built on listening
From the very beginning, the group knew it wouldn’t be enough to just create a support system for themselves. The work had to look outward. The misunderstanding and prejudice that trans people face — especially in small communities — comes largely from fear and ignorance.
So they began to educate. To translate books about trans experiences into Icelandic. To donate them to every school across the country. To meet with healthcare professionals, with educators, with policy makers.
“Our goal was never just about protecting our own kids,” María explains. “It was — and still is — about making Iceland safer, kinder, and more human for all trans people.”
Being a trans ally, she says, is not a passive label. It means standing up. Speaking out. Learning constantly. Challenging transphobia wherever it shows up — in laws, in language, in the everyday assumptions that shape our lives.
“We thought things would only get better”
When Trans Allies was founded, there was a shared hope that progress would be steady and inevitable.
But reality turned out to be more complicated.
“I think we were naïve,” María says now. “We thought things would just keep getting better. But instead — in Iceland and all over the world — we’ve seen a backlash.”
Much of this backlash is global, she explains, fueled by social media echo chambers and polarizing politics. Figures like Donald Trump, or Iceland’s own populist party Miðflokkurinn, have stoked anti-trans rhetoric and emboldened prejudice.
But prejudice in Iceland often has quieter faces too.
“In a small country like ours, where the language itself is deeply gendered, change can feel threatening,” María says. “People cling to tradition. They resist seeing things differently — even when doing so would simply mean treating others with kindness.”
There are practical challenges too. Healthcare for trans people in Iceland still suffers from long waiting lists, outdated medical attitudes, and undertrained staff.
“I remember when my own daughter came out ten years ago,” María recalls. “The information doctors had back then was so old-fashioned. We’ve come a long way — but there is still so far to go.”
But what people don’t always see is that this hurts everyone. Not just trans people. Not just women. But also men — especially young men — who are being sold this very narrow, violent idea of masculinity.
Everyday battles, everyday love
Some of the most difficult battles are heartbreakingly small.
“The swimming pool, for example,” María says. “In Iceland, swimming is such a big part of life. But for trans people, it can be terrifying. Changing rooms, stares, the constant questioning.”
Sports are another challenge. Even simply having your pronouns respected.
“And this is Iceland,” María says with a wry smile. “A country that likes to think of itself as progressive.”
Yet in everyday life, she says, trans people — and their families — still face disbelief, resistance, even hostility.
“You know, a while ago I wanted to create a photo project,” María tells me. “Ordinary families, with their trans child in the middle. Just everyday moments — playing cards, watching TV, going for a walk. To show that these are just kids, just families like any other.”
But it was hard to find participants.
“People were afraid. Afraid to expose their children to public scrutiny, to online trolls. Iceland is such a small society. We look out for our neighbours — but we don’t always trust strangers.”
Still, María held onto the idea.
“That’s the heart of it all, really,” she says. “This simple message: You are safe with me.”
Ordinary people, extraordinary love: The Polaroid Project
This year, María decided it was time to try again.
It was the International Transgender Day of Visibility — March 31st — and Trans Allies wanted to do something that felt both intimate and powerful. Something that could cut through the noise of online debates and remind people what this is really about: human connection.
So they came up with a simple idea.
One polaroid photo. One sentence: “You are safe with me.”
The plan was to photograph people from all walks of life — parents, teachers, friends, colleagues — each holding a small sign with those words. Nothing staged. Nothing dramatic. Just quiet, ordinary solidarity.
“It was the first time we really stepped into the spotlight like that,” María tells me. “Some of us had done interviews before — on the radio, in the press — but this was different. This was about community.”
And what happened next surprised even her.
“We thought it might be hard to find people willing to be photographed,” she says. “But in the end, everyone we spoke to — everyone — knew someone who was trans or queer. Iceland is like that. Small, connected, deeply family-oriented.”
The photos started to appear online. A tender, defiant collage of faces and promises.
The Boys, The Backlash, And The Fight For The Future
But while the photo campaign felt like a moment of light, María knows all too well the shadows that linger.
A recent Icelandic study revealed a troubling statistic: one in five teenage boys expressed resentment towards feminism, veganism, and trans people.
For María, this wasn’t shocking. But it was heartbreaking.
“So many boys today feel like their masculinity is under attack,” she says. “They grow up in online spaces full of toxic ideas about what it means to be a man. They hear phrases like ‘boys will be boys’ — but what does that even mean anymore?”
Often, she explains, this resentment isn’t rooted in real hate — but in fear. In confusion. In the longing to belong somewhere.
“They look around and feel displaced. And then someone like Trump comes along — or locally, politicians from Miðflokkurinn — and they offer these boys a script: ‘This is who you are. This is who you should be angry at.’”
It works because it’s simple. But the reality of life is never that simple.
Iceland is not an island unto itself
María sees clearly how global and local dynamics feed each other.
“Trump’s influence — his rhetoric, his policies — gave people permission to say out loud things they might have only thought in private,” she says. “And here in Iceland, Miðflokkurinn watched and learned. They borrowed that playbook for their own campaigns.”
The result? Transphobic attitudes that were once whispered now get shouted. Online harassment. Disinformation. A growing boldness from those who want to push back against progress.
“But what people don’t always see,” María says, “is that this hurts everyone. Not just trans people. Not just women. But also men — especially young men — who are being sold this very narrow, violent idea of masculinity.”
She pauses.
“Who benefits from that? Only a tiny, powerful few. The rest of us — the vast majority — we lose out on a kinder, freer, more human world.”
Our feet can do the talking. We can walk away from toxic masculinity. We can walk toward empathy. Toward community. Toward love.
Where do we go from here?
Ask María what gives her hope, and her answer comes without hesitation.
“People,” she says simply. “Ordinary people.”
The parents who show up at meetings, sometimes nervous, often emotional, but determined to stand by their children. The teenagers who quietly support their trans friends at school. The strangers who share a polaroid and say: You are safe with me.
This, she believes, is how change happens.
Not just through laws — though those matter deeply — but through culture. Through language. Through everyday choices.
“We are the majority,” María says. “We are parents, siblings, neighbours, friends. And we get to decide what kind of world we want to live in.”
“Our feet can do the talking. We can walk away from toxic masculinity. We can walk toward empathy. Toward community. Toward love.”
And then, almost like an afterthought — but not really — she adds:
“Let’s not let history repeat itself.”