Erfana Barbad: ‘Change can only happen if everyone unites.’

Published April, 2025
by Lucia Udvardyova

I saw Erfana speak with vigour and deep dedication to her pursuit of community and underground culture during a panel discussion on queer safe spaces held at the Budapest club Turbina — the same club where Erfana throws her popular Kink Budapest parties. This took place just a few days after Hungary’s prime minister declared that the organisers of Pride Budapest shouldn’t even bother planning the annual event this year, as it would be shut down. (The constitutional amendment effectively banning Pride and proclaiming people are only male or female was passed on 14 April – more info here). A sense of urgency pervaded the air — a need for togetherness that Erfana embodied so powerfully. When we meet for our interview several days later, I realise that Erfana has already lived several lives in her less than three decades of being on this planet, with all the trials and tribulations of “not fitting in” and having to overcome the often cruel heteronormativity of her surroundings. A strange twist of fate led her from Iran, via Turkey, to the increasingly authoritarian Hungary, an EU country she sought as a refuge from the oppressive environment of her homeland. Her escape brought neither relief nor resolution but instead reinforced her love for music, DJing, organising events and the music community at large, which became her anchor and spiritual home.  

I was at the talk that you gave last week focusing on queer safe spaces in the club scene. You touched on how you got to Hungary and your musical roots. Maybe we can revisit this and go back to your first encounters with music and the music scene you’ve become part of.

It is very connected to my identity and my individuality. What you see right now, what you hear right now — my artistic personality — has been entirely shaped by my experiences back in Iran and later, while emigrating from Iran.

My first musical experience was at the age of nine. I was passionate about the piano and started taking lessons. I was really into it, practicing diligently. Unfortunately, my teacher wasn’t the kindest person, especially towards boys or students who appeared masculine. He was particularly harsh with me because of my differences and the way I was playing. He would say things like, “You’re a boy, press the keys harder.” He was constantly making me feel bad about myself, singling me out. Eventually, I stopped going to piano classes. Later on, I got introduced to a very traditional, ancient instrument called the jaw harp. It kind of looks like a key—you place it against your teeth, cover it with your lips, and create sound by blowing and inhaling. I stumbled upon this instrument through a friend and started practicing with it a lot, trying to figure out how to play it, as it’s very hard to make sounds with it. I was committed to practicing every day, learning to play different sounds with it.

Later, I got into another traditional Iranian instrument called the Tombak, which is basically a percussive instrument that has a round shape and looks like a big cup. It’s made of wood and covered with animal skin. I was drawn to its deep, rhythmic sound, which really resonated with my body and soul. Around the age of 16 or 17, I started taking Tombak classes and really enjoyed them. However, during this time, I was also discovering my sexuality as a homosexual person, embracing what I was discovering in myself and exploring it. I started to change how I looked and my overall style. The teacher I had at the time initially seemed modern and open-minded but began making sexist remarks about my transformation, commenting on my appearance and the way I dressed. One day, he made a particularly hurtful comment, and I stopped attending those classes as well.  This made me lose a lot of motivation because it was the second time I’d had a negative experience when learning music from teachers and institutions.

For me, music is something deeply spiritual. Back home, I witnessed behaviour from people in the music scene that was neither accepting nor welcoming of who I was, and I lost my motivation. By the age of 18, my mom discovered the truth about me; I couldn’t hide it from her anymore. I had to come out as a homosexual person, and this coming-out process was the most hardcore experience of my life.

From the age of 18 to 21, there was a long process of my parents trying to understand me—or rather denying me, ignoring me, and trying various methods to “cure me”. I basically disconnected from everything because I was struggling with something truly massive and painful. I lacked the motivation or even the mental capacity to pursue what I really wanted to do and learn and experience in life because I was fighting for my right to exist and trying to prove to my parents that I was still a person, that there was nothing wrong with me. I simply had different sexual preferences than the majority of society. Due to the influence of religion, culture, and all the changes after the Islamic Revolution in Iran, people really didn’t get any education about gender topics and the diversity of sexual preferences. My life kept getting harder and harder, and I realised things were not going to work out.  I decided to leave Iran—a decision I’d long contemplated because of my feelings of not belonging. People couldn’t see me or understand me. All the pressure around my coming out pushed me to give up and finally go. I travelled to Turkey and sought asylum there.

I ended up living as an asylum seeker in Turkey for a year and a half, hoping things would get better. But honestly, it was even worse than back in Iran because I would say people in Turkey are even more conservative and less open-minded than Iranian people. As an asylum seeker in Turkey, I didn’t have any rights as a human being. Turkey is not a country that accepts refugees; it’s just a temporary host country. They literally didn’t offer any help or support, not even the right to work, which made life so difficult there.

During my time there, things were moving very slowly because the U.S, which had been taking the majority of asylum seekers from Turkey, stopped taking Iranians due to Trump’s travel ban on certain countries, including Iran. All my refugee friends who were in Turkey, especially queer friends, had been stuck there for years. I spent a year and a half without even getting my first interview. Everything was pending, and life was really hard because I didn’t have the right to work and support myself and I wasn’t receiving any support or help from anyone or any organisations.

I pretty much lived illegally in Istanbul because I was supposed to live in another nearby city. However, I didn’t want to live there, as it was a small city and very conservative. Every day I lived with the fear of being illegal—everything I did was illegal: going to work, living there, everything was illegal. This constant fear left me with no mental space to explore my musical journey, as I was basically just trying to survive, day to day.

Eventually, I decided to move back to Iran. The period of me being in Turkey had made my parents a bit more understanding of who I was, and they started to become more supportive, inviting me to come back. Long story short, I was planning to stay back in Iran for some time and then move somewhere else. But because of my activist background and participation in a queer-related documentary in which both my voice and face were visible, I started to fear for my life in Iran. It was time to leave again. And the easiest and fastest option at that point was to go to Hungary.

That sounds quite ironic since Hungary is one of the most anti-refugee countries in the EU.

Well, I came to Hungary as a student and didn’t go through the asylum process, because once you apply as a student, it’s easy. Within two or three months, I managed to get my visa and moved to Hungary. My plan wasn’t to stay here; I just chose Hungary because it was in Schengen and the EU, which would allow me to move somewhere else. But then COVID happened. I’d been thinking about moving to London, but because of COVID and Brexit, I kind of got stuck here in Hungary. Being at home because of the lockdowns and not having things to do outside of the home made me more comfortable and gave me space and time to discover and explore what I’d always been drawn to: dancing and music.

I was increasingly attracted to music, especially electronic music and techno parties, because most of the people who attended them were going there for the community, for the music. Everyone danced on the dance floor in front of the DJ without forming exclusive circles, trying to pick someone up, or being drunk or disruptive. Techno parties and electronic music parties became my safe spaces, my sanctuaries.

I wanted to become a part of this world. I started by watching random videos on YouTube of different DJs, paying attention to how they played and what they did technically. During the pandemic, there were obviously no parties at clubs, but I started attending small private house parties instead. There would be controllers, speakers, sound systems, and friends—they were safe spaces. This was the time I enjoyed myself most and learned the most. Because they weren’t in a club but private homes, I could get really close to the DJs without bothering them and just watch what they were doing with the controller and all the pitches, buttons and faders. I started by just looking, observing, and learning, and sometimes even got to mess about with the controller, getting a feel for it.

I asked some of my DJ friends to teach me, but some of them were more like professional DJs and used more technical language, which wasn’t so understandable for me then. But one day, a friend who was also still learning explained the basics to me in his own language, in simple terms that I could finally understand.

That was the first time I could truly understand how a controller worked. Once I grasped it, I started playing and realised that I had both a knack and a very deep passion for it. This motivated me even more, and I started saving up money to buy a controller for myself. Later, another friend, who was a resident DJ at a club here called Morrison’s, taught me more and eventually invited me to play and practice there. This meant I could experience playing on a real dance floor for people who weren’t just my friends, helping me build up my confidence as a DJ to perform in an actual club.

I did this for probably two or three months—most weeks, going to the club, playing for a few hours, and then heading back home. One day, at a house party where there was a controller, I started to play with one of my friend’s tracks, and he was really amazed by how I played and ended up inviting me to play at his party, which was in January 2021, if I recall correctly. So I finally got my first gig and started to take things more seriously. It was time for me to come up with an artist name. While searching for a name, I wanted something connected to my roots, so I looked for Persian names related to music, sound, or dance, and I discovered the name Barbad.

Barbad was the first official music conductor and composer in Persian history, named after the goddess of music and beautiful sounds. I chose this name because I felt really connected to it. I also found out that Barbad in Hindu means something like destruction and chaos. And that made me even more connected to it because I had found another meaning in another culture and language. As someone who wants to break and dismantle the boundaries and binaries, I felt even more connected to the meaning of Barbad in Hindu—destruction and ruin. That was the beginning of my professional DJing career—with my first performance at a club called Arzenál. I started to get numerous gigs and offers within a short time, which really surprised me, as I was honestly not expecting to grow that fast.

I continued to play more and more, driven by my excitement and basically accepting almost every request I received from parties. Back then, my sound was a bit harder and faster with more vocals in it. But when I saw that hard and fast techno was becoming trendier and more commercial, I took a step back for some time to reflect and ask myself, “Do I really want to play something mainstream that doesn’t have an identity behind it, or do I want to play something more authentic and tell a story?”

I started to struggle a bit with direction and how I wanted to continue in my music career. Around that time, I traveled to Berlin and went to a queer party called Mala Junta, one of the most famous queer parties in the city. I already had a good connection with them because I had invited them to Budapest for one of my Kink parties before my trip to Berlin. I had the best time of my life going to their parties, and afterward, I went directly to Berghain and ended up partying for two days in a row. The music scene was very different from what I’d been seeing and hearing in Budapest, which was starting to give me a more superficial vibe.

I even started to feel disconnected from the crowds on the dance floor in some of the parties I was playing in Budapest. That Berlin trip and my encounter with the queer community there opened up a new door for me and my musical journey, introducing me to a new type of monotonous music with fewer vocals.

When I returned from Berlin, I started to build my career around this new sound I had discovered there. I did a lot of research into producers who were making this type of music and DJs with a similar style. I started to switch to this new sound, and it took a year until people started to recognise my new sound.

At the same time, I was also organising events.

I had started organising events even before officially starting to play because I always felt there was a lack of queerness at the parties I attended, and also a lack of a feeling of safety and comfort. I don’t mean that the parties in Budapest were unsafe and that harassment or attacks were an issue—it wasn’t like that at all. But I wanted to go to a party where there were no phones, where nobody was filming you, so you could just dance freely however you wanted and enjoy yourself.

I experienced this feeling once at an OMOH event, but unfortunately, OMOH shut down. That’s when I realised that maybe it was time to do my own thing. I had a friend who was already involved with the music and party scene as an organiser, and we started talking, sharing our opinions and ideas, and putting them on the table. What started with two people eventually became a group of five, and together we launched a party series called Kink. Initially, the sound was quite hard because harder music was more underground at the time. However, once we saw that this type of music was becoming more commercial and mainstream, bringing in people who didn’t really align with the openness and queerness we envisaged, we decided to switch to a more monotonous, hypnotic, and groovy sound. We started to build the Kink community by providing a safe and comfortable space for open-minded and marginalised people, not necessarily queer but marginalised in society in some way or another and not welcomed or accepted at other parties.

It took us a long time to create all that. I think it was even a bit more challenging because we were in Hungary. There was a time when it seemed that Kink could become more mainstream, but we didn’t let that happen because, for all of us, it wasn’t about making money from a party. It was about building a community in Hungary, in Budapest, where people like me, people who are queer, people who are different, could have a place to gather to spend some quality time with each other and enjoy high-quality music in the safety and comfort that we provide. Besides Kink, I also run another event in Budapest called HIR, a FLINTA & QTIPOC party series celebrating diversity and inclusion.

While I was happy with what was going on with Kink, I still felt that it wasn’t the  most comfortable place for people like me—non-binary or trans. So, I wanted to create something specifically for trans and non-binary individuals, and I called the event HIR, a gender-neutral pronoun, combining male and female pronouns—him and her. I didn’t want to turn it into an event about partying and making money; it was more about building a community, especially for FLINTA and BIPOC communities, the most marginalised groups in society, so they could get closer to each other. I wasn’t fully focused on the music but rather on the vibes and the unity we could create. I felt that in Budapest, people didn’t hang out together and tended to keep a distance from each other.

For example, gay men often only hung out with each other and weren’t very close to lesbians. Lesbians would stick together, and trans people kept to their own groups too. I wasn’t happy with this separation, and I wanted to create something that brought people closer to each other and made them realise that despite our differences, we can enjoy each other’s company.

How did it all go with this event? What were your impressions?

Since the focus of HIR was on marginalised communities, and given that marginalised people have fewer opportunities in society and experience more pressures in their daily lives, I wanted to keep this party affordable—either offering free entry or keeping ticket prices very low. I also started offering solidarity tickets to FLINTA and queer community members who were unemployed or under financial strain. I really wanted to bring the community together. The artists were also playing for less than their usual fees, just to support the idea of HIR, which was very heartwarming. But things started to change in the club scene because of all the economic and financial issues in Hungary. I basically could no longer find any venues where I could make free-entry parties happen.

This put me in a very stressful situation. As much as I’m dedicated to the queer community, I didn’t want to do something that was going to get me into trouble, because, at the end of the day, I’m also a marginalised person. I’m a Middle Eastern immigrant here in Hungary, a trans non-binary person who is also struggling financially. So, I decided to put HIR on pause. 

The Hungarian government just passed a law that basically bans Pride. There have been laws in place for a while that target LGBTQIA+ people on several levels—and the oppression is getting progressively worse. As we know, the government is not exactly friendly to foreigners either. On the one hand, what you do in Budapest is as important as ever, but on the other, it is understandable that a lot of people who oppose the government’s rhetoric become exhausted and consider leaving (following the many who have already left over the past 10-15 years).

As for me personally, the changes in the immigration laws in Hungary have made it impossible for me to get permanent residency, even after living here, working, and paying taxes for six years. I don’t want to gamble my life on this situation here right now. I’ve always struggled in life—growing up in Iran, a homophobic country; being a refugee in Turkey, another homophobic country; coming with lots of hope to Europe but ending up in one of the most homophobic countries in Europe—and things are only getting worse.

So, I’m now trying to move from Hungary and settle in a more stable country, a more open-minded and supportive country and society. I’m just one person, but I’ve been trying to build a community, bring people closer to each other, unite them, and show them that if we unite, we can make changes in society, no matter what we face.

People are more neutral here in Hungary, and I feel that maybe it’s not my duty and responsibility to carry the weight of it all. I feel sad that it’s going this way because I was genuinely trying to make some changes and improve things. A few weeks ago, there was a demonstration in support of trans people. I was honestly expecting to see a bigger crowd, but I didn’t even see most of my friends there. This moment made me pause. I thought, okay, maybe it’s enough. I shouldn’t put energy into something that isn’t going to happen because I’m not a god who can change everything. Change can only happen if everyone unites.

But still, my heart remains with this country and this place because it has been my home for six years. I started to finally feel more comfortable with myself here and had the chance to explore and discover my gender identity. I finally embraced the fact that I’m a non-binary person and, later on, also discovered the trans side of myself.

Even if I move away from Hungary, I hope to stay in Europe, as I don’t feel that anywhere else is going to be a good option at the moment. If I do go to another country in Europe, I still want to continue what I’ve been doing here in Budapest. I will do my best because I feel a strong connection and dedication to this city, to this country, and to the community here.

Interview: Lucia Udvardyova
Photos: Zsuzsi Boross

This article is brought to you as part of the EM GUIDE project – an initiative dedicated to empowering independent music magazines and strengthen the underground music scene in Europe. Read more about the project at emgui.de.

Funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are however those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or the European Education and Culture Executive Agency (EACEA). Neither the European Union nor EACEA can be held responsible for them.