How constitutional change in Slovakia reshaped identity, democracy, and everyday life.
Zlatica Maarova came home to Slovakia in 2017 after more than 20 years abroad, spent in Belgium, France, Colombia, Singapore, and South Africa. She has three children; one daughter is married to a woman in the United Kingdom and is the mother of three children.
“When we returned,” she says, “the situation in 2017 was much better than today.” Not good at all, she explains, but society seemed less polarized and the then legislation was less anti-LGBTI+. Today, even in Bratislava, considered the country’s most open city, tension is palpable, Zlatica says. She recounts the story of a transgender boy whom teenage peers repeatedly assaulted and a gay couple who were physically attacked in a restaurant in the middle of the city. “Politicians give courage to those who want to attack,” she says.
A major step toward the current atmosphere occurred on 26 September 2025, when the Slovak parliament approved one of the most radically “values”-oriented constitutional revisions adopted in Europe in recent years. With 90 votes out of 150, the majority inserted into the constitution a series of principles that strictly redefine identity, parenthood, and the state’s “ethical sovereignty.” The reform legally recognizes only two sexes, male and female, understood as biologically determined; limits adoption to married couples composed of one man and one woman; and affirms Slovakia’s sovereign competence in ethical and cultural matters, claiming the primacy of national law over European and international law in these areas.
For supporters, it represents a reaffirmation of the country’s constitutional identity and a defense of the family as a pillar of society. For many others, however, the reform marks a setback for civil rights and a worrying signal for the balance between the rule of law, minority protection, and European integration in this Central European country.
Peter Jozefik, a Slovak activist, says the constitutional reform is the culmination of a long process that has been unfolding for more than a decade. After 2010, the term “LGBT ideology” began to appear steadily in Slovak political discourse, he says – first at rallies, then in election campaigns, and finally in legislation. The decisive symbolic turning point came in 2014, when the constitution was amended to define marriage as a union between a man and a woman. Since then, Jozefik argues, the country has continued in the same direction, progressively narrowing the space for recognizing LGBTI+ people.
Today in Slovakia, same-sex couples cannot marry or adopt. One of the few openings came from the European Court of Justice, which ruled that European Union member states must recognize same-sex marriages legally contracted in other EU countries, at least for the purposes of free movement and family life.
In theory, this should guarantee minimal protection at least for Slovak couples married abroad. In practice, Jozefik says, implementation has been chaotic: “It depends on the office, sometimes on the individual official.” The government presents these rulings as “pressure from Brussels,” without providing clear administrative guidelines, he says. The result is a legal vacuum that creates uncertainty and, in his view, is not accidental.
The Rule of Law Question
The tightening of civil rights, according to several observers, is part of a broader institutional transformation. Jozefik speaks of a “gradual drift”: no spectacular rupture, but a thousand small interventions. In the past two years, the criminal code has been amended 11 times. Several revisions have affected proceedings concerning corruption and organized crime. After Prime Minister Robert Fico returned to power in 2023, some provisions weakened or halted cases involving political figures or their allies. Particularly controversial was the revision of rules governing cooperating witnesses, a tool that had previously helped solve mafia-style murders from the 1990s. Other amendments introduced new offenses, such as “obstruction of an electoral campaign,” and provisions perceived as favorable to individual political figures.
The civil code too is being revised to restrict previously recognized rights: a proposal in the draft code introduced by the government would automatically end a marriage when one partner legally changes their gender.
The emerging picture is one of a gradual weakening of democratic checks and balances, within which the LGBTI+ issue becomes a symbolic battleground.
This interpretation is echoed by Lucia Plavakova, a member of parliament and deputy chairwoman of Progressive Slovakia, an opposition party. She argues that the recent constitutional changes are primarily part of Fico’s master plan for dividing the opposition – this time by leveraging Christian Democrats’ support of “value” issues. She speaks of a “symbolic erasure” of same-sex parent families, rendered legally invisible by the exclusive definition of mother and father, and warns that introducing the principle of two “biologically determined” sexes may have serious consequences for intersex and transgender people.
In Plavakova’s view, the reform goes beyond family morality and forms part of a broader strategy that began with campaigns against the Istanbul Convention on preventing and combating violence against women and domestic violence, as well as the failed 2015 referendum, which conservative groups promoted to limit the rights of same-sex couples, built on alarmist narratives, which deeply polarized Slovak society.
Katarina Medlova, human rights officer at Amnesty International Slovakia, agrees that the constitutional amendment approved last September does not introduce new restrictions on LGBTI+ rights out of nowhere, but consolidates and “locks in” an already discriminatory situation. Amending the constitution requires 90 votes out of 150, making any reversal much more difficult.
The new constitutional recognition of only two “biologically determined” sexes risks particularly affecting non-binary, intersex, and transgender people, according to Amnesty, making an already uncertain and often discretionary legal gender recognition process even more complex. The reform also reinforces an exclusive definition of family – mother as a woman, father as a man – and limits adoption mainly to married heterosexual couples. Other families, Medlova observes, do not cease to exist but remain without recognition and are therefore exposed to concrete vulnerabilities in areas such as healthcare, inheritance, and parental responsibility.
Particularly concerning is the clause asserting state sovereignty over “national identity” and “cultural and ethical issues,” undefined categories that, according to Amnesty, could be used to challenge the application of obligations stemming from European or international law. Despite warnings from bodies such as the Venice Commission and independent experts for the UN Human Rights Council, the government continued the legislative process, while more than 80 civil society organizations called on the European Commission to initiate infringement proceedings, an indication that the legal and political battle is far from over.
The Birth of a Parents’ Support Group
Zlatica Maarova, the returnee who spent all those years abroad, is a co-founder of the Association of Parents and Friends of LGBT+ People, a network that today brings together several hundred like-minded members, many of them parents with “rainbow” children. Zlatica’s daughter, married to a British citizen, chose to keep only her British passport to ensure greater protection for her children. Their first child was born in Austria, where both mothers could be listed on the birth certificate. The twins were born in the United Kingdom. In Slovakia, however, the marriage is not fully recognized, and the non-biological mother found herself in a legally fragile position: during the pandemic, she was not entitled to paid parental leave nor full, formal access to medical decision making. Family care benefits were rejected.
“Officially she couldn’t even go to the doctor, hospital, or kindergarten with the child,” Zlatica recalls. In daily practice, doctors and officials are often understanding. But the absence of legal recognition remains.
In 2020 – from this personal experience and the experience of another mother, Elena Martincokova and her son Dusan – the Association of Parents and Friends of LGBT+ People was born. The idea took shape during the COVID-19 pandemic, initially online. Two mothers – one from the capital Bratislava, one from Kosice in eastern Slovakia – their husbands, and their children, began exchanging experiences and looking for other parents in similar situations. They then created a Facebook group with strict access criteria: preliminary interviews, verification, and privacy protection.
Today the group has around 400 members, including families from small cities and rural areas. Its main activity is mutual support provided through biweekly online meetings, daily group sessions, and one-on-one conversations between members. The second activity is fostering empathy within society: by organizing online community meetings as well as development and support workshops with professionals. They also hold get-together weekends twice a year, and host discussions, give interviews in media, and participate in Pride events in Slovakia and the Czech Republic.
In 2024, the association published a book, Nieco ti chcem povedat (There’s Something I Want to Tell You), featuring 15 stories from Slovak parents and supporters about their experiences. Two thousand copies were printed, a significant number for the Slovak market, financed through a fundraiser that garnered 12,000 euros. Association members give presentations about the book in bookstores, libraries, cultural centers, and small towns. These are not rallies, but public conversations. Parents who have written stories always take part, and sometimes new testimonies are added.
“The most important thing is the sense of belonging,” Zlatica explains. “When a parent finds out their child is gay or trans, or bi or non-binary, they often feel alone. Here they realize they’re not the only ones. There are many myths in society, such as that bisexual people are promiscuous and unfaithful, or that it’s just a phase, that transgenderism is just a fad, it didn’t exist before. It is hard to listen to this nonsense.”
The association defines itself as non-partisan and non-denominational, a strategic choice. In a polarized society, taking a party position could alienate many parents who need support but fear public exposure.
Then there is religion, an unavoidable issue in Slovakia, where Catholicism carries significant social weight. Zlatica’s experience from Catholic Colombia is very different. There, queer people benefit from full legal rights, including marriage and adoption. Why not in Slovakia? Zlatica recounts hearing openly hostile sermons toward LGBTI+ people in some churches, making it even harder for many believers to accept their children’s identity. Yet the association also includes deeply religious parents who reinterpret their faith in an inclusive way. “They tell us: ‘the core message is love, not exclusion.’ ” Some find more welcoming Protestant communities; one mother switched to the far more queer-friendly Old Catholic Church, while others have left their churches altogether. Others remain in the Catholic Church but with a critical perspective. The association focuses on practical experiences: how to navigate coming out, how to change documents, how to respond to discrimination, where to find an inclusive doctor, psychologist, and so on.
Parents “Coming Out”
A rarely discussed aspect is the parents’ “coming out.” When a son or daughter comes out, parents also find themselves having to explain the situation in their own social circles: at work, among friends, in the neighborhood.
“It’s always the whole family that’s involved,” Zlatica says, explaining that the decision affects not only the LGBTI+ person, but also siblings, grandparents, uncles, cousins. The association encourages linguistic normalization: not saying “my son is gay” as if it were a dramatic confession, but speaking naturally about “his partner” or “her partner.” Making the ordinariness of relationships visible is, in their view, a powerful form of cultural change.
After nearly 10 years back in Slovakia, Zlatica’s daughter Anna and her wife Florence find it increasingly hard to live in the country, despite no concrete plans to leave due to their work commitments here. “It’s very sad,” Zlatica admits. “She was born here. They both work for Slovakia to improve our education system.”
This sentiment echoes that of Roman Samotny, head of communications and fundraising for the Inakost Initiative, an LGBTI+ community center in Bratislava. He says a growing number of LGBTI+ people are considering emigrating to the Czech Republic, Austria, or other European Union countries.
Civil society’s response to the constitutional clampdown lies first and foremost in daily grassroots work, he says, adding that Inakost was created not thanks to the national government but despite it, with support instead from the municipality and progressive local administrations. In recent years, national public funding has been reduced or denied, even for accredited services supporting victims of violence and discrimination. Today the organization can provide free legal and psychological counseling only through alternative sources of funding, in a context where requests for help – especially from transgender people, a primary target of political rhetoric – have risen following the constitutional amendment and the intensification of hate speech in parliament and the media.
Roman describes a strong impact on mental health: difficulties in changing documents, everyday bureaucratic obstacles, constant pressure on social media, distrust toward professionals who may be homophobic or transphobic, and the high cost of psychotherapy in a country experiencing a slow post-pandemic recovery and high regional inequalities. Like others, he too, situates this phase within a longer process that began around 2013 with organized campaigns against so-called gender ideology, amplified by the language used by backers of the 2015 referendum and by disinformation narratives.
At the same time, he observes a growing fracture: one part of society has become more aggressive and radicalized, but another has grown more aware and supportive, especially after the 2022 terrorist attack on an LGBTI+ venue in Bratislava, when a 19-year-old opened fire, killing two people. Mainstream media now cover the issue more responsibly; some companies openly support the community; and more people, even in small towns, are coming out and organizing local initiatives.
“The challenge,” Roman says, “is to resist a strategy aimed at spreading fear and exhaustion: to prevent people from disengaging, isolating themselves, or emigrating, and to keep alive a community network capable of sustaining, over the long term, a struggle that is not only about identity, but about democracy.”
Jacopo Romanelli is an Italian freelance journalist who reports on human rights, transnational repression, and emergencies in Europe and Asia. His work has appeared in The Vietnamese Magazine, Daraj Media, Nikkei Asia, and Balkan Insight, among others.
