The hidden struggle for LGBTQ refugees in East Africa and beyond

I never imagined that fleeing my homeland would not free me from fear. But when I left Uganda, the place of my birth, the source of my memories, joys and pains, I believed that the most difficult part of the journey was over. I was wrong.

I have lived under the burden of persecution, where being gay is not only stigmatized, but criminalized by law and reinforced by religious and cultural doctrines that shape daily life. Every glance, every whispered insult, every quiet conversation reminded me that the very core of who I was was being treated as a threat. In the end, I had no choice but to run away.

I arrived at Kakuma Refugee Camp in northern Kenya with hope and imagining safety and relative freedom awaiting me. Kakuma is one of Africa’s largest camps, with hundreds of thousands of people displaced by conflict across the region. But what I found was a different kind of cage: a cage of silence. The fear I brought with me from Uganda followed me, invading my every interaction, every movement, every breath. “You can’t say who you are,” a fellow refugee whispered one night as we huddled in the corner of our tent. “Even the walls have ears.”

For LGBTQI+ refugees across East Africa, silence is often the only shield against violence. But silence is also a great burden. In Kakuma, Malawi’s Zaleka camp, and Zambia’s Meheba settlement, we live in a constant negotiation between visibility and invisibility, between survival and authenticity. The promise of freedom is only partial. The moment you tell the truth, the risk of retaliation from your fellow refugees, camp authorities, and the broader legal and social systems that criminalize us becomes real.

Freedom of speech is not just the right to talk about politics. For us, it is the right to exist openly, to report threats, to seek help when attacked, and to be recognized as human beings. But in countries where same-sex relationships are criminalized, even reporting threats can be extremely dangerous. Arrested. Deportation. He was beaten for daring to seek safety. Therefore, silence protects us and punishes us at the same time.

In Kakuma, I have seen friends beaten for holding hands with people of the same sex, harassed for dressing in ways that do not “conform” to traditional gender expectations, and denied needed help because their identities are deemed unfair. We are told to stay quiet, blend in, and survive in the shadows. Yet, surviving in silence is a constant reminder that our rights only exist on paper.

The tension between hope and hostility is a daily reality. Humanitarian organizations like UNHCR and NGOs like ORAM and Rainbow Railway are providing important interventions, but safe spaces are limited and often inaccessible. Even interpreters who are meant to help us through the bureaucratic process of aid can inadvertently “exclude” us and put our lives at risk. Attempts to advocate for rights, such as peaceful marches within the camps, are met with hostility, detention, and social ostracism.

Malawi and Zambia offer similar stories, albeit with different shades. In Malawi’s Dzaleka camp, LGBTQI+ refugees live primarily underground, avoiding clinics and services for fear of ridicule and exposure. Even when protection is formally granted, it is often overridden by national laws and local social norms. Zambia hosts tens of thousands of refugees in settlements such as Meheba and Mantapara, but a restrictive legal framework and growing public hostility have forced many gay people to remain silent, invisible and isolated.

Silence has a cost that far exceeds the fear of impending violence. It fosters isolation, anxiety, and depression. It limits access to justice, health care, and advocacy. When we are unable to speak up, misinformation and bias flourish. The very institutions that are meant to protect us in camps, NGOs and legal frameworks are often unable to bridge the gap between policy and practice.

But even within these constraints, resilience grows. I have witnessed extraordinary courage. It’s a small network of LGBTQI+ refugees who form discreet support groups, an online network where they can safely share information, and a local NGO that quietly provides legal and mental health support. Technology, especially encrypted communication tools, has become our lifeblood. Even if we cannot speak openly in physical spaces, our voices are heard through digital networks, connecting us with allies and advocacy channels around the world.

I am reminded of Moussa, a bisexual refugee from the Democratic Republic of Congo. He once said to me: “Even if we can’t speak loudly here, our voices are heard somewhere.” These words will stay with us, reminding us that freedom of speech means more than just speaking, it means being recognized, safe, and human.

International organizations are increasingly recognizing this reality. UNHCR’s 2024 Global Appeal highlights the need for fair access to safe spaces, community support and protection for LGBTQI+ refugees. But progress remains uneven. Governments and donors must move beyond statements to concrete action: confidential reporting channels, SOGIESC-friendly training for camp staff and interpreters, funding for refugee-led initiatives, and legal reforms that at least protect asylum seekers under international protection.

As I write this from the Golomb refugee settlement in South Sudan, I reflect on the journey that took me from the shadow of persecution in Uganda, through the labyrinth of terror in Kakuma, to this temporary space of relative safety. I still carry the echoes of enforced silence, the whispers of alarm, and the weight of invisibility. But I also have hope, solidarity, and the knowledge that even small acts of courage ripple outward.

I write not just for myself, but for all the queer refugees who are silenced by fear, for all the friends who can’t report assaults, who can’t get medical care, who can’t simply say, “I’m here. I’m human. I exist.” Freedom of speech is more than words. It is the right to live in true security. Every story whispered, every careful disclosure is a testament to our humanity and resilience.

I didn’t come to Kakuma or camp to be a hero. I came to survive. I came here to live. And I continue to write in the shadows, in whispers, and now, finally, in a voice that can reach beyond the walls of fear. I hope that one day we won’t have to whisper to each other. We will be able to speak freely, openly and safely. Until then, every word I write is a small act of defiance, an assertion of my right to exist, and a reminder to the world that legal protection means little without the freedom to claim it.

Abrina lives in the Golomb refugee camp in South Sudan.