When being visible is riskier than surviving, what does peace truly mean?
By Eamon Alegor
In 2023, Uganda’s president Yoweri Kaguta Museveni signed the Anti-Homosexuality Act into law—a piece of legislation that has since reshaped the country’s social fabric and transformed what it means to seek refuge within its borders. For many fleeing conflict, persecution, and instability in neighboring countries, Uganda has long been considered a haven. But for LGBTQ+ individuals arriving on these shores, the promise of sanctuary has become complicated by a grim reality. Therefore, invisibility is no longer just a strategy—it is a prerequisite for survival.
The Anti-Homosexuality Act of 2023 represents one of the most severe anti-LGBTQ+ laws globally. Its provisions include life imprisonment for “aggravated homosexuality”, death penalty provisions for certain offenses, criminalisation of “promoting” homosexuality, and mandatory reporting requirements that turn neighbours into informants. This legal framework has created an environment where LGBTQ+ Ugandans and refugees alike face “significant socio-historical challenges in terms of shifting legal landscapes and the accompanying prejudice and discrimination”.(*)
Imagine leaving your homeland to escape violence, persecution, or war. You arrive in Uganda seeking peace, stability, and the chance to rebuild. But instead of finding refuge, you discover that your identity—something intrinsic to who you are—must remain hidden at all costs.
For LGBTQ+ refugees in Uganda, this is not hypothetical—these individuals face the trauma of displacement compounded by the constant fear of discovery. They must navigate overcrowded refugee settlements where privacy is a luxury, community surveillance where neighbours may report suspected LGBTQ+ individuals, limited access to humanitarian aid that often fails to account for their specific vulnerabilities, and the threat of eviction or arrest if their identity becomes known.
Academics studying the situation have noted that Uganda’s approach exists within what has been termed the “pink line”; a global polarisation between “traditional” African values and LGBTQ+ identity politics . This framing has allowed the Ugandan state to justify stringent legal responses by positioning itself as defending cultural authenticity against Western influence. However, this narrative obscures a crucial reality: LGBTQ+ Ugandans have “been present and active in their own agency to push for change”(*) despite the darkening climate . The community is not passive. They are not simply victims. They are people fighting for their right to exist in a country that has legislated against their very being.
For LGBTQ+ refugees in Uganda, visibility equals vulnerability. The choice is stark—public visibility may lead to arrest, violence, or forced return to countries where they face even greater persecution; while remaining invisible means denying fundamental aspects of identity, living in constant fear, and being cut off from community support. When being visible is riskier than surviving, you don’t just hide; you disappear from the systems meant to support you. These individuals often avoid healthcare, skip humanitarian registration, and isolate themselves from communities that could offer protection. The psychological toll is immeasurable.
What we are witnessing in Uganda is not merely discrimination; it is systematic segregation. LGBTQ+ individuals are being pushed to the margins of society—their existence criminalised, their humanity denied. For refugees already displaced and vulnerable, this segregation compounds trauma with more trauma, creating a cycle of invisibility that perpetuates suffering.
As the international community grapples with how to respond to Uganda’s anti-LGBTQ+ legislation, it must recognize that sanctions and condemnations alone will not protect those most vulnerable. The individuals caught in this crisis need safe spaces where they can access humanitarian aid without fear, community-based support that operates outside state surveillance, and alternative protection pathways for LGBTQ+ refugees facing persecution. International solidarity needs to centres the voices and agency of Ugandan LGBTQ+ activists.
When we speak of peace and refuge, we must ask: Peace for whom? Refuge for whom?
What if we create a system that stands with and for LGBTQ+ refugees? What if we integrate, rather than segregate?
Resilience has its limits. When being visible is riskier than surviving, we must question what kind of world we are creating—and what kind of sanctuary we are willing to offer.
If you feel called to help, Catherin J Pascal Dunk has set up a Go Fund Me to raise money for emergency LGBTQ+ refugee care in Uganda. Any contribution—including sharing this article and/or the fundraiser, or in-kind assistance—will be highly appreciated.
Photo by Jessica Lewis thepaintedsquare on Pexels.com
(*) References:
https://https-sure-sunderland-ac-uk-443.webvpn.ynu.edu.cn/id/eprint/17603/#1
https://yc.nstl.gov.cn/paper_detail.html?id=8f06a7f5e0675dfca1324569ce353c74&ad_check=1#1
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