I never imagined that fleeing my own country would not free me from fear. Yet, when I left Uganda, the place of my birth, my memories, and the source of both joy and pain I believed that the hardest part of my journey was behind me. I was wrong.
I had lived under the weight of persecution, where being queer was not only condemned but criminalized by laws and reinforced by the religious and cultural doctrines that shaped daily life. Every glance, every whispered insult, every hushed conversation reminded me that the very core of who I am was treated as a threat. In the end, I had no choice but to flee.
I arrived at Kakuma Refugee Camp in northern Kenya with hope in my heart, imagining that safety and relative freedom awaited me. Kakuma is one of Africa’s largest camps, home to hundreds of thousands displaced by conflict across the region. But what I found was a different kind of cage: the cage of silence. The fear I carried from Uganda followed me, threading itself into my interactions, my movements, my very breath. “You cannot say who you are,” a fellow refugee whispered one night as we huddled in the corner of a 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 heavy burden. In Kakuma, Malawi’s Dzaleka 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 speak your truth, the risk of reprisal is real from fellow refugees, from camp authorities, and from the broader legal and social systems that criminalize us.
Freedom of speech is not merely the right to speak about politics; for us, it is the right to exist openly, to report threats, to seek help when we are attacked, and to be acknowledged as human. But in countries where same-sex relations are criminalized, even reporting a threat can become an act of extreme risk. Arrest. Deportation. Beaten for daring to ask for safety. Silence, then, becomes both our protection and our punishment.
In Kakuma, I have seen friends beaten for holding hands with someone of the same sex, harassed for wearing clothing that did not “fit” traditional gender expectations, and denied essential aid because our identities are deemed illegitimate. We are told to stay quiet, to blend in, to survive in shadows. And yet, survival in silence is a constant reminder that our rights exist only on paper.
The tension between hope and hostility is a daily reality. Humanitarian organizations like UNHCR and NGOs such as ORAM and Rainbow Railroad provide critical interventions, but safe spaces are limited and often inaccessible. Even interpreters people meant to help us navigate the bureaucracy of aid can inadvertently “out” us, putting lives at risk. Attempts at advocacy, such as peaceful marches within camps, are met with hostility, detention, or social ostracism.
Malawi and Zambia offer a similar narrative, albeit in different hues. In Dzaleka Camp, Malawi, LGBTQI+ refugees live largely underground, avoiding clinics or services for fear of ridicule or exposure. Even when protections are formally recognized, they are often overridden by national laws or local social norms. In Zambia, settlements like Meheba and Mantapala host tens of thousands of refugees, but restrictive legal frameworks and growing public hostility force many queer individuals to remain silent, invisible, and isolated.
Silence carries a cost far beyond fear of immediate violence. It fosters isolation, anxiety, and depression. It limits access to justice, healthcare, and advocacy. When we cannot speak openly, misinformation and stigma flourish. The very systems meant to protect us in camps, NGOs, and legal frameworks often fail to bridge the gap between policy and practice.
Yet, even within these constraints, resilience thrives. I have witnessed extraordinary courage: small networks of LGBTQI+ refugees who create discreet support groups, online networks that allow us to share information safely, and local NGOs that quietly provide legal aid and mental health support. Technology, especially encrypted communication tools, has become our lifeline. Even if we cannot speak openly in our physical spaces, our voices travel through digital networks, connecting us with allies and advocacy channels across the globe.
I think of Musa, a bisexual refugee from the Democratic Republic of Congo, who once told me, “Even if we can’t speak loudly here, we can be heard somewhere.” Those words linger, reminding me that freedom of speech is not just about talking it is about being acknowledged, being safe, and being human.
International organizations are slowly recognizing these realities. UNHCR’s 2024 Global Appeal emphasizes the need for safe spaces, community outreach, and equitable access to protection for LGBTQI+ refugees. Yet, progress remains uneven. Governments and donors must move beyond statements to tangible actions: confidential reporting channels, SOGIESC-sensitive training for camp staff and interpreters, funding for refugee-led initiatives, and legal reforms that at least protect asylum seekers under international protection.
Writing this from Gorom Refugee Settlement in South Sudan, I reflect on the journey I have taken from Uganda’s shadows of persecution, through Kakuma’s labyrinth of fear, to this temporary space of relative safety. I still carry the echoes of enforced silence, the whispers of caution, and the weight of being invisible. But I also carry hope, solidarity, and the knowledge that even small acts of courage ripple outward.
I write not just for myself, but for every queer refugee silenced by fear, for every friend who cannot report an assault, who cannot access medical care, who cannot simply say, “I am here. I am human. I exist.” Freedom of speech is more than words; it is the right to live authentically and safely. Every whispered story, every cautious disclosure, is a testament to our humanity and our resilience.
I did not come to Kakuma, or to any camp, to be a hero. I came to survive. I came to live. And I continue to write in shadows, in whispers, and now, finally, in a voice that reaches beyond the walls of fear. One day, I hope, we will no longer have to whisper. We will be able to speak, freely, openly, and safely. Until then, every word I write is a small act of defiance, a claim to 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 Gorom Refugee Camp in South Sudan.