Some people collect job titles. Stephen Muhwezi seems to collect meaningful challenges and rises to them. Public health advocate, human rights defender, community builder, and reluctant refugee, his résumé reads like a masterclass in refusing to allow circumstances to have the final word. From Uganda to Los Angeles, Muhwezi has spent his life proving that courage is about showing up no matter what stands in your way, often with little more than hope, determination, and an uncanny ability to build community wherever he lands.
As the founder of one of western Uganda’s first LGBTQ+ organizations, Muhwezi helped create spaces where people could access healthcare, dignity, and belonging in the face of extraordinary hostility. Today, after surviving persecution, forced displacement, and the challenge of starting over on a new continent, he continues to champion the simple but radical idea that everyone deserves to live authentically and with hope. In our conversation with him, Muhwezi reflects on the people, moments, and lessons that shaped his journey, and why, even after everything, he still believes the most powerful force for change is community.
Can you share a bit about your experiences in your youth that shaped who you are today and what first inspired you to dedicate your life to advocating for LGBTQ+ people, despite knowing the personal risks involved?
Leadership is not measured by the absence of hardship. It is measured by what you choose to build despite it. My story did not begin with persecution. It began with purpose. For many years, I worked under the pseudonym Dismus Kevin Aine, not because I wanted to hide who I was, but because visibility carried extraordinary risks. Today, I proudly use my legal name, Stephen Muhwezi. That change represents the freedom to live authentically and continue serving others openly.
I was the youngest of nine children, raised in rural Uganda. After losing my parents at a young age, my older brothers and sisters sacrificed their own dreams so that mine could continue. They taught me my first lessons in leadership through responsibility, compassion, and love.
My childhood was filled with dancing, family meals, and church. Church gave me my first sense of community, but as I came to understand my identity, it also became a place where I no longer felt I belonged. That experience strengthened my belief that every person deserves dignity, compassion, and acceptance.
Growing up in rural Uganda also exposed me to the realities of healthcare inequality. Long walks to distant clinics taught me that where someone is born should never determine whether they have access to healthcare, opportunity, or hope. These experiences led me to study science, then public health, and ultimately to dedicate my life to serving communities too often left behind.
You founded one of the first LGBTQ+ organizations in rural Western Uganda. What needs did you see that others weren’t addressing?
In 2010, I founded Rainbow Health Foundation Uganda to create something many believed was impossible: a place where LGBTQ+ people could access healthcare, support, and community outside the capital. Rainbow was never simply an office. It was a home.
With only three volunteers, we built a welcoming space offering HIV education, health workshops, rights education, psychosocial support, livelihood programs, and community gatherings. People traveled from across Uganda because they knew they would be treated with dignity.
I believed leadership meant serving alongside others—whether facilitating workshops, welcoming visitors, or cleaning the office after everyone had gone home. People trusted Rainbow because we built it together.
For me, this work was never only about advocacy. In Uganda, public health and human rights were inseparable. When fear kept people from seeking healthcare, protecting dignity became part of protecting health.
Your work focused on HIV prevention, healthcare access, and community support. Can you share a moment that reminded you why this work mattered so deeply?
One of my happiest memories was our annual Transgender Visibility celebration. People arrived carrying clothes they could not safely wear in public. Friends helped one another get ready, laughter filled the rooms, and for a few precious hours they were free to be themselves.
Before going home, many changed back. But for those few hours, Rainbow had given them something no law could take away: the freedom to exist without fear.
When Uganda’s anti-LGBTQ+ crackdown intensified, your life changed dramatically. What was going through your mind as you realized you were no longer safe?
As Rainbow grew, so did the attention surrounding our work. Then everything changed.
I was publicly outed on the front page of a national tabloid. Almost overnight, fear became part of everyday life. A ringing phone could mean another summons from investigators. A knock at the office door could mean a police raid.
Every journey home ended with the same quiet question: Will I make it home safely today?
Our offices were raided. I was repeatedly questioned. Harassment and threats became routine.
But the greatest concern was never my own safety. Every attempt to intimidate Rainbow threatened the people who depended on it for healthcare, support, and hope.
Working alongside human rights organizations, I documented violations affecting LGBTQ+ communities across western Uganda, helping ensure their experiences became part of Uganda’s national Human Rights Violations Report. Those years taught me a lesson I still carry with me:
Leaving your home meant leaving behind your community, your work, and the life you had built. What was the hardest part about starting over in Los Angeles?
In 2017, I visited the United States through the International Visitor Leadership Program, joining emerging leaders from across Africa. As we visited universities, nonprofits, and government institutions, one thing stood out: organizations preserved their history and celebrated the people who built them. It made me wonder how many community leaders across Africa devote their lives to service without their stories ever being told. Looking back, I think that realization planted the seed for sharing my own.
The greatest lesson, however, came from my fellow delegates. Although we came from different countries, we shared a common purpose: building healthier, stronger, and more inclusive communities.
After surviving persecution and displacement, did the LA wildfire ever make you question whether you could keep going? What helped you find your perseverance again?
In 2014, a woman named Roberta reached out after learning about Rainbow Health Foundation. A simple message became a lasting friendship. Years later, when I arrived in Los Angeles, she welcomed me into her home. Then the Palisades wildfire destroyed it. She lost the place she loved, while I lost many of the few belongings I had managed to bring from Uganda. Even while rebuilding her own life, she never stopped encouraging mine. Her friendship reminded me that rebuilding is rarely something we do alone. Sometimes the greatest act of leadership is believing in someone before they are fully able to believe in themselves.
After spending so many years advocating for others in Uganda, what has it been like to be on the receiving end of support through the Tiyya Foundation?
For much of my career, I was the person connecting others with services and helping communities navigate difficult circumstances. Receiving support myself was unfamiliar.
When I arrived in the United States, I realized that rebuilding requires a different kind of courage: the willingness to accept help.
Through Tiyya, I found more than practical assistance. I found a community that understands rebuilding is about more than employment or housing. It is about learning new systems, rebuilding confidence, and finding a sense of belonging. That experience reminded me that strength lies not only in giving support, but also in allowing yourself to receive it.
How has that experience influenced the way you think about community and this new chapter in your life?
It reinforced something I have believed for many years: no one rebuilds alone. Whether through Rainbow Health Foundation, colleagues in public health, friendships across continents, or organizations like Tiyya, every meaningful chapter of my life has been shaped by people who believed in one another.
Today, I hope to continue that cycle by using my own experiences to help others beginning again. To me, community is people walking alongside one another, making the journey a little less lonely and a little more hopeful.
Being granted asylum represents so much more than a legal status. How has it changed your life?
Being granted asylum gave me safety, stability, and the freedom to begin rebuilding my life.
What surprised me most was that starting over involved much more than finding a place to live. It meant learning unfamiliar systems, translating years of professional experience into a new context, and living with uncertainty about what comes next.
That uncertainty has been one of the greatest challenges. But I have learned that purpose does not disappear simply because certainty does. I may not always know where the road is leading, but I know why I continue walking it.
You’re now pursuing a career in public health and nonprofit leadership. How has your lived experience shaped the kind of leader you hope to become?
Today I work as a professional caregiver while preparing for the next chapter of my career. Although it may seem different from my work in Uganda, it is rooted in the same values: dignity, compassion, and service.
I am also completing a Project Management Certificate through Calbright College while preparing for the CAPM certification. Studying project management has helped me recognize that many of the skills I developed building Rainbow Health Foundation – planning, partnerships, budgeting, implementation, and evaluation—are the same principles I practiced throughout my career.
My commitment to public health also took me to Sweden, where I earned a Master’s degree in Global Health at the University of Gothenburg. One classroom discussion remains especially meaningful. As classmates debated how laws influence health, I found myself thinking about people I had known in Uganda – individuals who delayed HIV testing or avoided healthcare because of fear and discrimination.
When I shared those experiences, I wasn’t speaking from theory. I was speaking from lived experience. That moment reinforced something I still believe today: evidence tells us what is happening, but lived experience helps us understand why it matters.
Looking ahead, I hope to continue working where public health, healthcare administration, nonprofit leadership, and project management intersect. My purpose remains the same: to strengthen systems, build partnerships, and help create healthier, more dignified communities.
How do you see the connection between healthcare, human rights, and dignity for LGBTQ+ communities around the world?
Healthcare, human rights, and dignity are inseparable. When people fear discrimination because of who they are, they are less likely to seek care, trust health systems, or participate in prevention programs. Protecting dignity is therefore a public health intervention. This has never been only about LGBTQ+ communities. It is about building societies where healthcare is guided by compassion, evidence, and respect for every person’s humanity.
As someone who has lived through persecution and displacement, what message would you share with other refugees rebuilding their lives?
Leaving Uganda was never the life I imagined. But I have learned that uncertainty and purpose can exist together. I am still building. I am still learning. Still becoming. The future is not something we wait to find. It is something we continue to build.
What has surprised you most about rebuilding your life in Los Angeles?
The support I found. Organizations like Tiyya reminded me that rebuilding is not only about employment or housing. It is about belonging. Their Economic Advancement program has helped me prepare for employment and build a foundation for the future. More importantly, it reminded me that every new beginning is easier when someone walks beside you.
If you could sit down with lawmakers or people who question the importance of LGBTQ+ protections, what would you want them to understand?
I would ask them to see people before politics. Behind every law are people trying to care for their families, contribute to their communities, and live healthy lives. Laws influence whether people feel safe seeking healthcare, reporting violence, or simply existing openly.
I would encourage policymakers to listen not only to experts, but also to the lived experiences of the people their decisions affect.
You’ve survived persecution, forced displacement, and natural disaster, yet you continue to advocate for others. What do you hope readers take away from your story?
If I am fortunate enough to reach my eighties, I hope I will not be remembered for what I survived. I hope I will be remembered for what I helped build. Because if my life has taught me anything, it is this: Leadership is not measured by the absence of hardship. It is measured by what you choose to build despite it.
For more information, head to Tiyya.org.