How LGBTQ+ people in Uganda are fighting a draconian new law
| Kampala, Uganda
Uganda has long been unsafe for gender and sexual minorities trying to live freely and openly. But now a populist new bill imposes life imprisonment for engaging in homosexuality and the death penalty for what the government calls “aggravated homosexuality,” including same-sex sexual activities with minors, people with disabilities, or people over 75 years old.
In August, a man became the first to potentially face the death penalty after being charged with “aggravated homosexuality.” No trial date has been set yet, but amid the chilling effect, a small group of LGBTQ+ activists has vowed to continue its work.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onLGBTQ+ rights are under particular threat in Africa. In the face of some of the most punitive laws anywhere in the world, LGBTQ+ advocates in Uganda are taking a stand by simply being themselves.
“It is sad what is happening,” says Williams Apako, who identifies as a transgender man and also runs an LGBTQ-friendly clinic in Kampala. “They [the police] are not even following the law. They are arresting people on suspicion they are gay.”
Mr. Apako says he has no intention of closing down his clinic, despite the increasingly hostile environment. “There is more to me than my sexual organ. I’m somebody, and there is a lot I can contribute to my country,” he says defiantly.
It was the one place she should have been safe.
Monalisa’s small apartment was on the third floor of a tidy building in Buziga, a sleepy suburb a few miles south of the Ugandan capital Kampala. In almost three years of living there, she’d never encountered any trouble.
Then, on March 21, Uganda’s Parliament passed one of the world’s harshest anti-LGBTQ+ laws, igniting a crackdown against a fledgling community.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onLGBTQ+ rights are under particular threat in Africa. In the face of some of the most punitive laws anywhere in the world, LGBTQ+ advocates in Uganda are taking a stand by simply being themselves.
That same night, police raided Monalisa’s flat, arresting her and her flatmate, both of whom were assigned male at birth but identify as transgender and queer, respectively.
“They came about 10 or 11 p.m.,” says Monalisa, who has gone by the pseudonym since 2016 – when she transitioned – for fear of retribution. “Our neighbors had complained. The police said they were arresting us because we were a danger to society.”
The police bundled Monalisa and her roommate onto a pickup truck and drove them to a police station in the capital. They were charged with sexual practices “against the order of nature” and remanded for three nights.
“The police assaulted us, subjected us to anal tests, and touched us inappropriately,” recalls Monalisa, still visibly shaken four months later. “It was degrading, dehumanizing, and traumatizing. I felt cold ... and angry.”
And Monalisa knows it could have been even worse. This month, the country’s directorate of public prosecution charged a man with “aggravated homosexuality” – punishable by death under the new Anti-Homosexuality Act.
The man has been remanded in prison since Aug. 18, after being arrested for allegedly having “carnal knowledge” of a male with a “physical disability and of unsound mind” in eastern Uganda, Ageca Oscar Gregg, a police spokesperson, told The Christian Science Monitor. The accused pleaded not guilty, and a trial date has yet to be set.
The Anti-Homosexuality Act has attracted global criticism. The law imposes life imprisonment for anyone engaging in homosexuality and the death penalty for “aggravated homosexuality” – defined as engaging in same-sex sexual activities with minors, people with disabilities, or people over 75 years old. It stipulates seven years for anyone attempting homosexuality and 20 years for anyone “promoting” homosexuality.
But amid the rise in hate crimes, a small group of activists has vowed to continue its work. “It is sad what is happening,” says Williams Apako, who identifies as a transgender man and also runs an LGBTQ-friendly clinic in Kampala. “They [the police] are not even following the law. They are arresting people on suspicion they are gay.”
Mr. Apako says he has no intention of closing down his clinic, despite the increasingly hostile environment. “There is more to me than my sexual organ. I’m somebody, and there is a lot I can contribute to my country,” he says defiantly.
Death penalty
Like much of Africa, Uganda has long been unsafe for gender and sexual minorities – who are routinely lumped together by virtue of being outside traditional, largely conservative values – who try to live freely and openly. Things took a turn for the worse at the start of this year. In January, unfounded reports that gay people were “recruiting” schoolchildren into homosexuality triggered widespread public hysteria. Parents and church leaders protested, and politicians seized the populist moment.
By March, a draconian anti-LGBTQ+ bill had been introduced in Parliament. All but two of Uganda’s 389 lawmakers voted in favor of the law. President Yoweri Museveni signed the bill in May.
While Uganda is the latest in a string of countries around the world enacting punitive laws that curtail the rights of LGBTQ+ people, more than half of the 64 countries that criminalize homosexuality are in Africa. Western condemnation has been swift, if so far ineffectual. In August, the World Bank suspended all new loans to Uganda, saying the law contradicts its values. U.S. President Joe Biden says Washington is considering sanctions against officials involved in human rights abuses.
President Museveni has declared that Uganda is “resolute” in its decision, adding, “Nobody will make us move.” Lawmakers have doubled down, framing the bill as a pushback against colonial powers and a means of reclaiming national pride. The purpose of the law is to preserve African values, and protect the sanctity of the family and “our children from the homosexual ways of the West,” says Anita Among, the speaker of Parliament and a vocal proponent of the bill.
This is not the first time that such a law has been passed in Uganda, says Sylvia Rosila Tamale, professor of law and human rights activist in Kampala. A similar bill was signed into law in 2014, before rights activists successfully lobbied for its repeal. But such crackdowns are likely to continue globally.
“Populist politicians around the world have used queer sexuality as a weapon to distract attention from government failures and gain cheap popularity,” Ms. Tamale says.
Meanwhile in Uganda, arbitrary arrests, evictions, and harassment of LGBTQ+ individuals have escalated. The Human Rights Awareness and Promotion Forum, a nonprofit that advocates for marginalized groups, recorded 40 cases involving violence against LGBTQ+ (or suspected LGBTQ+) persons in the first month after the bill was passed. The true number, rights activists say, is likely to be far higher as many victims are afraid to report such incidents.
“Transgender and beautiful”
After her arrest, Monalisa was too scared to return to her old apartment. She borrowed money, looked for another house, and relocated with the help of a trans support group.
With many landlords worried that the law will target them simply for sheltering LGBTQ+ people, dozens have evicted their tenants, according to rights groups. In most cases, though, the effect of the law is more subtle – if no less chilling.
Anna Morena, who identifies as a transgender woman, has deactivated all her social media accounts. She will not leave her house, fearing arrest if she steps foot outside. “I need to go to work. I need to go to the market. I need to eat. But the situation is tense,” she says.
Back in her new home, Monalisa says she takes comfort in knowing that sexual minorities have existed since the beginning of time, while laws come and go.
She has started calming techniques such as deep breathing and meditation to help her reduce stress. “I love to laugh, party, and have fun. Of course, I can’t do those now. So, I will meditate, think about my life, and pray,” she says.
And on most days, she taps into one of the secret online support groups that members of the trans community have created to uplift one another. There, they share stories, dole out free advice, and help relocate members who have been evicted.
“It is hard, but we know that we shall overcome,” she says.
Meanwhile, Monalisa and Mr. Apako are among many who hope the punitive law will be repealed, as happened following the outcry against the 2014 law.
“Why can’t they see us for who we are and not limit us to who we sleep with?” says Mr. Apako.
But no matter what happens, Monalisa remains positive. “I am transgender, I am beautiful, and nothing can change that because this is who I am,” she says.
