Illegal Homosexuality: Where the Law Prohibits Existence

Some LGBT people do not fully grasp the luck and privilege involved in being born in a country that respects our rights.

What I say may sound outrageous, since it is in fact neither our decision nor something that should be a privilege. By definition, LGBT rights are rights. It is also true that worldwide there is violence against us, even in countries that provide full legal guarantees, from marriage equality to provisions for trans people and protections against discrimination.

Being part of the LGBT community is still not easy, even in the twenty‑first century. Despite the major social and legal advances achieved in several countries over the past years, we routinely see reports of homophobic and transphobic violence. Yet, in other parts of the world, belonging to the community is directly a criminal sentence, and that is the difference that turns our rights into a matter of privilege, of geographic luck.

One does not choose whether one will have a homophobic or tolerant family, nor a homophobic or tolerant country. There are still 66 sovereign states that criminalize same‑sex relationships (seven of which provide for the death penalty), in addition to other states where de facto criminalisation occurs through interpretations of "public morality" or "homosexual propaganda" laws.

While the trend continues toward progressive decriminalisation, with encouraging cases such as the Anglophone Caribbean, where a succession of court rulings have declared colonial "sodomy" laws unconstitutional, the second half of the 2020s even saw an increase when a handful of countries without codified legislation decided to enact it, as in the Sahel regimes (Burkina Faso, Niger and Mali).

The idea that, in the penal codes of a third of the countries—accounting for roughly 35 % of the world’s population together—there are sections drafted in refined legal language that forbid a private activity between two consenting adults and also forbid two people from publicly expressing a relationship can sound, at first glance, extremely shocking. However, the worst stigma is always the social one. Living in a country where homosexuality is illegal can be a real hell.

And on this occasion, in this Pride Month and intending to give prominence to those who suffer that oppression, I had the opportunity to speak directly with LGBT people from several countries, from different regions and cultures, all of whom share persecution, silence and criminalisation simply for existing.

Nigeria: "My parents think I'm possessed"

The sixth most‑populated country in the world and one of Africa’s most powerful economies, Nigeria is a nation marked by deep ethnic, linguistic and religious divisions. The north is predominantly Muslim and twelve of the federal states that make up the region partially apply Sharia (Islamic law), while the south is predominantly Christian.

Northern Nigeria is one of the few regions where the death penalty for homosexuality is still contemplated, but in the south (where a rigid Christian conservatism and a fierce macho culture prevail) it is also illegal to be gay. Articles 214 and 217 of the Nigerian penal code provide for up to fourteen years’ imprisonment for offences such as "grave indecency" or "carnal relations against the natural order", which are almost invariably interpreted as same‑sex relationships.

Emeka (23) was born in Anambra, southeast Nigeria. He is the second son of six siblings, raised in a Christian family. His father is a poultry farmer, his mother a primary‑school teacher. He studied law, although his studies were tragically interrupted in his final year when his family discovered his sexuality and subjected him to brutal treatment. When I offered to hear his story, he accepted without hesitation. "Yes, I think people should know it," he says with a near‑militant fervour. Years of suffering and repression have left him completely exhausted.

From a very young age Emeka knew he was different. "One of my earliest memories on the subject is from when I was a child, playing in a park," he recalls, "we were on a slide and a boy who was climbing on me slid over my body. The feeling was so good that I wanted him to do it again." That feeling kept developing, "later I realized I liked the actor who played Edward Cullen in Twilight (Robert Pattinson) and the guy who was the elastic man in The Fantastic Four (Ioan Gruffudd). The Kyle XY trailer fascinated me. And then I realised I never felt that way about a female actress."

His first encounter with homophobia was stark and harsh. In 2016, Emeka was only thirteen and in his second year of secondary school at a boarding school. He had known what it meant to be gay for more than a year and had already begun experimenting with older peers. In a context of strong social repression, sexual harassment, "express" encounters and a lack of empathy and solidarity were widespread.

"I had an intimate encounter with an older boy. Later that boy was caught groping another in his residence. He was forced to point out others ‘like him’ and he did, he reported me," Emeka recounts, "the older boys woke me up around one a.m. I didn’t even understand what I had done wrong. Only later did I realise it was because I had been with a boy."

The reaction was immediate and disproportionate. The assistant director of Student Affairs accused him and other students of having homosexual relations, summoned their parents and made the accusations public before a student assembly.

"I was in my tutor’s office when my father arrived," Emeka says, "the first thing he did was grab a stick and severely injured the hand I had raised to defend myself," but it did not end there, "that same day they exhibited me before the student assembly, in front of 2,000 students, and accused me, the other boy and two other girls of being ‘homosexual deviants’. I was stunned, I could not even read the faces of the others. People stared at me, but I remembered what one of the girls said. She told the other, who was crying, not to cry, not to show weakness."

Emeka saved himself by lying. He accused his older companion of having forced him to act. "I must confess my actions were quite cowardly," he reflects, though the truth is he had no other option. In any case, the boy had not hesitated to inform on him to save his own skin.

From then on Emeka’s social life became far more restricted. "I avoided talking to people, spent a lot of time in the library," but time passed and the matter was forgotten. Emeka recalls having a series of homoerotic relationships during his adolescence. "Even though the school was co‑educational, there were many more homosexual relationships than it seemed."

He speaks freely about those years, naming people and recalling graphic moments, and I ask him to clarify the risks of including everything. I then ask about his university years, the most recent and hardest part of his story.

During this period Emeka gained greater access to LGBT content via the internet and streaming series, beginning a new stage of his life. When asked, he can name a long list of Asian gay series: "Thai series were my favourite. It was the era of Sarwat and Tine (played by the popular Thai actors Bright and Win). Then I looked for older series like Puppy Honey, then Taiwanese series such as History, We Best Love and Be Loved in the House, then Japanese, Korean…", while citing examples, he admits, "I became a romance fan, I no longer wanted sex, I wanted a boyfriend."

However, the environment he lived in contrasted sharply with the romantic fantasies offered by the material. Even ignoring the real dangers to his safety, the possibility of a romance seemed remote.

"Gay men in Nigeria are very cautious; we are probably the ones who use ‘gaydar’ the most to spot other gay men," he says, "but gay men in Nigeria are not interested in a relationship; we prefer direct, quick sex, which leaves little room to express love, and I was becoming quite romantic, which was my downfall. Because I changed rooms until my final year, not all my roommates knew I was gay, and I had imposed a rule not to flirt with anyone."

He began telling trusted friends that he was gay. None reacted violently, but none supported him either. Their attitude was, at best, ambivalent. Two even told him it was just a phase. Meanwhile his parents saw him excelling as a law student and were convinced that "everything was fine". In his second year, through social media like Twitter and increasingly exposed to LGBT rights content and anti‑homophobia activism, Emeka started what he describes as an "activist" stage.

"My phone was my freedom and my connection to the rest of the world. I talked about politics, LGBT issues and responded to homophobic tweets," he explains, "I felt increasingly safe and believed that gay men in the dormitory where I lived should start talking about LGBT issues instead of staying silent."

The Nigerian LGBT movement is nascent, but it exists. In 2022 they achieved a small yet historic step when the high courts declared unconstitutional the penal‑code articles that prohibited registering LGBT organisations or expressing favourable opinions about them. The Nigerian courts determined that such provisions violated freedom of expression and association enshrined in the constitution. While it is technically possible now to register an LGBT group in Nigeria, social and state homophobia remains enormous. Progress to help the millions of Nigerian LGBT people advances against the current and moves very slowly.

Emeka lived with that in his university years. In class he engaged in heated debates with peers, challenging the widely‑spread African doctrine that homosexuality is a "Western vice" that the First World seeks to "impose" on Africans. "I tried to appear neutral, although everyone already knew my stance." Meanwhile, at home his parents began to suspect, and negative comments about homosexuality and insinuations increased.

In his fifth and final year everything exploded when the person with whom he maintained an unstable relationship denounced him. "I will not talk about him, but I recommend readers avoid people who hate themselves, because sooner or later they will endanger your liberty, safety or even your life."

Emeka recalls with absolute clarity the night that changed everything, quoting with cold precision: "from 10 to 11 March 2025, from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m." The boy, with whom he had shared several consensual encounters, accused him of sexual harassment. He was then subjected to a humiliating beating by several of those present. Only one friend tried to defend him, but was forced to leave the room.

"They beat me with leather belts, mops, plastic tubes and even boards. They forced me to lie down and all my body weight rested on the tips of my feet and elbows, on which they forced me to lean," he describes, "they forced me to accept that I was possessed by a demon, they called my parents and told them what they were accusing me of. I heard my own mother, in tears, urging them to keep beating me, and my own father cursing me. One thing I keep from myself. Although they pressured and interrogated me, I did not inform on any of the gay people who were still there."

Because of this incident Emeka missed his final exams and could not graduate as a lawyer. Humiliated and devastated, he had no choice but to remain in the residence until the end of the term. Only one first‑year student supported him, bringing him water.

Emeka knows that his only way to have a normal life is to flee Nigeria. However, his impoverished situation and financial dependence on his family prevent him. He continues to look for a way out of his country to have a free life. After the beating he wrote to several Western embassies and LGBT organisations asking for asylum. Friends in other countries, with whom he speaks warmly, tried to help as intermediaries, but it was useless. "If it weren’t for them I would have killed myself. I considered cutting my veins several times during that period."

"Returning home was even worse. I delayed it as much as possible, but lacking economic independence I finally went back."

His parents, fervent conservative Christians, have never forgiven the incident and, according to Emeka, have done everything possible to remind him of it with routine abuse and humiliation. "According to them, I am possessed because I am gay, and I am stubborn for refusing to confess that I have sinned by being so," he says, "they routinely attack me, and have manipulated my siblings so they do not respect me and insult me. I have learned to shut myself in because they will always want me to be silent for being gay."

Emeka still seeks a way out of Nigeria. His emails to organisations still receive no favourable response. I offered to make a request concerning Argentina, but the costs make it practically impossible. "I wrote to organisations such as Rainbow Railroad and they replied ‘due to the difficulties presented by immigration regulations and restrictions for people of your nationality, we currently do not have a safe pathway for you. We know this is not the information you hoped for and regret we cannot provide more assistance at this time’," as if Emeka were applying for an online purchase rather than to save his life.

Despite everything Emeka is determined to move forward with the support of his friends and the backing he maintains on social media, but his chances of achieving a full, safe life seem limited by a family that will never understand him and a world that refuses to help.

"I don’t think anything will ever be the same again," he laments after finishing his story, "the story is sad, but people need to know what LGBT people suffer in Nigeria."

Cameroon: "My children will be ashamed of me"

We move to Nigeria’s neighbour, Cameroon. Article 347‑1 of its penal code provides for up to five years’ imprisonment for homosexual relations, as well as heavy fines for online homosexual proposals. Unlike other countries where sodomy laws remain on the books but are rarely applied, in Cameroon their enforcement is widespread and arrests and trials are common.

Shortly after agreeing to be part of this article, Grace*, a Cameroonian woman in her thirties and closeted lesbian, lies in a precarious hospital bed in Yaoundé with a malaria crisis and breathing difficulties. I did not know she was so ill and continued the digital exchange as usual. "My health deteriorates, the diet is killing me and my decisions have destroyed my life," I ask, expecting an obvious answer (unsafe sex, drugs or perhaps having chosen to live hidden), what decisions she is referring to, but she replies with stark honesty: "my birth."

Unlike Emeka, Grace has had very few experiences with her sexuality, something she deeply regrets. "I have lived hidden since I was a child. I was always a tomboy," she says, seemingly proud of that, "but they forced me to wear skirts and dresses. No one tried to understand me."

Grace is very hard on herself. Even though homosexuality is illegal in Cameroon, even though machista violence is commonplace and any public coming‑out would be met with negativity, she describes herself as "Cowardly. Though I knew from age eleven that I would never be happy with a man, I tried. I dated several men. I dreamed of having children. I had two. I never married."

Today Grace is a bit more expressive with her attitudes outside the traditional gender ideal of a deeply homophobic, machista and patriarchal nation. Ruled for over forty years by the despotic regime of Paul Biya, Cameroon is seen as a country where the law exists only to punish those who oppose it.

The Biya regime’s treatment of the LGBT community has been noted by several human‑rights organisations, which allege that the Cameroonian state ranks among the most repressive toward homosexual conduct outside the Muslim world. The legislation has not only been used to punish private acts, but also to issue sentences based on a very broad interpretation. In 2011 a judge sentenced two young men “for homosexuality” merely for wearing women’s clothing and ordering a "feminine drink" (cream whisky) in a nightclub.

Beyond her sexual orientation, Grace committed the other great crime of daring to engage in opposition activism. Hundreds of people were detained in recent months amid protests following the October elections in which Biya secured re‑election amid fraud accusations. LGBT prisoners face a far harsher outlook than heterosexual detainees, and for women, cases of sexual harassment and lesbophobic violence are common. For Grace, entering politics meant a much greater risk to her safety and made her a target of constant police harassment and surveillance by the dictatorial forces. At the same time, she continues to face social pressure from her close circle.

"There are still questions about why I haven’t married," she comments, "my parents think I should marry so as not to embarrass my children." Even on an internet forum, insinuations about her orientation appeared. She has received threatening messages from acquaintances calling her a "dirty lesbian".

Grace only had a brief relationship with a woman, which ended largely due to political differences. "She turned out to be a supporter of Paul Biya," she recounts, somewhat disillusioned, "anyway we lived hidden. We could not walk hand‑in‑hand on the street, nothing. I could not continue with that. Here gay people form small communities to live their sexuality privately; sometimes I would like to join, but I never dared."

Cameroon has a visible LGBT movement, but it is heavily repressed. It is the birthplace of high‑profile figures such as Alice Nkom, one of Central Africa’s first female lawyers, who has stood out for her legal defence of LGBT persons. In 2024 the dictator’s daughter, Brenda Biya, publicly declared herself lesbian. However, advances have been minimal or symbolic. Overall, the country remains a hell for the community.

For her part, although still very afraid, Grace says she no longer wants to pretend.

"Pretending is terrible. I suffered a lot trying to date men, I hated kissing them, I hated sleeping with them," she says, "when I could I watched lesbian porn in secret." The conversation grows darker as it proceeds. "But I cannot leave the closet. They would separate me from my children, they would lynch me or send me to prison." In Cameroon murders of LGBT people are common, even with police on standby and without intervening to protect the victim.

Before we concluded the interview the malaria crisis worsened and Grace told me she was no longer breathing, which alarmed me. She clarified that she had resigned herself to die. "I will leave this world without having fulfilled anything I set out to do or achieved anything I wanted," I urged her that she still had time to do so and asked her to think of her children, but she would not budge: "my children will be ashamed of me because I am lesbian."

After a brief tug‑of‑war I forced her to call the nurses, but they denied treatment because her tests came back negative. Only when she called her brothers to attend to her and showed the nurses a message from me (translated into French) reminding them that WHO protocols require treatment of malaria symptoms even under a false negative, did they agree to give her care. Grace whispers, "if I get well, I will live my love with a woman. I promise not to yield again to others’ desires."

The drugs took effect shortly and she fell asleep. We continued talking over the next days. Her health outlook remains, for now, uncertain. I take the liberty of writing this knowing I may have been the only one who knew her as she was.

Pakistan: "For a long time I prayed to God to stop making me this way"

The Muslim world contains almost all the countries that maintain the death penalty for homosexuality (under Sharia law) and several of its nations top the lists of worst places in the world for belonging to the LGBT community. Belonging to the community in places like Iran or Saudi Arabia (where Islamic law is strictly applied and executions for sexual orientation still occur) can be a true hell. Beyond social stigma, in some cases the state reaction poses a life‑threatening danger for the community.

But contrary to external perception, the Muslim world is not monolithic. We are talking about more than a billion people across twenty‑plus countries. And although the situation for the community has largely been unfavorable, opinions vary widely by age, location and degree of religious fervour.

Pakistan is a deeply conservative country, founded on a nationalism strongly linked to Muslim identity. It has a population of 240 million and a complex human‑rights record, marked by political, religious and military violence. As far as we are concerned, homosexual relations are illegal under article 377 of its penal code and, in theory, because Pakistan applies Sharia law, the death penalty is an option. However, the "evidence requirements" are so high that achieving such a sentence is almost impossible. There is no evidence of a recent execution for homosexuality in the country.

The social landscape that Pakistani gay men report to me is generally dark, but, to my surprise, much less severe than the legal picture suggests from abroad.

"Being gay in Pakistan, while staying in the closet, is less difficult than in other places," explains Ali, a 25‑year‑old bisexual from the central Punjab province, "especially if you are from an urban environment, but that is more because the topic is not up for debate and (unlike other countries) is not stirred up by conservative forces. Your friends may not support you, but it is unlikely they will take it too badly."

According to Ali, one reason Pakistan is "safer" for LGBT people than many other Muslim countries and even some non‑Muslim nations is the lack of questioning of the conservative Islamic order. Since the system is not perceived as threatened, there is a larger margin of tolerance for private practice.

With that in mind, adult gay people with some economic independence can afford dates, socialising and (in very rare cases) cohabiting as a couple. However, all of this must be done in the strictest secrecy. Dates usually take place in friends’ homes or hotels. As in any country, there is a big difference between being homosexual in a large city like Karachi and in a smaller rural area. But the consequence of not being discreet is similar. Publicly coming out in Pakistan can lead to legal persecution, violence and social stigma.

"Most Pakistani gay men use apps like Grindr to connect. Though it must be done very carefully to avoid traps," Ali says, "you have to be highly selective about who you interact with."

In many cases an LGBT person who does not hide may face an aggressive response, but unlike other countries where the most likely outcome is a violent scandal, more conservative Pakistani families opt for a different solution: silencing the issue quickly.

"I had a friend who came out as trans to her family and they beat her," he acknowledges, "homophobic and transphobic violence exists, but it is not the most likely outcome. Often families force the person to marry someone of the opposite sex and, as long as they keep silent about their orientation, they are left alone. Pakistani culture places great emphasis on marriage, so while you are married to a respectable person you are considered safe."

This "marriage solution" that pretends to "fix" an LGBT relative simply by forcing them to hide speaks volumes about a society that insists on sweeping social issues under the rug. Ignoring older generations, Ali believes that Pakistan’s youth are increasingly open and have been heavily influenced by Asian LGBT‑themed series.

"This has had two effects, because this globalisation has raised greater awareness of LGBTQ people, which has led to increased state homophobia," he cites the case of two acclaimed Pakistani TV series, Churails and Barzakh, which dared to address these topics and were subsequently banned and blocked on social media. "Nevertheless, to the general public, LGBTQ people are invisible to the point that many are indifferent. Ali Sethi, one of Pakistan’s most famous singers, is openly gay and many don’t care; his career in Pakistan was not affected by that."

However, Ali wants to make clear that he is not sugar‑coating a reality that is in fact very hard. "This relative tolerance is not acceptance, it is invisibilisation," he quickly adds.

Where there are public advances (though limited) is in the trans sphere. Pakistan has a cultural concept called "third gender" (khawaja sira), shared with other South‑Asian countries. This cultural recognition allows trans and non‑binary people a paradoxically higher social and legal tolerance than homosexual relationships. In 2018 Pakistan passed the Transgender Persons (Protection) Act, allowing trans people (including khawaja sira) to register their self‑identified gender in official documents. Implementation has been limited and inconsistent, and in 2023 the Federal Sharia Court questioned major parts of the law, creating legal uncertainty.

Machista views remain strongly entrenched, and khawaja sira still face high levels of discrimination, violence and social exclusion, even though their cultural visibility is greater than that of gay people, who tend to live their sexuality much more clandestinely.

"But anyway, very few Pakistani parents would want their child to come out as trans," clarifies Ali, "much less as gay."

In that sense we move from Punjab to Karachi, the country’s most populous city, where Sami, a 24‑year‑old gay man, lives. In contrast to Ali’s pragmatic view, Sami sees things a bit more raw. He considers himself a practising Muslim, and for him the question of identity has never been simple, and he has rarely felt comfortable. It is not something he arrived at with clarity or pride from the start, but something that unfolded slowly, through fragments, followed by years of doubt, guilt and negotiation with himself.

"For a long time I did not feel good about myself," he says. "At some point I accepted what I am, but even after that I often felt bad and prayed to God to stop making me this way."

Discovering his sexuality for Sami was not only personal confusion, but also reinforced by his surroundings. Religion, national context, economic insecurity and family expectations piled up in a heavy framework that left little space for honesty.

"I thought first, it was wrong from a religious standpoint. Second, I live in Pakistan. Third, I am not rich enough to hide this part of me properly. And fourth, I have no family or friends who accept it," Sami explains that life for a gay person in Pakistan is heavily shaped by economic differences, "in the economic elite, high‑middle and upper‑middle classes, there is a more liberal conception and that has generated an important queer subculture in the country. But it is not the same for everyone, and in any case it remains very restricted."

At various times he did have relationships with same‑sex partners. He does not describe them with regret or hostility. In fact, recalling them, he conveys good memories, but also an inevitable sense of melancholy.

"In all those relationships, part of my mind was dominated by guilt about whether this had any final purpose, or if it was realistic given that we are Pakistanis," he recalls, "ultimately they all ended because of this uncertainty that queer people face in societies like this. We can find temporary comfort in those relationships, but that is all they are—temporary—due to the society we live in and the social environment we must eventually return to."

Beyond romantic or sexual relationships, Sami’s experience is always about managing social, emotional and sometimes even practical risks. What can be said, where and to whom has become a constant calculation.

"Pakistani gay men have to maintain two different personalities, the one we show and the one we really are," he confesses, "you can never fully be yourself. For example, you cannot go to your university friends and tell them ‘I have certain feminine tastes’. If you told friends you liked Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga they would mock and ridicule you. When you are gay here you are you and then you are what society wants you to be. That is why you always feel out of place among your friends."

The gay reality in Pakistan is ultimately dual. On one hand, privacy has allowed a genuine and united environment to develop. On the other, public repression makes the double life the only option for LGBT people. The lack of visibility and the relative comfort that anonymity provides cause globally connected gay people to self‑exclude, in many ways, from what belonging to the community means in a legally homophobic country. It is almost as if they should apologise to activists for choosing not to leave the closet and expose themselves to violent or stigmatising reactions from relatives.

"I did not come out of the closet, my stories are not interesting," was the first thing Sami told me before connecting me with Ali.

Trinidad and Tobago: "I felt free, even though I wasn’t"

We move to a radically different place. Located in the Anglophone Caribbean, just a few kilometres from Venezuela, Trinidad and Tobago is part of a region, mostly composed of island nations, that is one of the few enclaves in the American continent where sodomy laws remain in force in several countries, including Guyana (the only continental American state still criminalising homosexuality) and the Antilles islands. Currently the region is immersed in a protracted battle waged by LGBT groups demanding that those colonial‑era laws be declared unconstitutional.

The late 2010s and early 2020s saw a series of judicial victories for the community that resulted in the repeal of several such laws through court rulings. All these countries are former British colonies and members of the Commonwealth, and in many cases their judicial systems remain linked to that of the United Kingdom. This has allowed the Privy Council to intervene at times to protect LGBT rights.

We spoke with Dean, 28, a Trinidadian from San Fernando, the island’s second‑largest city after the capital, Port of Spain.

"It is hard to remember when I discovered I was gay. I think, like many, I found a boy in the series I watched on TV cute. But at first it was hard to reason about it, I wanted it to disappear or to… be fixed."

Socially, the region is among the most conservative on the continent, creating a stark paradox. Since most Anglophone Caribbean countries are stable democracies with a solid record on civil liberties, there are several LGBT rights organisations operating freely, a lively public debate in the media and openly gay figures in the cultural sphere.

However, because the communities are very small and heavily influenced by religion (mainly Christian, but also strong Hindu and Muslim presences), conservatism is deeply entrenched, and the average gay or trans person still faces strong pressure to stay in the closet. This is the case for people like Dean. His parents do not know about his orientation and he does not wish to tell them, although he believes most of his relatives suspect it.

"I have a strong memory of going to mass with my mother (Catholic), she forced me. The priest was very homophobic. It was always an unpleasant experience," he admits, "because of that I always remembered that you do not say or ask. I have a gay cousin who lives in the United States, and he advised me not to tell, that families realise it on their own. My father once asked me and I denied. I considered telling my grandmother before she died… but I didn’t dare."

Like many Caribbean gay men, Dean has chosen silence, which (as in previous cases) often means sacrificing moments of happiness or restricting his tastes based on how others would see him.

"I remember a university fair, with several booths. There was an LGBT booth giving out Pride flags," he recalls with nostalgia, "I really wanted one, but I was with friends so I didn’t look for it… Anyway, what would I have done with it? Hide it in a drawer forever? I really envied how brave those activists were and how free they seemed. They were so brave."

Dean was at university in 2018 when a historic judicial ruling declared article 13 of the Sexual Offences Act (which punished homosexual sex with twenty‑five years’ imprisonment) unconstitutional because it violated privacy and freedom of expression guaranteed by the Trinidadian constitution. The case was defended by a prominent local gay activist, Jason Jones.

"I remember a professor mentioning the hearing on decriminalisation. They said the judge (Devindra Rampersad) came from a very religious family and that scared me, I thought he would rule against us," however, he did not, and the day the verdict was delivered, LGBT groups celebrated publicly on the streets of Port of Spain, though a few isolated homophobic attacks were reported. Dean, for his part, was at university when the decision was announced, "I suppressed all emotion when I heard the verdict, there were people. When I got home after classes, I threw myself on the bed and cried with joy. I thought ‘I am free!’ It was not, and I am not, but for a moment I felt I was."

He also does not forget, of course, the disappointment and dismay that arrived seven years later, as an adult. On 25 March 2025 the Court of Appeal overturned the 2018 ruling, holding that the sodomy and grave indecency prohibitions were protected by the constitutional safeguard clause, which shields pre‑independence laws from constitutional challenge. Trinidad and Tobago thus became, once again, one of the very few countries to re‑criminalise homosexuality after having previously decriminalised it.

"It broke my heart," Dean admits, "there were some very harsh judicial defeats for the community during that time, despite the victories. I was at work, wanted to cry, but couldn’t, there were people."

The social issue seems highly polarising. According to Dean, living in a community where tourism is the top economic pillar, as in many Caribbean islands, has advantages and disadvantages for the community, given the undeniable impact of globalisation.

"On the one hand, our countries have recently begun to see LGBT tourism as a revenue source and therefore are compelled to try to make the country appear more friendly, which has helped the decriminalisation cause a lot," he reflects, "but we are also being negatively influenced. One example is the rhetoric of people like Trump entering our political discourse. You would be surprised how influential American Protestant conservatism is becoming here, very different from the Catholic conservatism or traditional conservatism we used to have."

Dean clarifies that there are strong differences between gay people living in the capital and those living elsewhere on the island or in the very small (and closed) Tobago. In particular, the space for dating (even in clandestinity) is much more limited.

"In recent years insecurity has increased," he explains, "there is a lot of gang activity and everyone is scared. You cannot use apps like Grindr in Trinidad and Tobago, because if you do you risk being kidnapped or at least scammed. And you cannot report it, because the authorities or your family could find out."

The legal battle is not over. Jones has declared he will take the case to the Privy Council in the United Kingdom and hopes for a favourable ruling. The appeal is scheduled for 8 July.

In summary…

Concluding this piece is especially difficult for someone who, as a member of the community, tries to give voice to people who did not share the same geographic luck: being born under a state that chose to respect our rights. Whole books could be written about what it means to live as a gay person in a country where being gay is illegal. We have many topics left in the inkpot and countless cases and stories to convey, something that can be done with time and later. The struggle of the community is long, relentless and probably endless.

Stories like those of Emeka, Grace, Ali, Sami or Dean, which for those of us who have been fortunate enough to see a better era in our own countries seem like from the past century, are real and happening now, inviting reflection on how far we are from a victory. They also serve as a warning. What is possible there is possible here, and we must continue defending advances in social liberties against any homophobic outbreak. Beyond having a very clear picture of the landscape for our fights, there remains the need to raise our voice to point out what people like us are experiencing elsewhere right now.

It may be exaggerated or too romantic to say that if tomorrow any of the interviewees woke up and the laws that penalise their existence no longer existed, their lives would be better. It is clear that de‑jure reality does not always match de‑facto reality, and that in many countries, even those with maximal protection of LGBT rights, horrific homophobic and transphobic attacks still occur. Nevertheless, state persecution of homosexual people bestows the stigma of criminalisation and creates a real, permanent fear in the lives of citizens who have done no wrong.

It is impossible to consider oneself a defender of human rights, civil liberties and full liberal democracy without also defending absolute respect for vulnerable people, diverse people and minorities.

In summary, LGBT people and human‑rights defenders worldwide have a moral duty to raise the alarm. No place, no time, no circumstance should ever force a human being to choose between being and being safe.