(Remembering LGBT+ refugees whose voice is often silenced)
Why May 17th?
Today’s date is not arbitrary. On 17 May 1990, the World Health Organisation removed homosexuality from its International Classification of Diseases and Related Health Problems (ICD), formally ending its designation as a mental disorder. It was a landmark moment: a recognition that queer people are not sick, not deviant, not in need of cure or correction. Yet thirty-six years later, that hard-won ground is being eroded. Conversion practices remain legal in many countries and are experiencing a quiet resurgence, including the USA which currently has many anti-LGBTIQ bills and anti-trans bills in progress. Transgender identities are increasingly framed in political and legal discourse as a pathology requiring intervention. IDAHOBIT Day exists to mark how far we have come, and to remind us that the battle the WHO helped settle in 1990 is not lost.
Today is the International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia and Transphobia, or IDAHOBIT. It is a day to mark, to remember, and to refuse to look away.
Across the world, being queer can still cost you your home, your safety, your life.
In more than 60 countries, homosexuality remains criminalised. In some, it carries the death penalty. In Uganda, the Anti-Homosexuality Act has driven thousands of people from their homes, their families, their communities, fleeing not just prejudice but imprisonment, torture, and murder. It is the same in Tanzania, Rwanda, and many other nations across Africa and the Middle East and the Commonwealth. People run for their lives, often with nothing, heading for the nearest border and whatever uncertain safety lies beyond it.
This is not only an African story. Across Asia, the Middle East and beyond, 64 countries criminalise same-sex relations, with the death penalty legally prescribed in at least twelve of them.
None of this happened by accident. The Uganda Anti-Homosexuality Act, and laws like it across Africa, did not emerge fully formed from local politics. US evangelical activists — among them Scott Lively, who travelled to Kampala in 2009 to meet with politicians, pastors and community leaders — helped provide the ideological framework and the legislative language. Organisations like Family Watch International have spent years and significant funding exporting their culture war to countries where the consequences are not protests or political setbacks, but imprisonment, torture, and flight. The people in Kakuma are not only victims of African homophobia. Some of them are there because of US politics pursued abroad.
Nor is this only a story about distant governments. In April 2025, the United Kingdom’s Supreme Court ruled that the word “woman” in the Equality Act refers to biological sex — a ruling with immediate practical consequences for trans people’s access to services, shelters, and legal protections. Many of the countries that criminalise homosexuality are Commonwealth nations, shaped by British colonial law. The line between the countries that imprison queer people and the countries that legislate them out of public life is less clear than it is comfortable to believe.
Some of them end up in Kakuma, or in Gorom.
Kenya Police tear gas LGBT+ refugees in Kakuma Refugee Camp.
Kakuma is a refugee camp in the remote north-west of Kenya. Gorom is a refugee settlement in South Sudan. Both are harsh, remote, under-resourced places at the edges of the world, the kind of places that exist precisely because the rest of the world has decided it doesn’t need to look too closely.
Both are home to LGBTQI+ refugees who fled persecution in Uganda, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Sudan, Somalia and beyond, people who ran for their lives because of who they are, and arrived hoping for safety. What many found was more of the same.
Machetes in Kakuma refugee camp
In Kakuma, LGBTQI+ refugees face homophobic and transphobic attacks from other refugees and from locals. They are beaten, stabbed, burned out of their shelters. They are denied medical care. They cannot work. Their food rations from the World Food Programme — already meagre — now last less than a week, because the Trump administration’s sweeping cuts to foreign aid have gutted the humanitarian system that kept them alive.
They wait for resettlement that may never come. They await a world that will acknowledge they exist.
IDAHOBIT exists because the world keeps forgetting.
It needs reminding that homophobia and transphobia are not distant abstractions; they are policies, laws, and fists. They are people sleeping in shifts, taking turns to stand guard through the night against attack. They are mothers separated from children. They are people surviving on hot water and grass soup.
They are human beings who asked for nothing more than to live honestly and safely, and were told that was too much to ask.
IDAHOBIT is not a celebration of what has been won, but a reminder of what remains unfinished.
Days like this matter only if they change something for the people who cannot wait for the world to catch up. If you want to make that change real, support the organisations that keep them alive.
If you would like to support LGBTQI+ refugees in Kakuma, Gorom and beyond:
MAREPA — emergency shelter for LGBTQI+ refugees in Nairobi, Kenya
Rainbow Railroad — helping LGBTQI+ people escape persecution worldwide
I am also happy to advise people on how to assist individuals or extended families and communities across Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania and other African problem areas.
She didn’t choose to gather her children in the dark and run: from war, from persecution, from a government that wanted her family dead, from militias that burned villages, from bombs that fell on schools, from the kind of danger that makes a leaking boat in open water seem like the safer option.
She didn’t choose to have her children ostracised, attacked and forced to flee home and family because of their sexuality.
She didn’t choose years of living in limbo… in camps, in temporary shelters, in bureaucratic purgatory… while the UNHCR processes and defers, while her children grow up without permanence, without a future they can count on, without a place to call home, or a community to call village or family.
She didn’t choose to have her case ignored, delayed, or denied by nations that speak of compassion and practise indifference.
She didn’t choose to flee to countries in Europe or Australia, only to be met with suspicion, hostility, and hatred… told she is a burden, a threat, an inconvenience… by people who have never had to choose between danger and dignity.
She didn’t choose to live under the shadow of forced deportation: to watch governments like the current United States administration tear families apart and send people back to the very dangers they escaped, caring nothing for what awaits them there.
She didn’t choose to watch her children go hungry in refugee camps stripped of funding, camps where foreign aid was cancelled, where food ran out, where clean water became unavailable, where medicines disappeared, because powerful men in powerful countries decided her children’s lives were unimportant.
She didn’t choose any of this.
She chose only to fight against all odds to keep her children alive; to keep going when everything said stop.
She chose to love fiercely in conditions designed to break her.
On Mother’s Day, we celebrate the mothers we know and love. But let’s also hold space for the mothers we never see: the ones at the edges of our world, carrying the unbearable with grace we will never be asked to find.
For many refugees, displacement is already a story of loss, survival, and hope. But for LGBTQ refugees, it is often a story of double persecution — fleeing danger in their home countries only to face new threats in the very places meant to protect them.
I know this reality not from reports or headlines, but from lived experience.
In 2022, I was arrested in Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya alongside three other transgender women. Our only “crime” was existing openly as who we are. Life in the camp was marked by constant fear. Transphobic individuals targeted us regularly — through threats, harassment, and violence.
Despite reporting these incidents, our voices were often ignored within systems that were supposed to protect us.
We were told, directly and indirectly, to stay silent. But silence was never an option.
We chose to speak out, to organize, and to demand visibility. Our advocacy grew stronger, and so did the backlash. At one point, a Kenyan senator initiated a committee to investigate why LGBTQ refugees were in the camp. Instead of addressing the violence we faced, we were accused of “spreading homosexuality,” as if our existence was a threat.
Still, we refused to disappear.
Threats from the Senator in 2023 (photo supplied)
We organized a Pride event in the camp — a bold act of resilience and visibility. For a moment, it felt like we were reclaiming our dignity. But that moment was short-lived. Police officers arrived and dismantled our celebration, reinforcing the message that we were not welcome, even in spaces we tried to create for ourselves.
Months later, the situation escalated further. The camp manager issued a directive ordering all LGBTQ individuals to leave Kakuma or face arrest. When we requested legal documentation to leave safely, it was denied. Instead, arrests began.
We were trapped — told to leave, but denied the means to do so.
In a desperate search for safety, we made a difficult decision during a community meeting: to flee. South Sudan was the closest option, and despite the risks, we crossed the border hoping for protection.
But the challenges followed us.
Discrimination, insecurity, and lack of protection persisted.
Yet, even in the face of repeated hardship, we did not give up.
Through continued advocacy and the support of international allies, I was eventually relocated to Canada. Today, I live in safety — but my journey is far from over. My voice carries the stories of many who are still left behind.
In places like Gorom Refugee Camp in South Sudan, LGBTQ refugees continue to endure violence, exclusion, and neglect. They remain invisible in policies, unheard in systems, and unprotected in spaces meant to offer refuge. Many are still waiting for resettlement, for recognition, and for the basic dignity every human being deserves.
This is why I continue to speak out.
(Remembering LGBT+ refugees whose voice is often silenced)
International Priorities
Resettlement countries such as Canada should urgently prioritize LGBTQ refugees in refugee camps because they face layered and life-threatening vulnerabilities that go far beyond the general hardships of displacement. Unlike other refugee groups, LGBTQ individuals are often exposed to targeted violence, discrimination, and social exclusion both from within refugee communities and sometimes from local authorities, leaving them without meaningful protection or safe living conditions.
In many camps, there are limited or no specialized services such as safe housing, mental health support, protection mechanisms, or confidential reporting systems that address their specific needs. As a result, LGBTQ refugees are frequently forced to live in constant fear, isolation, and invisibility, where even accessing basic humanitarian assistance can expose them to further harm. Prioritizing their resettlement is therefore not about preference, but about protection of the most at-risk individuals within already vulnerable populations.
Countries like Canada, which have strong human rights commitments, have both the capacity and moral responsibility to ensure that LGBTQ refugees are given urgent pathways to safety, dignity, and long-term protection.
The international community must act urgently to protect LGBTQ refugees. This includes ensuring safe and inclusive asylum systems, addressing discrimination within refugee camps, and accelerating resettlement processes for those at risk.
Silence and inaction only deepen the suffering.
We are not asking for special treatment — we are asking for safety, dignity, and the right to exist.
Our resilience should not be mistaken for acceptance of injustice. We have endured, resisted, and survived. But survival is not enough.
It is time for the world to listen. It is time for change.
*Charity is an activist and refugee advocate who has previously written articles from Kakuma and Gorom.
The future of our world — and particularly the Western world — feels increasingly precarious. Political divisions deepen, international conflicts unsettle long‑held assumptions about global stability, and social cohesion strains under the weight of competing identities and fears. It’s a moment defined by uncertainty, where headlines seem to offer little more than reminders of how fragile peace and unity can be. And yet, in the midst of this turbulence, I found an unexpected source of clarity: a single, understated episode of a Hollywood television series that dared to imagine a gentler, wiser, more cooperative humanity. That quiet vision of what we might become stood in stark contrast to the chaos of our present, and it has inspired me.
At its core, that quiet television moment resonated because it echoed something deeply humanistic — the belief that people, when given the chance, can grow toward empathy, cooperation, and understanding. Humanism has always asked us to imagine a world shaped not by fear or dominance, but by shared dignity and curiosity. Our arts and culture have traditionally been the vessels for that imagination: they challenge us, inspire us, and remind us of the better angels of our nature. Whether through literature, film, music, or the stories we tell around kitchen tables, culture has the power to lift our gaze beyond the immediate turmoil and invite us to picture a future where humanity chooses wisdom over conflict. That Hollywood TV episode did exactly that, offering a fragile but compelling glimpse of who we might yet become.
A World Pulled Toward Conflict and Colonialism
When we step back from the ideals that humanism and culture invite us to imagine, we’re confronted with a world that often seems to be moving in the opposite direction. Wars and regional conflicts continue to unsettle entire populations, reminding us how quickly fear can override cooperation. Even within nations long considered stable, political unrest has become a defining feature of public life. Nowhere is this more visible than in the United States, where deep ideological divides have reshaped communities and strained the social fabric. Some movements promote a worldview that elevates one nation, one identity, or one interpretation of history above all others — a mindset that wrongly suggests superiority rather than shared humanity. This posture, rooted in certainty and exclusion, stands in stark contrast to the betterment of all.
The United States has long projected two contradictory images into the world: a nation deeply entangled in global conflicts, and a nation that simultaneously imagines itself as a beacon of progress and possibility. Few cultural works embody this tension more clearly than the US franchise, Star Trek. Born in the midst of the Cold War and shaped by American anxieties and aspirations, the franchise offered a vision of a future defined by exploration, diplomacy, and scientific curiosity. Yet even this optimism carries the imprint of the culture that created it. The utopianism of Star Trek is often filtered through a distinctly American lens — one that has historically reflected its own limitations, from orientalist tropes to racial and gender imbalances among its central characters.
Even its attempts at inclusivity sometimes reflected the limits of its cultural vantage point. Characters presented as “diverse” were often African‑American or Asian‑American rather than people rooted in their own distinct cultures and histories, meaning that representation was still filtered through a US lens. This mattered because it subtly reinforced the idea that American identity was the default from which all other identities were interpreted. In doing so, the franchise unintentionally flattened global perspectives, offering diversity without fully embracing the richness of the world beyond its borders.
Since 1945, the United States has engaged in roughly a dozen major wars and more than a hundred military conflicts, a pattern that underscores how deeply its identity has been shaped by both idealism and interventionism. Likewise, the fictitious Starfleet has struggled to balance its militarism with its potential for peace, complete with a Prime Directive that is intended to prevent militarism and imperialism, but instead often ignores human rights abuse.
This is why recognising these limitations is so important. When a narrative claims universality while quietly centring one nation’s worldview, it shapes how audiences imagine the future — and who they imagine within it. Stories that unintentionally reproduce narrow cultural assumptions risk shrinking the possibilities of tomorrow to the boundaries of today. By acknowledging where these narratives fall short, we open space for futures that are genuinely global, genuinely inclusive, and genuinely reflective of the full spectrum of human experience.
The Future Arrives
This is why the moment in “Starfleet Academy” (episode 2: “Beta Test”) feels so striking. In the Betazoid resolution — where the Federation agrees to shift its institutional focus away from Earth and toward Betazed — the franchise quietly steps beyond its long‑standing US‑centric, Eurocentric, and Northern‑Hemisphere framing. It was still a flawed representation (the Betazoid world is still white, US-cultured, and patriarchal) but the symbolism of this handover is deep and meaningful. In a single gesture, the story acknowledges that the future of humanity cannot be anchored in one nation, one culture, or one hemisphere. It implicitly, symbolically opens the door to the global Southern Hemisphere, to Africa, Asia, South America, and the Pacific, to perspectives and identities that have historically been peripheral in the Star Trek universe.
In this episode, something shifts. Instead of exporting a narrow American self‑image as the destiny of the world, Star Trek tentatively gestures toward a broader, more pluralistic future — one that finally begins to imagine humanity as a genuinely global project.
I have noted the intensity of criticism directed at this latest iteration of Star Trek — complaints that the franchise has become “too diverse,” “too inclusive,” or “too political,” as though expanding the range of human experience on screen somehow threatens the legitimacy of those who once saw themselves as the default. These reactions echo a broader cultural anxiety: a fear among some groups that equality is only acceptable when it preserves their own centrality. Movements that resist diversity often frame themselves as defending tradition, but history shows that such positions rarely endure. Those who once defended slavery, racial segregation, or rigid gender hierarchies also believed they were protecting a natural order. Over time, those beliefs were rejected, not because change was easy, but because the moral arc of society gradually widened to include more people, more voices, and more truths.
In that sense, the backlash against inclusive storytelling feels less like a meaningful cultural stance and more like the fading echo of a worldview struggling to keep its footing. History is filled with beliefs that once seemed immovable — from segregation or heterosexism to rigid gender hierarchies — yet each eventually receded as society grew beyond them. The resistance to diversity will follow the same trajectory. These old perspectives persist for a time, but they gradually lose their force as the world expands around them, becoming relics of an era too narrow for the century ahead.
The youth of today — much like the cadets in Starfleet Academy — are growing up in a world where diversity is not a threat but a fact, and where cooperation across cultures is not an aspiration but a necessity. The Betazoid resolution in episode 2 captures this shift beautifully: a symbolic move away from a single cultural centre toward a future shaped by many voices. It is a reminder that the next generation is already imagining a world more expansive than the one they inherited, and that their vision, not the fears of those clinging to old hierarchies, will shape the future.
A Generation Ready to Imagine Something Larger
When this episode showed their arrival at San Francisco – to the tune of Scott Mackenzie’s old hippie classic “San Francisco” – I feared that the episode would once again reflect US-centric notions of liberalism and humanity. The episode concluded with an inspiring transcendence: the old hippie notion of inter-generational change was brought about by the youth of Starfleet and Betazed working together.
This shift matters because it brings us back to the heart of humanism: the belief that humanity’s future is not predetermined by the fears of the present, but shaped by our capacity to grow beyond them. When Starfleet Academy dares to move its symbolic center away from Earth — and by extension away from the cultural dominance that has defined so much of Western storytelling — it gestures toward a future in which no single nation or worldview claims ownership of humanity’s destiny. That is a profoundly humanistic act. It suggests that progress is not the property of one culture, but the shared work of many.
And this is where the generational parallel becomes impossible to ignore. The young characters in the series, like the young people in our world, are not burdened by the same anxieties that fuel backlash against diversity. They are growing up in a globalised environment where difference is normal, where collaboration across cultures is expected, and where identity is understood as expansive rather than fixed. Their instinct is not to retreat into hierarchy but to reach outward. The Betazoid resolution captures this beautifully: a moment where the future is no longer imagined through the narrow lens of a single hemisphere, but through the collective imagination of many worlds. It mirrors the way today’s youth are already redefining what community, equality, and belonging mean.
This is why the criticisms of newer Star Trek — the complaints about “wokeness” or the discomfort with diverse characters — feel increasingly out of step with the world that is emerging. Such reactions echo older systems of exclusion that once seemed immovable but ultimately collapsed under the weight of their own contradictions. Just as societies eventually rejected slavery, segregation, and rigid gender hierarchies, so too will the resistance to inclusion fade. These worldviews persist for a time, but they do not endure. They cannot. They are too small for the world we are becoming.
What endures instead is the quiet, steady expansion of the human story. The recognition that no single culture, nation, or ideology can speak for all of us. The understanding that the future will be shaped not by those who cling to old hierarchies, but by those who imagine something larger. In this sense, the hopeful moment in Starfleet Academy is more than a narrative choice — it is a cultural signal. It reflects a world where young people are already building connections across borders, already challenging inherited assumptions, already envisioning futures that are more inclusive, more global, and more humane than anything that came before.
I look forward to a future for the franchise that draws from the full richness of humanity rather than a narrow cultural lens. This would be Star Trek at its finest — finally living out its own ideal of “Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations” in both story and spirit. Even more than that, I look forward to the real world that such a future implies: a world where our shared imagination is shaped by many voices, many perspectives, and many voices working together to build something larger than any one of us.
And perhaps that is the real lesson: even in a time of conflict, division, and uncertainty, the seeds of a broader, more generous future are already being planted. The youth of today — like the cadets of tomorrow — are not waiting for permission to imagine a better world. They are already doing it, quietly and confidently, in ways that transcend the boundaries of the past. In that small moment when the youth of Starfleet stood alongside the youth of Betazed, I realised I had seen the future — the same future that emerges whenever young Israelis and Palestinians reach for understanding, when young Russians and Ukrainians dream of rebuilding instead of destroying, when the children of Yemen or Sudan or Congo imagine peace in place of war. Not in the stars alone, but in the courage of a new generation willing to imagine differently.
