Archive for November, 2025
Staycey’s story
I am from Nigeria, which is a very dangerous place for LGBTQI+ people. Being gay is not accepted there – it’s a taboo, a curse. Society, and the government, are very religious and homophobic. You can get killed. When people in my community found out that I was a lesbian they attacked me; I was almost crushed to death.
I knew I needed to leave Nigeria and came to the UK around 2006/07. It is much safer for me here. When I first arrived, I didn’t know how the system worked. I wanted to be left alone because I was unsure if I could trust people after what had happened to me. I was scared and in a dark place for years. But it got better when I started socialising and going to LGBT meetings with Many Hands One Heart. I was really relieved to meet people here.
“I wasn’t sure if I could claim asylum as an LGBTQ person. The Home Office interview was stressful… I was so sad throughout it all. I felt alive but not alive.”
My first experience of claiming asylum wasn’t good. I wasn’t sure if I could claim asylum as an LGBTQI+ person. The Home Office interview was stressful and eventually I was refused. I made several more claims for asylum, and they were all refused. I was so frustrated and miserable. I tried so hard and went all over the place. I went to court in Manchester, and contacted solicitors in Glasgow, and Newcastle. I was so sad throughout it all. I felt like I was alive but not alive.
I was held in immigration detention once, in Yarl’s Wood, for two months in 2015. It was a nightmare. It’s hard to talk about. After my asylum claim was rejected, they came to my house and told me I had no case and would be detained. Detention is not a good place. It is a deadly experience. You don’t have any freedom; you can’t even see daylight. You don’t know how long you will be there. It could be months or years. It’s a disastrous experience for a person. Everyone in there was scared.
I really deteriorated while I was detained. My leg was still very damaged and swollen from the attack in Nigeria. I was very ill, but I got no treatment. It is so unhealthy to be in detention. You are always in your room with no sunlight, no fresh air. There are restrictions everywhere. The staff are OK, but they don’t give you good food to eat. No-one comes to check on you; you are left for hours and hours, with rubbish food, and no water. My health just got even worse.
I asked for help and medical treatment, but no-one responded because no-one cared. So I decided to protest. I needed to say enough is enough. We had no human rights, no voice. We weren’t criminals, we had not committed any crimes – but we were treated like slaves, locked up all day. We weren’t respected as humans. We needed to speak out. We needed the world to know this is not right.
“Detention is not a good place… You don’t know how long you will be there. It could be months or years. It’s a disastrous experience for a person. Everyone in there was scared.”
Not long after the protest they told me I can go home. I didn’t understand. No-one talks to you about your situation. You aren’t supported, nobody tells you when you will be released. I didn’t know if they meant Nigeria or home in the UK. I was scared after the protest they would remove me from the country, but they said I could go home in the UK. I got no warning and wasn’t told why I was released. I had nowhere to go, but luckily I could stay with a friend.
Immigration detention was a very bad experience, and I worry about being detained again. You are scared for your future. It is such an unhealthy place; it’s a disaster for your life. It’s not good for anyone, ever. It feels like it’s killing you.
This story was originally published at: https://www.rainbowmigration.org.uk/stories/stayceys-story/
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Miki’s story
I am a gay man, from Azerbaijan. Azerbaijan is homophobic, and LGBTQI+ people are not supported. It is difficult for LGBTQI+ people to find jobs in Azerbaijan. We are targeted and constantly verbally and physicallyabused. Many LGBTI+ people are killed. There is nowhere safe to live. In schools, the workplace, in the community, on the street – LGBTQI+ people are attacked everywhere. They are beaten up openly, their money, phone and other belongings are stolen from them. They are in danger and in fear day and night. It is very unsafe to live openly as a gay man in Azerbaijan.
There is no legal protection, there is no culture of LGBTQI+ rights, or support. There is no safe, organised community. There are some gay apps available, but no-one really uses them, because you are so scared of anyone finding out. Nobody posts any pictures of themselves. It’s so stressful and scary, and when you meet up in person, it’s terrifying. A lot of the profiles on the apps are fake. The police pose as gay men, and then blackmail you, beat you up, and threaten to expose you to your family. If you are attacked, and report it to the police, they blame you. They can arrest you – they plant cocaine on you and arrest you for that. Police try to bribe you, ask for money, and if you don’t pay, they send photos to your family.
When my family found out, they were ashamed of me. They disowned me. I have five brothers. One kept threatening to kill me. He’d already been in jail, and I knew his threats were serious. I was not safe, so I fled to Moscow, and then the UK.
“I knew I wanted to stay in the UK, but I didn’t have any idea at all about how to go about it. I didn’t know anything about asylum.“
I arrived in the UK in July 2020, with a citizen work visa valid for six months. I worked as a fruit picker on a farm in a small town on the south coast.
While I was working on the farm, I met a guy. I had never been with a man before. It’s just too difficult, dangerous and scary to meet men in Azerbaijan. Even though I was in the UK now, I was still nervous. I didn’t even want to walk with him in public, because in Azerbaijan everyone wants to know your business. They ask questions about everything. People are very suspicious of you. Even though I was now in the UK, I still didn’t want to be seen in public with a gay man.
But he slowly made me feel more comfortable, and I started to feel better about myself. He was Lithuanian, and we could speak together in Russian. This made me feel at ease, and I could talk with him freely.
My life was getting better. I enjoyed working on the farm and I knew I wanted to stay in the UK, but I didn’t have any idea at all about how to go about it. I didn’t know anything about asylum. I did some research and looked for lots of different ways to stay, but my visa was only valid for six months and I was unsure if I could extend it.
Yet I knew I couldn’t go back to Azerbaijan because of so many problems with my family, and because I felt so unsafe there as a gay man.
My partner offered to support me. We lived together and we started the European Union Settlement application. We got all our documents together, attended appointments, and got quite a long way into the process. But then I started to have doubts. I visited London a few times and realised I wanted to explore the UK a bit more. I was confused about how to proceed and began to wonder what it is that will make me happy.
I finished working on the farm but was still living with this guy. Yet he had changed from the man I met; he was becoming quite difficult. The relationship had become very negative for me, and I decided to end it. It was a scary time; I didn’t have anywhere to go, and nowhere to live.
In December 2020 I claimed asylum. I was sent to a hotel. Even though I was pleased to have some accommodation, it was still very stressful for me. I just sat in my room all the time. It was very, very lonely.
I first contacted Rainbow Migration in December 2021. I spoke to Stuart, one of the Support Workers; he was so nice and told me not to worry. He said Rainbow Migration would find me a lawyer. The lawyer was excellent, she explained the whole process so clearly. It was a real relief for me.
I also had a Support Worker at Micro Rainbow; they could speak Russian, which I am more comfortable in than English; it really helped me to talk about my situation.
I was in the hotel for months. It was a very difficult time. This was during the COVID lockdowns, so I couldn’t do anything or go anywhere. The staff were horrible. They were rude, unhelpful, and discriminated against migrants. The food was so bad we couldn’t eat it, so we protested. It worked, and the quality of the food slightly improved, but they still treated us all terribly.
Eventually the Home Office moved me to accommodation in a town near Manchester. I was in a big house on my own. It was so lonely. I just sat in this big empty house by myself all day. I would go for walks and try and fill my time, but I always felt terrible. I was alone. There is no LGBTQI+ community there that I felt I could be a part of. It was also so difficult living on £38 a week. I couldn’t afford to do anything or go anywhere. I was just drinking and smoking all the time. I tried volunteering, to give myself some purpose and feel like I belonged to the local community, but it didn’t really work.
I was in that house for eight months. I was so depressed, always in a low mood. I didn’t know what to do. I went to the GP, and they gave me some anti-depressant medication. But I still felt awful. I was having nightmares every night.
The GP referred me to a crisis team, but I couldn’t afford the train ticket from the town to Manchester and back. Eventually I spoke to Migrant Help. By this time, I was in a deep depression. Migrant Help had to send an ambulance and the police to my place. Migrant Help made sure I spoke to someone every day.
“Being supported by Rainbow Migration made me realise that there really are some people in this country that do care and do want to help you. No matter your religion, nationality, or gender, they can be there for you. It’s amazing!”
I spoke to Laurie, a Support Worker at Rainbow Migration. We were often on the phone for over an hour. It was so nice. They were so keen to listen to me, to show that they care. They really helped me understand things. It made such a difference; it was like talking to an angel! I told them how isolated I was in that town, and they told me they could help me find more suitable accommodation. Within a week they found me a place to move to in London. I was relieved, and so happy! They understood that accommodation for LGBTQI+ migrants is particularly important because we may not be safe with very religious people, for example. Rainbow Migration and Micro Rainbow have both helped me get somewhere safe to live.
Being supported by Rainbow Migration made me realise that there really are some people in this country that do care and do want to help you. No matter your religion, nationality, or gender, they can be there for you. It’s amazing!
Once I was in London, I started going to group support sessions at Rainbow Migration twice a month. I met other people in situations like mine. It was so nice, and I really needed to meet people I could relate to after being isolated for so long. Coming to these support sessions made me realise how important organisations like Rainbow Migration are for LGBTQI+ migrants like me in the UK. I got help and advice from people who care.
When I have had really difficult times with depression and relationships, Stuart and Laurie have been amazing. They really looked out for me, helped me stay positive and move on. I really don’t know what I’d have done without them, and what my life would look like now. When you’re down, it’s so important to know there are people out there who want to help, and their support makes life so much easier. I don’t know how I can possibly show Rainbow Migration my appreciation. They made me feel like I’m not alone.
My life is so much better now. I’m very happy. I live in Essex, in accommodation for LGBTQI+ migrants, provided by Micro Rainbow. I feel safe and comfortable.
I went to Pride for the first time in 2022 and it was unbelievable, an absolutely amazing experience. It was my first time doing anything like that; it felt incredible to be out in the open as a gay man, feeling so proud.
I got granted refugee status in 2023, after waiting 2 years and 4 months. The asylum process is very difficult, and I needed lots of guidance throughout. I want to say thank you so much to Rainbow Migration for everything they’ve done for me. I couldn’t have made it without them. Their support has completely changed my life!
This story was originally published at: https://www.rainbowmigration.org.uk/stories/mikis-story/
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Manono’s story
I am from Malawi. It’s a very Christian country and being LGBTQ there is very bad. They don’t believe that LGBTQ people exist. So, you have to keep it to yourself. There is nothing you can do about it because you are scared you will get killed.
I came to the UK to study, and at first it was hard for me to come out. It took a long time during which I was still living in the closet. But when I did come out it was a big breakthrough for me. In Malawi I was scared that my family would force me to marry a man, and if I didn’t, they would kill me straight away. Coming to the UK was an escape. I have been here for 18 years now. I am happy with my girlfriend here. We feel safe and can live openly.
“When you come to the UK as a refugee, you don’t think about bringing “evidence” of being LGBTQ because you are running away from your country where you aren’t safe.”
But claiming asylum here was a very bad experience. It was so hard for me. You need to give evidence to the Home Office for them to believe you are a lesbian. When you come to the UK as a refugee, you don’t think about bringing “evidence” of being LGBTQ because you are running away from your country where you aren’t safe. When the Home Office tell you you have to get evidence, you don’t know what they mean. I went through a lot and tried to claim asylum many times, but it’s just refusal, refusal, refusal. After my claim was denied because of evidence I put in a fresh claim, but I’m still waiting for a decision after 5 years.
I have been treated really badly in the asylum system. All the refusals and delays have been really difficult.After I was released from detention, I had nowhere to go and no support and was homeless for a year. When I was given Home Office accommodation, it was so dirty and bad to live in – there was water from the upstairs toilet leaking through the ceiling onto my bed. I called ITV News and they interviewed me, to show the awful conditions that people claiming asylum are made to live in.
I have been in immigration detention more than once. The first time I was detained, I was in shock. I didn’t know what was going on. They took me away and locked me up. Inside detention I had no privacy – there were always guards at the door, who said they needed to watch over me because of my health. But the healthcare there was very bad. The nurses don’t want to give you any medication. One day I had to go to hospital, and they handcuffed me. Everyone was looking at me as though I was a criminal.
Nothing is good in detention. When you are there it’s like you’re serving a death sentence. You are scared of getting sent back to your home country. It triggers lots of mental health problems.
Detention centres are very bad places for an LGBTQ person. I did not tell anyone I was a lesbian. I thought I was going to be sent home, so I knew that if I was open about my sexuality, it was going to be very hard for me when I went back to Malawi. So I kept it to myself. There were other LGBTQ people in detention with me, and they were as scared as me. Some of us knew each other from outside detention, and you are scaredsomeone might tell other people about you. It’s very hard, because a lot of people in the community still do not accept gays or lesbians.
“Detention centres are very bad places for an LGBTQ person. I did not tell anyone I was a lesbian.”
Being in detention made me feel like I’m not a human being. I felt like I was just a number. It has made me lose my confidence. It’s so hard not knowing how long you’ll be there, because being in detention is the worst place you can be. It is a shock, and everyone detained is struggling. It’s a very bad place to be a woman. I am so scared of going there again. I never want to go back. Detention really is a very, very bad place.
I want everyone to know how bad detention centres are. Detention is a waste of taxpayers’ money. It’s worse than prison. No human being should be there. After I was in detention, I visited a centre to give a speech outside to people detained. They were all very scared, and many were worried about being sent to Rwanda. I went to speak to them because I wanted to raise awareness, and tell them how to find the right solicitors, or how to cope with being in there, because being in detention is so hard.
This story was originally published at: https://www.rainbowmigration.org.uk/stories/manonos-story/
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Vladimir’s story
My name is Vladimir, I am a gay man from Russia. It is so difficult to be an out gay man in Russia. There is so much discrimination against the LGBTQI+ community; this prejudice is supported and actively encouraged by the Russian government. LGBTQI+ people can face abuse every single day in Russia. Homophobia and transphobia are so engrained in society, that even walking down the street can be dangerous. The Russian government finds many ways to persecute LGBTQI+ people. They torture us! When LGBTQI + people are abused in public, the preparators get away with it and not prosecuted. It is so hard to be an out LGBTQI+ person in the eyes of the law. Any legal security we may have had has been continuously eroded over recent years. Now, we are not socially, culturally or legally accepted, supported or protected.
I was trying my best to be happy in Russia, and I had a successful career. But life for LGBTQI+ people in Russia started to get significantly more difficult in 2013, when Putin passed the “propaganda” law. At the time this was a new piece of homophobic and transphobic legislation which made it illegal to “distribute propaganda of non-traditional sexual relationships” to minors, meaning you could be heavily fined if you spoke favourably of LGBTQI+ people around children.
This law was updated in 2022, to include adults, effectively banning any kind of Pride event, or positive depiction of LGBTQI+ people in any public space in Russia. The legislation encouraged people to be actively homophobic, often violently. They knew they wouldn’t face any consequences.
“I was trying my best to be happy in Russia, and I had a successful career. But life for LGBTQI+ people in Russia started to get significantly more difficult in 2013, when Putin passed the “propaganda” law.”
Everything began to deteriorate even more when Russia invaded Ukraine in February 2022. The invasion was framed in lots of different ways. We were told it was justified for lots of reasons. It is presented to people in Russia as not only about Ukraine, but about Russia against the so-called satanic west. The government attempts to justify the war to citizens by claiming it’s to “protect and preserve” the country, family values, and traditional Russian culture. As many Russian people see being LGBTQI+ as being an imported “problem” from the West, and therefore “anti-Russian”, the war has only encouraged even more homophobia and transphobia.
It was just after the invasion that I came out as a gay man, on social media. I got a lot of hate online because I am against the invasion. Now that I’d come out, I received even more violent threats. I knew I wasn’t safe and began to fear for my life, and soon after, I fled Russia.
I eventually came to the UK in April 2022. I had some savings and found somewhere to live in London, but by July I’d run out of funds and asked the Home Office for financial support. At the first hostel the Home Office sent me to I faced homophobia, so they moved me to safe accommodation outside London, for which I was so grateful.
I contacted Rainbow Migration when I first arrived in London. I spoke to Stuart, one of the Support Workers; he gave me emotional support on many occasions. It made me feel a lot less alone. I was always depressed, but it makes such a difference to have that kind of support, from people who genuinely want to help you.
I was granted refugee status in March 2023. I was so happy, and so relieved. I can be my true self here in the UK. I can live as a gay man, without fear, without the need to hide who I am. I didn’t know this would ever be possible for me. Until I came here, I didn’t know how to live without shame. Now, I can live openly and safely.
“I eventually came to the UK in April 2022. I contacted Rainbow Migration when I first arrived… I spoke to Stuart, one of the Support Workers; he gave me emotional support on many occasions. It made me feel a lot less alone… it makes such a difference to have that kind of support, from people who genuinely want to help you.“
I want Russia to become a free and democratic society. I want that so much. But for now, I’m happy to be here. I have the freedom to speak, to be anti-war, to say what I really think. It’s very important to me. We are all equal, regardless of our religion, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, politics, anything! We are all human beings. I believe in equality; it is the key to freedom and to us all living good lives.
I am truly grateful for all the support I’ve received. Without it I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to live as a proud gay man – something which should have been possible in my home country.
I really appreciate Rainbow Migration and everything they do. It’s wonderful that organisations like them exist. Their work helps people to be themselves. Many people come from countries where being LGBTQI+ is shameful and stressful. You even worry you will be killed. But after coming to the UK, I realised you can live as a gay man without any doubt, that people will support and encourage you, and even celebrate you. It’s amazing! Thank you for everything.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Anel’s story
My name is Anel, I am a lesbian woman from Kazakhstan. My life in Kazakhstan was torture. I have short hair, and like wearing men’s clothes. People used to stare at me and call me names. It was very stressful to leave the house. It was always a challenge to protect myself and keep myself safe. Being LGBTQI+ is seen as a “foreign phase” in Kazakhstan. There is a quite big queer community now, but most people try and be as heteronormative as possible. It is much safer to conform to societal norms, and women are expected to be very feminine. Kazakh culture is reluctant to accept anything else, and generally people struggle to understand anyone who is different. I faced daily threats because people didn’t like the way I looked. It is difficult for anyone who is LGBTQI+, and if, like me, you don’t fit into gender stereotypes, life is very hard. You live in fear of everything, even your own family.
I came out to my mum in 2016; she said it was not normal, and that I would outgrow it. She took me to see a soothsayer; who predicted I would be married to a man for sure. My mother shared with me that she wants to send me to the USA to study but only if I marry a man and have two children by age 29. Most lesbians in Kazakhstan experience this kind of pressure and manipulation from their families.
I knew I wouldn’t be safe if I stayed in Kazakhstan. It was painful to accept that I couldn’t live my life as I wanted, that I couldn’t be myself. I was constantly stressed. I moved to China to study in 2018, and there I met my girlfriend. She is from Kyrgyzstan. I felt so much happier, but COVID meant we had to return to our home countries, and once the borders were closed, we had to look for somewhere else to be together.
“This country lets you be what you want to be, and people can accept this. It’s so much freer here… It’s so beautiful to me.”
Eventually we found an initiative to be a farmworker in the UK; we applied, we both got accepted, and we arrived in the country in May 2022. However, we were quickly separated again. I was placed on a farm in London, but my girlfriend was sent to work in Scotland. It was heartbreaking. My partner’s farm was awful; she had to endure terrible living conditions, and she wasn’t treated well. Thankfully she was eventually able to transfer to the farm I was working at. It was tough work, but we were so happy to finally be back together. We fell in love with each other all over again!
In July 2022 we went to London Pride. It was amazing. Everyone was so free; everyone was so happy! It was incredible to see so many people there together, as a community, being just what they want to be. People were smiling at us and telling us what a beautiful couple we are! It was unbelievable, and to be honest, even shocking to us. This country lets you be what you want to be, and people can accept this. I don’t feel I am going to be randomly attacked everyday just for being me. It’s so much freer here than where I am from. It’s so beautiful to me.
We applied for asylum in September 2022; in the process I heard from one guy about the possibility of claiming asylum as an LGBTQI+ person. He told me Micro Rainbow could help with accommodation, and then a close friend told me about Rainbow Migration. I got in touch, and they helped us, advising us on what we can do.
In November 2023 I needed to find a new lawyer and I got a call from Zehrah from the legal team at Rainbow Migration. She spoke to me for over 45 minutes and gave a lot of very helpful advice. She told me she will help me prepare for the asylum process and answered all my questions. She was so professional, very easy to talk to, and made me feel comfortable. I liked talking to her, and it made such a difference to have someone really listen to me and offer so much support.
I also spoke to Ayesha, the Legal Service Manager. She contacted me and gave me more information about pro bono lawyers. Then a few weeks later, one of the lawyers got in touch to say they had accepted my case. Zehrah came with me to the first meeting with the lawyer, in December 2023. I was so shocked – it was a very big law firm in central London. I was totally overwhelmed. I am so, so grateful to Rainbow Migration, because without their legal team, I would never have got access to such a big, international law firm. A whole team of four lawyers worked on my case. It was unbelievable, like some miracle happened!
I knew we needed to prepare quickly for the Home Office interviews, and Zehrah and Ayesha were always there for us throughout the process. They oversaw everything, knew exactly what was going on, and were always clear about what we should expect. They were amazing.
“I was granted refugee status in February. It was like a dream come true. It is so frustrating to seek asylum. You feel so alone. You can’t work, you can’t use your skills. You feel useless. You dream of getting status. Once you get it, your life can begin again.”
I had my second interview in January 2024 and was granted refugee status in February. It was like a dream come true. It is so frustrating to seek asylum. You feel so alone. You can’t work, you can’t use your skills. You feel useless. You dream of getting status. Once you get it, your life can begin again. You can’t make excuses anymore. It is such a happy moment, but you also feel a bit weird. I am still processing everything that has happened.
Now I can start thinking about my future. We want to get married and start a family. We want to travel, and maybe even open a business, or start a charity. We really want to help other people. We are hopeful, positive, and optimistic. We are looking forward to living safely and freely as a lesbian couple.
I am so glad we got help from Rainbow Migration. I am still shocked by how much they did for me; I didn’t expect it. I am so, so thankful for everything.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Faisal AKA Etlala’s story
My name is Faisal AKA Etlala. I am non-binary and gay. I was born in Saudi Arabia, which is hell for LGBTQ+ people. I first came to the UK in 2019 and wanted to apply for asylum, but I didn’t know how. I was totally ignorant of the LGBTQI+ asylum process. I was in London and asked lots of people for help, but I was given bad advice. Sadly, I ended up in the hands of traffickers. I managed to get away and decided to go back to Saudi Arabia.
But life was very difficult for me in Saudi, and I came back to the UK in November 2022. I liked being in London. I felt so free in Soho! I didn’t want to have the same problems as my first time here, so I started looking for advice. I had to be persistent and insistent, because when you don’t know how the system works it can be so hard to get help or to know who you can trust. It feels like you have no-one to turn to. I did lots of research, and I realised I could claim asylum on the basis of my sexual orientation or gender identity.
“I was having lots of problems in the government hostels I was placed in… You have no freedom in these places, you feel so trapped, especially when you are LGBTQI+.”
I found out about Rainbow Migration and got in touch. I got referred to Ayesha, who told me how the asylum process works, and what I had to do. I finally felt like I was getting the right support. I was so relieved, especially when she put me in touch with a lawyer – she even came with me to visit them for the first time. I really appreciated it, I felt so much more comfortable with her there with me.
However, I was having lots of problems in the government hostels I was placed in. Often, I was around people who made me feel very unwelcome. They were so rude to me, calling me names and always threatening me, telling me I was a bad person. I was so uncomfortable; I didn’t feel safe at all. Normally I try and be as happy as possible, but in the hostels, I felt so sad and lifeless. You have no freedom in these places, you feel so trapped, especially when you are LGBTQI+.
Eventually the Home Office sent me to the Bibby Stockholm barge. It was hell; I felt so unsafe it was like being back in Saudi Arabia. At times like this, my experience in the UK has been just as difficult as my country of origin. Unfortunately, I have faced a lot of homophobia from other people seeking asylum. I was treated very badly on the Bibby Stockholm. At first, I had to share a room. Then after a few days I got to have my own room, which was better. I had some privacy, and good facilities. But everything else was awful. The staff were also so cruel, they treated all of us staying there very badly. They are always watching you, searching you, making you feel anxious. Once I went outside for some fresh air, and the staff made me take my jacket off. It was so cold, and I had nothing on underneath, and they laughed at me. The staff would say that people seeking asylum are only here on vacation. We were always being told to “go home”, they were always trying to get rid of us. It was horrible.
Someone took their own life while I was there. There were police and ambulances everywhere. It was chaotic, and very scary. No-one would tell us what was going on and the staff ignored me when I asked them. I spoke to Ayesha at Rainbow Migration, and she confirmed what was going on. It was awful, it was terrifying. I was so anxious all the time.
I was held on the Bibby Stockholm for two months. Afterwards I was sent to Manchester. Then I had two Home Office interviews. When I first came to the UK, they asked me lots of very invasive questions. It didn’t feel professional, but you must try to answer as best you can. I was very nervous to have another interview with them, but Ayesha and Rainbow Migration helped me through it.
“I was granted refugee status in March 2024. I cried when I found out.”
I was granted refugee status in March 2024. I cried when I found out. I was so shocked. I knew that lots of the people I’d met on the Bibby Stockholm had been refused and removed from the country, and I was expecting the same to happen to me. I was so relieved.
I am so happy to be able to stay in the UK. Yet life is still very challenging. It’s so hard to seek asylum – then it’s so hard to start your new life once you get granted refugee status. I can’t explain how difficult it is, especially when you are LGBTQI+.
Accommodation is still a challenge. Throughout the whole process I have been moved around to lots of places which aren’t safe. Since I have been granted status, I have been homeless on several occasions, with no options for safe accommodation at all. The council haven’t taken me seriously, and I am still looking for the right place to live. LGBTQI+ migrants need to be made to feel safer in Home Office accommodation! It is very difficult to go through asylum and live in these places as a non-binary person.
But I am happier and feel better in Manchester. I have a few friends who are supporting me, and it’s a good city to be queer. It’s an exciting place to be, and I am starting to build a life here. I am meeting people and making new friends. I am slowly beginning to feel more positive. I have started dreaming again. I would love to be a singer. Singing and performing is an escape, it makes me so happy, and being on stage really liberates me.
I am excited for my future – I didn’t think I ever would be again. I have Rainbow Migration and Willkie Farr & Gallagher to thank for that. Without them I wouldn’t have got refugee status. Ayesha was with me every step of the way. I want to say thank you so much.
This story was originally published at: https://www.rainbowmigration.org.uk/stories/faisal-aka-etlalas-story/
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Dona’s story
My name is Dona. I’m from Cameroon. I’m the youngest of 15 children. My father would threaten all of us with death if any of us were homosexual: “Whoever among you is homosexual, I will kill with my own hands like a rat,” he said.
My mother said “gwuines”, (which means lesbians in old French slang) go to hell. For some reason, she always said it while looking at me. Indeed, I was different; not much of a tom boy, but it’s like I had a man’s character. My father even used to call me Mister. I knew I was different without realising what homosexuality even was.
One day, I heard my cousin telling my sister that she doesn’t feel comfortable around me because I look at her like a man. Slowly I began to understand that I was attracted to women, but I kept it secret. I didn’t want to go to hell, so I confided in our church youth coordinator. She was a beautiful woman. Surprisingly, she told me about queer people, and the necessity to accept difference. She later became my first love, but our story would only last for a short period of time – she went abroad to “study”, but never came back. With hindsight, now I think it was her way of escaping Cameroon.
“Coming to London was a relief right away from the airport… There were banners of queer people kissing each other, rainbow flags, same sex couples holding hands openly or broadcasted on TV. It was a signal I had to come out. So, I did.”
Traumatized by the sudden break-up, I fell into a deep depression, and I turned to the God who my mother said was against homosexuality. I engaged my life in Christ Jesus and turned my back on my past life as I considered the disappointment as a divine warning before burning in hell fire.
I got married to an abusive man. We had three children together. I was so unhappy. I never felt at ease until my brother invited me to the UK for the holidays after noticing I was constantly depressed.
Coming to London was a relief right away from the airport. There was a wind of relief, of victory, of freedom everywhere. There were banners of queer people kissing each other, rainbow flags, same sex couples holding hands openly or broadcasted on TV. It was a signal I had to come out. So, I did.
A burden was off my shoulders. But then the nightmare started. My husband threatened me with witchcraft if I ever went back to Cameroon. He told me I would never see my children again. Fortunately, my brother backed me up – he had a different understanding of life afte 20 years in the UK. He advised me not to return, fearing for my life, and to seek asylum, as he knew Human Rights are prioritised in this country. So, I did, against my will.
I met a friend who introduced me to Rainbow Migration. It was a gift from heaven at the appointed time. Without my caseworker Claire, I would have gone back. I was ready to die.
“Without my caseworker Claire, I would have gone back; I was ready to die… She helped me find a solicitor; she also helped me to provide basic needs like food and healthcare.”
Without Claire’s support I would have hurt myself. I was so depressed. She helped me find a solicitor for free. She also helped me to provide basic needs like food, healthcare and a scholarship for my homeless children, who were back home and had been abandoned by their father because of me, their lesbian mother.
It wasn’t easy but I stayed strong until I was granted refugee status and started my family reunion process which will mean I will be reunited with my family soon.
I’m forever grateful to Rainbow Migration and their devoted team, encouraging us day and night. Fighting for change, justice and freedom. Today, I have a better life; quiet and settling bit by bit. I have a girlfriend and we’re planning to get married once our children are reunited with us. Thank you.
This was originally posted at: https://www.rainbowmigration.org.uk/stories/donas-story/
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Olu’s story
My name is Olu. I am a lesbian woman from Nigeria, where it is an abomination to be a lesbian. I tried to deny myself that I’m a lesbian just to honour my parents and make myself be what they wanted me to be. I even got married to a man and had children. When my husband found out that I liked women, I was nearly killed.
I came to the UK to seek asylum because I had been on holiday here and it’s the only place that I know well apart from my country. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t even know that I could claim asylum based on my sexuality.
I claimed asylum but it was a very difficult experience. I had scars and plasters from the violent attacks back home, but still the Home Office didn’t believe I was a lesbian.
“Your immigration status as an asylum seeker shuts the door on you for so many things. The whole process made me doubt myself.”
The asylum process has been really heartbreaking for me. I was expecting to be welcomed, to be embraced, and that they [the government] would help me out but they are adding more terror into my life. Your immigration status as an asylum seeker shuts the door on you for so many things. The whole process made me doubt myself. I felt worthless. When you are seeking asylum you can’t work, and I had to give up my dream of higher education at university, because I couldn’t get funding. It was overwhelming and exhausting for me. I was sofa surfing and waiting on people or organisations to support me with literally everything. You can’t think clearly, and it pushed me to the edge – sometimes I thought about ending it all.
Eventually I had to start a fresh claim. When you claim on the basis of being LGBT+, you have to prove yourself. At one point the Home Office put me in accommodation in a remote location, where there were no LGBTQI+ services or activities. It was so hard to be so isolated, especially when the Home Office then asks for evidence of my participation in any LGBTQI+ events.
“I eventually found Rainbow Migration, who helped me secure foodand phone top-ups and provided emotional support.”
All of this affected me mentally and physically. I’ve been homeless. Lots of things have happened to me that make me feel no sense of belonging.
I eventually found Rainbow Migration, who helped me secure food and phone top-ups and provided emotional support. I also got in touch with Naz and Matt Foundation, Galop, and Micro Rainbow, who helped me when I was homeless. I couldn’t have done without all this support; thank you!
*We are happy to say that Olu was granted refugee status in 2024. Upon telling us her good news, she quoted Laurel Hubbard, the first openly trans woman to compete at the Olympic Games.
“There are moments of high mood, there are moments of low mood, there are moments of injury, there are moments of progress, there are moments of stagnation. All we can do is to keep on pushing.”
This was originally posted at: https://www.rainbowmigration.org.uk/stories/olus-story/
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Misha’s story
My name is Misha, and I’m a russian-born, queer-identifying person of Korean descent (ig: @m_m_zakharov). I am an author and film worker (he/they), with a particular interest in queer and/or decolonial perspectives on Central and Eastern Europe, the Caucasus, and Central Asia (EECCA).
My Refugee Journey
My refugee journey began in March 2022, when I left russia immediately after its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, escaping potential political persecution due to my pro-Ukrainian stance, evading conscription (I was eligible as a male of draft age), and avoiding paying taxes that would fund the military machine. I also feared an impending anti-LGBTQI+ crackdown, which I was certain would occur (and it did — in the form of harsher anti-LGBTQI+ laws in 2022 and 2023, culminating in the so-called ‘LGBT movement’ being designated as extremist). Most of my work — in publishing, contemporary art, and film — has revolved around queer and racial justice advocacy.
Initially, I fled to Tashkent, Uzbekistan, where I had friends who could shelter me. The five months I spent in Uzbekistan helped me unlearn many colonial biases about Central Asia that had been instilled by the metropole. It is true that Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan in particular remain dangerous for queer people, as these are the only two ex-soviet states where male homosexuality (referred to as ‘sodomy’ in their legislation) is still criminalised. Lesbian and trans people exist in a grey area: not directly targeted, but not protected either. But there are also pockets of freedom, and I was privileged to befriend queer people from Central Asia and their allies; I consider myself an ally to them as well, doing what I can to amplify their experiences through collaborations with various institutions and festivals in the UK, such as Queer East and Atlas Cinema.
I spent the summer of 2022 working in Italy, at the first-ever national pavilion of Uzbekistan at the Venice Biennale. It was in Venice that I came across an announcement for a fully funded PhD position in the Department of Film and Television Studies at the University of Warwick in Coventry. Having been expelled from my previous university in russia, I was eager to continue my studies and applied. I was invited to join just hours after the interview. I returned to Tashkent, secured my visa, and travelled to the UK in October 2022. I’m now in the third and final year of my PhD — something I couldn’t have dreamed of, which also happened under unimaginable circumstances.
It was nearly two years into my stay in the UK, in August 2024, that the russian embassy in London rejected my application for a renewed international passport — just four days after submission, despite the full procedure typically taking up to six months. I found this incredibly disturbing, as such applications are usually forwarded to the intelligence services for monitoring, and I may have been flagged by their system.
As someone engaged in LGBTQI+, racial justice, and pro-Ukrainian advocacy, continuing to rely on a russian passport — when my most important travel document and ID must be mediated through the russian consulate — no longer feels sustainable. There have already been multiple cases of activists being either stripped of their passports and rendered stateless, or facing restrictions on travel due to their dependence on russian international passports. There are also rumours that russia may follow Belarus’s lead and prohibit its citizens from obtaining travel documents abroad — a measure already implemented by the Lukashenka government to control activists following the failed revolution of 2020.
Asylum process in the UK
“[The substantive interview] is dehumanising, and you are treated like a cog in the machine.”
In late 2024, I conducted a thorough two-month investigation into the asylum procedure, meeting with current asylum seekers, recognised refugees, human rights lawyers, and advocates. I realised I needed to prove two things: that I am a queer person of colour with pro-Ukrainian views, and that I am at risk of persecution in my country of origin because of this. Although I was never specifically targeted, I was nearly detained twice at major anti-government rallies, and many of the initiatives I used to work with in russia have either been shut down—with their staff relocating elsewhere—or raided by the police or intelligence services. This, alongside many other factors I neither have the space nor capacity to list here—such as the censorship of some of my texts and my novel about coming of age queer, Korean, and precarious in putin’s russia—made my case a fairly transparent one.
My personal statement totalled 60 pages, featuring my own story alongside excerpts from anti-queer and anti-Ukrainian legislation, existing precedents of persecution and imprisonment, and more—demonstrating the systematic and widespread nature of the repression. I self-represented, entering the system without a lawyer, as it was crucial for me to speak for myself and on my own terms. Still, I had some common sense, a good understanding of russian legislation (which is deliberately obscured from citizens, let alone outsiders), and a healthy dose of bravery.
In January 2025, I contacted the Asylum Intake Unit and underwent my screening—the initial procedure for collecting data—later that month. It was then that I officially became an asylum seeker, and my student visa was curtailed. I wasn’t supposed to disclose this information, as the russian authorities were not to be made aware of any of it. After that, I simply had to wait. I was invited to attend my substantive interview — considered the most important part of the asylum process — in mid-April; the interview took place in late May. I can’t disclose the details of the process, but I will say this: as expected, it is dehumanising, and you are treated like a cog in the machine.
Usually, people wait several days, weeks or even months before a decision is issued. Additional interviews may also be requested. In my case, the decision arrived just a few hours after the substantive interview.
Again, my case is by no means representative. I arrived in the UK as a PhD student, with a stable university stipend, perfect command of English (a language I’ve practically considered a second native tongue since early childhood), and a rapidly growing network of friends and connections. Thousands of refugees do not share this privilege: those who arrive in the UK by boat, risking their lives to find safety; people housed in hotels with no autonomy over their lives, in constant fear of their location being exposed and attacked by white supremacists; those surviving on benefits; and people with limited or no English and no support networks.
I would like to draw particular attention to the systemic injustices faced by refugees from Ukraine: it is now practically impossible to obtain refugee status—especially if one returned to Ukraine after the full-scale invasion—as the Home Office then deems the country ‘safe’ enough for return. Instead, Ukrainians must rely on temporary humanitarian protection, which must be periodically renewed. The same applies to refugees from South Caucasian countries such as Georgia and Armenia, and Central Asian countries like Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, which are still considered safer than russia—though even a cursory glance at the news from these regions (and some lived experience) reveals this is far from the truth.
The asylum system is by no means transparent, but it does have its logic. I would suggest doing some research about the procedure—the differences between asylum seekers and refugees, solicitors and barristers, refugee status and humanitarian protection, screening and substantive interview—and making up your mind as soon as possible, as the recent attacks on migrant and trans rights are seriously endangering future asylum seekers (particularly trans women). The so-called ‘illegal’ refugees—who often happen to be the most vulnerable, having risked their lives crossing the border by boat—will never be able to fully naturalise.
What now?
I will now be able to travel more freely once I receive my Geneva Travel Document, also known as a refugee passport. If the soon-to-be-introduced changes to current legislation do not affect me, I will be eligible for Indefinite Leave to Remain in five years, and a British passport a year after that. I harbour no illusions about my status: this merely means exchanging the papers of one imperial entity for another—to live in relative safety from the first, while remaining fully aware of the second’s historical and ongoing crimes. But for the time being, I can’t help but experience this as a huge victory.
This journey is by no means easy—it can easily make one jaded and disillusioned with structures of support that in reality turn out to be quite the opposite, turning you into that tired cliche they use to demonise immigrants: the ungrateful refugee. What I found especially moving—and what propelled me forward—was meeting queer refugees or immigrants who cannot return to their lands because of war (Ukraine and the Republic of Artsakh), or who are effectively stateless (East Turkestan and Palestine). Now that I am a refugee in the UK, surrounded by people of all imaginable ethnicities and genders, and can finally live openly as a queer person of colour, I have neither the desire nor the need to return to russia. Instead, what I find incredibly important is contributing to the visibility of these people’s causes—for instance, through the festival I curated as part of my PhD, and through the belief that they might one day return home.
I’m not proud of being a refugee in a legal sense, although practically it is of course very important to have the opportunity to travel and naturalise; nor do I wish to define my entire identity by refugee status. Instead, what I’m proud of is having maintained a sense of humanity throughout this incredibly dehumanising process, and the ability to see things clearly.
I want to thank all my friends who supported me during this time—especially the individuals who wrote supporting letters—and particularly Darianna from Rainbow Migration for her comments on my personal statement. To those escaping countries or regions in EECCA, I would strongly suggest getting in touch with Rainbow Migration and Queer Svit, a volunteer-run organisation that has been doing incredible work in terms of helping queer asylum seekers of colour from the region.
This story was originally published at https://www.rainbowmigration.org.uk/stories/mishas-story/
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Jalal’s story
I’m from Morocco, and I lived there my entire life until I moved to the UK at the beginning of 2021 to get a higher degree and discover a new culture.
In one of my visits home, I had a huge confrontation with my family. I brought a lot of clothes and other items, knowing my family normally would not touch any of my stuff, like my phone. But this time, I was really surprised when my mum took the opportunity to go through my stuff when I wasn’t looking. Thinking back on it, I think she was very suspicious about my lifestyle in the UK. Every time we video called, I would keep it short and always say the same things, so she wanted to know more.
She found my letters and a picture of me and my ex. When I got back, she was holding all the things I was hiding, and we had a fight. I had to go back to my room for safety because it was getting really violent. Eventually my parents told me to leave, or my dad was going to kill me.
He left the house to cool off, drive in the car. My mum told me “Once he’s back, you’ll have to leave or he’s going to kill you”.
So that’s what I did. I took my passport, my luggage and anything that I could grab. I went to stay in the cheapest hotel, waiting for the cheapest flight ticket [back to London]. Eventually, I took the flight. I needed three days before I applied for asylum to just process everything. I was so tired from the flight.
The process of applying for asylum was really difficult at first, especially getting a hold of the helpline for asylum seekers, Migrant Help. I understand that they have a high call demand and a lot of people calling at the same time, but it was very difficult to get through to someone and being on hold was very stressful, especially when you don’t have anything left on your bank account and you need a place to stay. The first week, I was just trying to find a place to live, and eventually they placed me in a hotel. I was there for five months until I got my call for my substantive interview.
“I found it weird having to prove that I’m gay. I felt like I had to prove it more than I should have to, when you shouldn’t have to make it a big deal. I felt exposed.”
The hotel where I was staying, there aren’t enough words to describe the conditions. I was very grateful that we at least had a place to stay, but the food was really horrible, it was food that would expire on the same day, so you had to eat it right away. I was having problems after eating.
The asylum support we receive is only £9.95 a week, which would barely cover the transport for one day. I was lucky to have some friends who lent me a little bit [of money].
Back when I was in the little hotel in Morocco before escaping to London, I was just trying to get my thoughts and trying to find a way, I tried to learn about claiming asylum but not everything is provided online. You need to talk to organisations or people who know about the process. I found Rainbow Migration a couple of days after my screening interview and they gave me a lot of information about the asylum system, because everything was new to me, and answered any questions I had. The biggest help was connecting [me] with pro bono Linklaters lawyers who were able to take on my case.
If I hadn’t found Rainbow Migration, I don’t think I would have found a lawyer and I’m not sure that I would have been prepared for the asylum process. For example, I wasn’t aware that I could write a personal statement to send to the Home Office, explaining everything that has happened to me. I was very lucky to have competent lawyers.
During the asylum process, I had to provide evidence about everything, emails, pictures of me and my ex, Pride, attending LGBT groups from years ago.
I found it weird having to prove that I’m gay. I felt like I had to prove it more than I should have to, when you shouldn’t have to make it a big deal. I felt exposed, like I really need to give a lot of details about my personal life.
It was a weird process, but surprisingly quick for me– I did the interview on a Saturday, and they answered on Monday.
The main problem after being granted refugee status is finding a place to live. Finding a DSS-friendly [housing benefit] place is so, so hard. I was lucky to find a Moroccan community who spoke my main language, and I was able to get a place through them. It was luck.
Now, I’m studying a course in Civic Service. After, I plan to study cybersecurity, and I hope I can find a job in tech afterwards. I have a lot of hopes.
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