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 )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/
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LGBT IMMIGRATION STORIES 