Botswana’s government has repealed a provision of its colonial-era penal code that criminalized consensual same-sex sexual relations.

The country’s High Court in 2019 struck down the provision. The Batswana government in 2022 said it would abide by the ruling after country’s Court of Appeals upheld it.

The government on March 26 announced the repeal of the penal code’s “unnatural offenses” section that specifically referenced any person who “has carnal knowledge of any person against the order of nature” and “permits any other person to have carnal knowledge of him or her against the order of nature.”

Lesbians, Gays and Bisexuals of Botswana, a Batswana advocacy group known by the acronym LEGABIBO, challenged the criminalization law with the support of the Southern Africa Litigation Center. LEGABIBO in a statement it posted to its Facebook on April 25 welcomed the repeal.

“For many, these provisions were not just words on paper — they were lived realities,” said LEGABIBO. “They affected access to healthcare, safety, employment, and the freedom to love and exist openly.”

“LEGABIBO believes that the deletion of these sections is a necessary and long-overdue step toward restoring dignity and aligning our legal framework with constitutional values of equality and human rights,” it added. “It is a clear message that LGBTIQ+ persons are not criminals, and that their lives and relationships deserve protection, not punishment.”

LEGABIBO further stressed that “while this does not erase the harm of the past, it creates space for healing, inclusion, and continued progress toward full equality.”

Uncloseted Media published this story on April 28.

By EMMA PAIDRA | Shlomo Satt remembers first thinking he might be gay at 13 years old after seeing an article about gay marriage in the newspaper. Growing up in an Orthodox Jewish community on Long Island, New York, Satt immediately felt anxious about what this could mean for his future.

“I think that’s when I started thinking, ‘Oh, am I that? Am I gay?’” Satt, now 30, told Uncloseted Media and GAY TIMES.

As Satt came to realize he was gay, his anxiety skyrocketed. He was aware that only half of Orthodox Jews — and 20 percent of ultra-Orthodox Jews — are accepting of homosexuality.

“In my community, it’s very shunned to be gay,” says Satt. “So it was really, really, hard for me to accept that I was attracted to other men, because I was like, ‘It’s not what the Torah says you’re allowed to be.’”

Unlike more progressive denominations, Orthodox Judaism advocates for a more literal understanding of the Hebrew Bible, known as the Torah. For example, verses such as Leviticus 18:22, which states that “You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination,” are more likely to be interpreted verbatim by Orthodox rabbis.

“One of the hallmarks of growing up Orthodox and queer is feeling really alone,” says Satt. “It’s not something we talked about.”

Stories like Satt’s represent what’s motivating LGBTQ people to leave Orthodox Judaism. While little research has been done, one 2023 study from Brooklyn College CUNY found that only about 15 percent of LGBTQ people left Orthodox Judaism directly because of their sexual orientation or their religious views on homosexuality. Other reasons for leaving the denomination included religious views on homosexuality, being judged, bullied or alienated, emotional abuse, trauma, wanting more freedom, and mental health issues.

“It was really hard for me to engage in [Orthodox Judaism] and not feel deep shame or trauma,” says Satt. “That’s why I left.”

Growing up Orthodox

Unlike many Orthodox Jewish families, Satt’s parents allowed him some access to technology and even played secular music like The Beatles. Still, he had no television in the house growing up and zero education about LGBTQ people.

“I didn’t even know that someone could be gay until a friend told me in sixth grade,” he says. “For most of my upbringing, it wasn’t like homophobia was espoused. It just was literally not talked about.”

After the newspaper article triggered Satt’s “gay awakening,” he struggled to keep his feelings inside. “It was really hard for me to accept that I was attracted to other men,” he says. “All I wanted was just to be straight.”

Staying silent about his emotions took a toll. He worried that his dreams of having a big Jewish family would be unattainable. “I wanted to have a wife and kids and be normal within my community, and it felt like I couldn’t have any of that if I was gay,” he says.

By around age 15, Satt’s stress levels reached a breaking point. “I had a night where I was just really, really depressed and crying to God about my sexuality. It was really hard for me to cry at that point, because I was so not tuned in with myself.” He decided to meet with a school psychologist who was part of the Orthodox community. After telling the psychologist he might be gay, the response he received was, “We can fix that.”

Satt remembers initially feeling immense relief at the thought that his sexuality could be cured. “I was so joyful,” says Satt. For the next three and a half years, he worked with members of the Orthodox community who practiced conversion therapy.

The turning point

This therapy, which has been widely discredited for decades, culminated with Satt doing a retreat through an organization called Brothers Road, where participants were encouraged to reenact their trauma in front of each other. He was forced to beat up a punching bag with a metal baseball bat, pretending it was his mother. “I don’t know what the purpose of this was, but it was horrible. And doing this for 35 adult people, it’s totally insane and super humiliating.”

After the therapy failed, Satt began to question the negative messaging he had been taught about being gay. “The things that are more innate to me, I believe, are from God. I didn’t choose to be gay, I just was gay,” he remembers thinking.

With the help of a licensed trauma specialist, Satt reconstructed his relationship to Judaism. He is still Jewish today, and has plans to pursue rabbinical school, but he left Orthodoxy behind. “I actually started really heavily diving into spirituality as a means of meaning in my life, as a means of connecting with my Jewish roots and my tradition, but in entirely different ways. One hundred percent progressive, 100 percent equitable, only learning with people who conferred my identities,” says Satt, who now identifies as a “post-denominational Jew.”

This transition hasn’t been easy. Satt has lost all contact with his family and describes losing the relationship with them as “the hardest thing” in his life.

Unfortunately, Satt’s experience isn’t unusual. An article written by the founder of Jewish Queer Youth (JQY), a nonprofit mental health organization, found that from 2016 to 2023, over 2000 queer youth from Orthodox families accessed support services provided by JQY. And amongst closeted Jewish Orthodox gay men, concerns about the impact of their sexuality on family relationships are a common theme.

Despite this, Satt says he’s experienced immense joy since accepting his sexuality, healing through therapy with an affirming Orthodox rabbi, and having a Jewish wedding where he married his long-term partner. “I started to, slowly but surely, take back my own narrative and live the life that I wanted.”

The rabbinical perspective

While one 2025 study published in the Archives of Sexual Behavior found that some ultra-Orthodox communities are moving away from uniform rejection of homosexuality, gay rights remain controversial in many Orthodox communities. For example, Chabad, a major movement within Orthodox Judaism, states on its website that when it comes to queer desires, “even if it burns inside for a lifetime, the best thing for you, for your health, and for your ultimate satisfaction in life is to subdue and re-channel that desire.”

Mark Dratch, an Orthodox rabbi in Jerusalem, says that there is a limit to the accommodations an Orthodox synagogue can make.

“The sense of alienation, the sense of depression and the person’s emotional and sometimes physical well-being, that’s part of a rabbi’s responsibility,” Dratch told Uncloseted Media and GAY TIMES. “So I think there’s room to be welcoming and embracing, while at the same time living with this kind of dissonance of what tradition requires.”

Though Dratch ultimately views queerness as being in opposition to Orthodox Judaism, he still believes it is his duty to try and support LGBTQ congregants. “I may not like this part of you, but if I don’t embrace you, then we’re going to lose the other 95 percent of your Jewish commitment,” he says.

Dratch says LGBTQ Jews would be welcome to attend services in his synagogue, but he wouldn’t marry a gay couple. “It may not be good enough for some LGBT people in these communities,” he says. “They want to be more than tolerated.”

Marceline’s story

It’s not just gay people who struggle. As early as 9 years old, Marceline Franco locked herself in her bathroom and wrapped a towel around her head, trying to picture herself as a woman. Assigned male at birth and raised in a Syrian Orthodox Jewish community in Brooklyn, N.Y. Franco felt intense guilt for wishing she was a girl.

“I desperately, more than anything, wanted to be a woman,” says Franco, now 30 years old. “I would sit in the bathroom as my only safe space to cry and pray and beg.”

Staying quiet about wanting to dress as a woman and go by a girl’s name put an immense amount of stress on Franco. “One of my fantasies as a kid was that I could wake up in a woman’s body. But in the bed next to me was a clone of me that could live out the rest of my life as my family and community would have wanted,” she says. “I felt horrible that I would rob them of me.”

A shared experience with conversion therapy

By the time Franco entered college, she decided to see an ultra-Orthodox therapist. “Over the next four and a half years, I participated in some version of conversion therapy,” she says. “[My therapist’s] view of it was more of a fetish/escape, and that it was something that I could learn to control and basically bury.”

Franco’s therapist taught her to think of herself in four parts. When Franco suggested that there was a fifth part — a girl — her therapist shut the idea down. Franco found the elimination of this part of her troubling. “It was the erasure of my transness with this person in a professional setting, which is deeply, deeply problematic,” says Franco.

Similar to Satt, conversion therapy didn’t work. And after watching queer comedian Hannah Gadsby’s comedy special “Nanette” for a college class, Franco began to question her therapist even more and started reconsidering her religious upbringing.

“I no longer was able to hold the belief that the Torah was true,” she says. “I realized that I may be holding onto religion to protect myself from coming to terms with the grief of being alone in the world … and justifying staying closeted.”

Franco ultimately left organized Judaism behind.

Six months later, she came out as trans. In order to explore her gender, she cut contact with her family. However, upon trying to reestablish a relationship with them as a woman, things did not go well. “I was nearly barred from my own grandfather’s funeral and I was barred from a family Shabbat meal mourning him. Two weeks later I was kicked out of my cousin’s wedding for showing up dressed as myself,” she says.

“The grief is immeasurable. It is nearly impossible to mourn people and relationships that are actively still living in this world. … And to move through all these major life moments alone has been really difficult.”

Despite this loss, Franco still practices elements of Judaism that resonate with her and has found joy and meaning in her transition. “Once I just started speaking my mind, saying how I felt, it stopped being confusing. I stopped hating myself for having these feelings. I just started loving myself.”

How Satt and Franco learned to move forward from religious trauma

Both Satt and Franco left the Orthodox communities they grew up in.

Still, Satt says Judaism has been the healing force for him. “It brought me back into a relationship with God, The Infinite, The Sum of All Good,” he says. “It ultimately made me feel very connected to myself, to humanity and to my heritage.”

Satt is thrilled that some rabbis are fighting for more inclusivity in the Orthodox Jewish space, but unless more begin to follow in their footsteps, he believes LGBTQ Jews will continue to disaffiliate from the denomination.

Though Franco no longer practices Judaism, she still finds meaning in some of the lessons she learned when she was.

“When my therapist was my mentor, she had me start to look at the world as having divine providence. And I did see a lot of that in my life. To this day, I still do,” she says. “And I just have reinterpreted that God doesn’t care that I’m Jewish or not. God loves me as I am.”

It started as any White House Correspondents’ Dinner is supposed to go—I assume. I’ve never been to one before this, but based on other events I’ve attended at the Hilton, including an HRC gala, it all seemed fairly normal.

There was a lot of traffic. Police had blocked off streets encompassing a large portion of Adams Morgan—particularly around the hotel. The president was making his first appearance after boycotting the event during his first term, so there was a sense of anticipation. It took me about 45 minutes to go just under a mile from my apartment to about three blocks from the hotel in my Uber. I waited until the last possible second before I felt like I was going to be late—6:30—to get out of the car, because it was raining and I was wearing my green tux.

I walked up to a group of people checking tickets at the base of the hotel. They seemed to just be glancing at the tiny, index-card-sized tickets rather than conducting any kind of full security screening outside. As I walked from that first checkpoint to the drive-around drop-off area, I joined what was essentially one long line for the red carpet. It eventually split into people who wanted photos and those who didn’t—but again, there was no real need to show anything beyond that small ticket upon entering, and even that wasn’t being checked closely.

 A light went off in my head; I felt that, given the speed at which security was checking tickets, they couldn’t fully see the foil logo and tiny table numbers from that distance. I remember thinking that if I had a similarly sized piece of paper, I could have gotten through up to that point.

I also noticed there was no real security checkpoint or metal detectors upon initially entering the hotel grounds—unlike what I had seen at the HRC gala the year before.

I waited about 35 minutes in line in the car drop-off area—without cars, since it had been repurposed to corral press and their guests before entering the building and heading onto the red carpet. I took my photo, then went up the escalator to meet my date, Jacob Bernard from Democracy Forward. They wouldn’t let him onto the red carpet without his ticket, so I gave him his, which I had been holding. He was already inside the venue despite not having his ticket on him and had been at one of the pre-parties. 

That also struck me as odd—that you could access a pre-dinner party without a ticket or going through any visible security.

After I found him, we took a photo together at a step-and-repeat past the main red carpet area around 7:45. Oddly enough, a group of my friends—gays who I regularly see on the dance floors of the gay bars of Washington, who work in various government and media-adjacent fields—found me, and we took pictures together. None were White House correspondents or held a “hard pass” to the White House (security credentials that allow entry into the White House complex).

 Another light went off in my head that indicated party crashers probably shouldn’t be getting inside to an event that is supposed to be one of the most secure rooms in the country.

After the photos, I could see groups of people being moved from pre-party spaces in various meeting rooms on other floors and directed toward the main floor where the red carpet had been.

My guest and I went back up to the main floor and walked through a small security checkpoint that included only a handful of metal detectors. From there, I went down the stairs from the lobby into the International Ballroom, where we took our seats at Table 200. I talked to a few people I knew—very traditional pre-event chit-chat. The vibes felt good. It was my first time attending, and I was genuinely excited.

Around 8:15, the Marine Corps Band played and “Commandant’s Four” color guard presented the flags. We were then told to take our seats. 

They introduced the head table—the president, first lady, vice president, and members of the White House Correspondents’ Association board. Weijia Jiang, senior White House correspondent for CBS News and president of the WHCA, gave a brief speech, essentially saying we would eat first and then move into the main program, which was supposed to feature mentalist Oz Pearlman.

At this point my table, 200 which included members of the Wall Street Journal, the Blade, and a European outlet all started eating. About 15 minutes later, Washington Hilton staff began clearing plates and preparing to bring out the next course.

As they cleared the plates, I heard four loud bangs.

I saw hotel employees immediately start ducking. They seemed to understand the gravity of the situation much faster than most attendees, including myself. At first, it sounded like a tray might have fallen over (but I later found out that wasn’t the case).

After about 30 seconds of watching some people duck, others look around in confusion, and some continue eating and drinking, I got down. I kneeled with my chair in front of me as a kind of barrier. Being at Table 200, I felt somewhat removed from where the actual incident occurred.

Then I saw the president being whisked away quickly by Secret Service, along with the first lady and others at the head table.

My reporter instincts kicked in. I grabbed my phone and started filming. I saw SWAT team members rush into the ballroom and onto the stage, clearing the area. I captured a video of people looking around, confused about what had just happened.

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A few minutes later, the room was told by the WHCA president to hold on—that they would provide more information and guidance on what would happen next. There was some indication that they might try to continue the event despite what had occurred.

Everyone started frantically checking X to see if any major outlets were reporting. I was receiving texts from family, friends, and colleagues about the rapidly unfolding situation.

I walked to the bathroom—twice, technically. I couldn’t find it initially because it was hidden behind black curtains. (Later, those curtains were removed, and the men’s room was in clearer view.)

During the first walk to the bathroom, I called my editor to tell him what was happening. He instructed me to start sending copy to another editor, who would get it online. The ballroom had almost no service—it’s in the basement of a 12-story hotel—so it was a challenge. I utilized SMS fallback (since iMessage wasn’t working) to send updates.

I returned to the table, where people were still hovering—calling editors, scrolling, texting, sending photos and copy. I was already drafting my story and sending it in chunks, adding details as I gathered more information.

I walked my guest toward the bathroom again, which was on the opposite side of the ballroom from our table, so I had to cross what felt like a sea of journalists, PR officials, guests, and others on their phones, talking and scrolling. My guest pointed out that the press pool was being held in an alcove away from the ballroom doors and escalator exit—not in the ballroom with everyone else.

“Alive” by the Bee Gees was playing over the speakers in the bathroom, which felt a little too on the nose.

On my way out, I heard someone speaking over a microphone and rushed to the ballroom entrance. WHCA President Weijia Jiang was speaking. She announced that the event was over and the space was being evacuated.

She also said that President Trump would hold a press conference at the White House in about 25 minutes.

That’s when I knew it was a race against the clock.

I called my editor a second time to update him and asked if I should head to the briefing (knowing the answer would be yes). He confirmed.

Then the crowd began to move. People grabbed purses, bottles—some left belongings behind. Even though it was technically becoming a crime scene, no one was actively forcing us out. It felt more like a collective understanding: It was time to go.

I texted my guest: “OK, I have to go to the White House. I’m so sorry to leave you.”

I made my way with the sea of people toward the one exit we were allowed to use and zipped between women in fancy gowns and men looking like penguins.

I put on my hard press pass, opened the Capital Bikeshare app, reserved the closest e-bike, and headed out. 

I walked up Columbia Road to 20th and Wyoming, grabbed the bike, and rode down Wyoming, then 18th, cut over to U Street, and went straight down 16th to the White House. That ride was exhilarating. I also filmed an Instagram Reel updating my followers on what was going on. I could see tourists and D.C. residents alike looking at me from their cars and the sidewalk, obviously confused as to why a man dressed in a tux had hopped on a bike.

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I got off the bike where 16th Street meets Lafayette Square and darted toward the first White House security checkpoint, where they were verifying press credentials. Luckily, I had mine. After that, it turned into a mad dash. Everyone who made it through started moving quickly.

The sound of heels on what I think was cobblestone—or maybe brick—sticks with me. My own shoes were clacking as I ran toward the White House alongside other journalists in heels and dress shoes.

At the Secret Service checkpoint, there was a separate line for hard pass holders. Having my hard pass let me skip much of the impeccably dressed line of journalists who didn’t think to bring their hard pass with them.

It was probably the most exquisitely dressed press crowd I’ve ever seen—tuxedos, gowns, full makeup. It felt like something out of “The Hunger Games.”

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I went through security, put my belongings through the metal detector, entered my code, grabbed my things, and ran to the briefing room.

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