As the world prepares to mark World Refugee Day on June 20, discussions will echo across continents about war, displacement, and humanitarian assistance. But there is one story that is often left out — a story of a people who are doubly displaced, constantly under threat, and too often excluded from protection programs. We are the LGBTQ+ refugees and asylum seekers living in South Sudan, particularly in Gorom Refugee Settlement, and our daily struggle for survival continues in silence, far from global headlines and political promises.

We are refugees who fled our homes in Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Ethiopia, and Sudan — countries where being lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, or queer means being hunted by the state, persecuted by society, and disowned by our own families. Many of us first found temporary safety in Kenya, only to be forced to flee once more as hostility and violence found us even there. We ended up in South Sudan, believing it might be safer. But we were wrong.

What we have experienced is a relentless cycle of flight and fear. We are tired of running, tired of hiding, and tired of being treated like we do not exist.

Fleeing persecution, only to face more

The reasons we fled our home countries are all rooted in systemic hate: we were accused of witchcraft, imprisoned for who we love, subjected to forced “conversions” or exorcisms, and physically assaulted by family members and neighbors alike.

Lesbian women in Uganda and Rwanda were forced into marriages with men, some even raped by their own relatives to “cure” them. Gay men in Burundi and Congo were arrested, tortured, and publicly humiliated. Transgender individuals in Ethiopia were stripped of all dignity, mocked in the streets, denied medical treatment, and in some cases beaten to the point of unconsciousness. Bisexual youth were disowned and kicked out of their homes. And queer children — or children simply perceived as different — were molested, assaulted, or abandoned.

We thought Kenya might provide refuge. For a while, it did. But soon, even the refugee camps in Kenya became unsafe. Attacks on LGBTQ+ individuals increased. Some of us were sexually assaulted inside UNHCR facilities. Local authorities turned a blind eye. The Kenyan government ultimately declared it would no longer support resettlement for LGBTQ+ asylum seekers. And so, once again, we fled.

This time, we crossed into South Sudan. And again, we hoped for safety. But at Gorom Refugee Settlement, we found yet another kind of danger — one that is quieter, colder, and just as cruel.

What life looks like in Gorom: constant threat and no protection

At Gorom, we face daily verbal abuse, physical violence, economic isolation, and state indifference. LGBTQ+ refugees are attacked by fellow refugees and members of the local host community. In some cases, we are targeted by our own block leaders, who refuse to distribute food or health services if they suspect we are queer. In clinics, trans women are mocked, told they are “possessed,” and denied even basic medical care. Those of us living with HIV face layers of stigma — our sexual orientation is blamed for our condition, and we are often left without access to lifesaving medication.

Safe housing for LGBTQ+ refugees does not exist in Gorom. Couples are forced to pretend to be siblings or risk being separated — or worse. One gay couple was recently threatened by men in their block who accused them of “bringing demons.” They have not slept in the same shelter since.

Lesbian sisters, sharing a small shelter to survive, told us:

“We sleep in turns at night — one keeps watch while the other rests. We’ve been threatened with rape three times. Our block leader told us to leave or act straight.”

Children of LGBTQ+ parents, or those who are gender non-conforming, are bullied at school or excluded entirely. Some are even denied meals at community kitchens — punished simply for who their parents are.

For many queer women, survival sex work becomes the only option. There is no employment, no support, and no safety. This leads to alarming rates of sexual assault and HIV infection. Yet when they seek help, they are either ignored or blamed.

And while mental health crises are rising, there is no trauma support designed for queer refugees. Many of us have attempted suicide. Some have succeeded.

We have evidence, but no urgency

In early 2024, a SOGIESC (sexual orientation, gender identity and expression, and sex characteristics) assessment was conducted by peer human rights monitors inside Gorom. It documented the situation clearly and thoroughly.

• Many transgender individuals had been physically assaulted in the span of just three months

• Lesbians received death threats or were targeted with “corrective rape”

• LGBTQ+ persons were denied medical services

• Attempted suicide

These are not just statistics. These are names, lives, and stories. And yet, most of the reports were never acted upon. Bureaucratic delays, unclear processes, and shifting responsibilities have turned urgent threats into forgotten files. Each time we cry out for help, we are told to wait. But in our world, waiting can be fatal.

Acknowledging those who have helped; and those who must do more

We extend sincere appreciation to the Commission for Refugee Affairs of South Sudan. Since December 2023, LGBTQ+ refugees were allowed to remain in Gorom with a degree of tolerance. In a country where same-sex relationships are widely condemned, this space mattered. But the relief was short-lived.

We now face an eviction order, issued for June 20, ironically, on World Refugee Day. The government has declared that all LGBTQ+ individuals must leave the settlement. No safe relocation site has been offered. No plan for protection has been shared. Once again, we are being pushed out — not for something we did, but for who we are.

We also recognize the continued engagement of UNHCR South Sudan and some officials working on the ground. Their intent is clear. They listen to our voices, acknowledge our pain, and try to act within their mandates. But the pace of intervention is too slow. In many cases, the process of documentation, assessment, and relocation takes months. By the time help arrives, it is too late.

We also commend the advocacy of Rainbow Railroad, which has raised awareness globally about the plight of LGBTQ+ refugees. Their work has saved lives. But we need them to be faster, more connected to those of us already in danger, and more responsive to grassroots alerts from inside the camps.

If coordination, funding, and trust between grassroots advocates and major institutions could improve, we would not be burying so many of our community members. We would not have to keep writing these cries for help.

Real voices, real pain

“I was beaten because my jeans were ‘too tight.’ They said I looked like a woman. I am a woman — trans — but they made me feel like an animal,” says Daniella, 24.

“We put our names on the protection list. My partner was attacked at the water point the next day. Nobody came to help us,” says Joseph, 31.

“I am HIV-positive. The clinic nurse laughed and said I got it through sin. I haven’t gone back since. I just stay in bed now,” says Amina, 28, a lesbian mother of two.

These are not rare stories. These are everyday truths for queer refugees in South Sudan. And still, we are expected to stay silent and grateful.

Our call to the world

We are not asking for special treatment. We are demanding equal protection under the same humanitarian principles that others receive. We ask that:

• UNHCR and all partner organizations prioritize LGBTQIA+ safety in refugee camps, not as an afterthought but as a core responsibility

• Safe shelters and protection units be created for queer refugees facing internal violence

• LGBTQ+ refugees be consulted in decisions about policies, services, and resettlement programs that affect us directly

• Emergency medical and mental health services be inclusive of queer identities and trauma

• Pathways to resettlement for LGBTQ+ individuals be accelerated, especially for those in crisis.

Let this World Refugee Day mean something

To be queer in a refugee camp is to constantly fight for your life. It means being forgotten by both your country of origin and your supposed place of refuge. It means sleeping in fear, eating in shame, and living without dignity. It means being told that safety exists, but not for you.

We are tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of begging for our humanity to be acknowledged. But we are still here. We still believe that the world can listen. And we still believe that justice is possible — if only someone chooses to act.

This World Refugee Day, remember that we are not just refugees. We are LGBTQ+. We are survivors. And we deserve to live.

Abraham Junior lives in the Gorom Refugee Settlement in South Sudan.