PHOTOS: We Are Here LGBT in Uganda

Despite taking a month-long break for the holidays beginning December 14, Uganda's Parliament will once again consider the Anti-Homosexuality Bill when it reconvenes in 2013. Religious leaders in Uganda are already stoking the homophobic flames, issuing public New Year's prayers that call for the bill's passage as a way to protect children from being "recruited" into the "sin" of homosexuality.

As it stands, the so-called Kill the Gays bill would prescribe the death penalty for some LGBT Ugandans, including "repeat offenders" and anyone who has same-sex relations with a minor, with someone who is mentally handicapped, or under the influence of drugs or alcohol. The bill demands long prison terms for those spared capital punishment and requires friends, family, and neighbors to report any "known homosexuals" to authorities or face jail time themselves.

But despite potential passage of the bill and a hostile environment stoked to an ideological inferno by American evangelicals proselytizing in Eastern Africa, Ugandan LGBTI people have a simple message: We are here. We are Ugandan. We will not be silenced.

American-born photographer D. David Robinson first traveled to Uganda in 2008, and while living and working in Uganda for the past year, he found himself welcomed into the small but vibrant LGBTI community. Robinson’s new friends repeatedly told him their experiences were not visible in media commentary, even within Uganda. Together they decided to document their lives through photos and first-person stories, shared with the world in order to elevate the voices of these oft-silenced people — a brave and dangerous move in a country where coming out could soon get you a death sentence.

“This is a project of intimate storytelling,” says Robinson, himself a gay man. “It is not political, even if these individuals are activists and human rights defenders in Uganda. These are personal stories, and obviously just a small window onto each person’s experience of discovering their sexual orientation and learning to survive and thrive in the country they love.”

The lensman says he hopes everyone will see that the Ugandans in these photos are not victims; they are human rights leaders. And they are profoundly human: at once vulnerable, resilient, flawed, and creative.

“Even though many Ugandan government and religious leaders have abandoned them, these Ugandans have not abandoned their country or their faith. Above all, they are proud to be Ugandans,” says Robinson.

Robinson collected first-person stories and photographed 12 LGBTI Ugandans, all featured on the following pages. Click through to see the striking photos and read first-person stories that could only be told by those who live them daily.

Cleo Kambugu, 26-year-old transgender woman, author of an open letter to Ugandan members of Parliament asking for tolerance

My name is Cleo Kambugu, and I work with Trans Support Initiative Uganda. This is one experience of my life as a trans woman in Uganda. Not every day is like this, but because of events like these, my kind and I smile and celebrate like there’s no tomorrow. For some of us, there isn’t. That is our reality.

I wondered how the evening’s events [when she was attacked by a mob] had brought me to this dark moment. The mob gathered and swelled by the second, people drawn by curiosity and by the insults the dark man spewed at the girl. I raised my head, and in the distance I could see the silhouette of a man I recognized as my boyfriend. He was upset, trying in vain to draw the mob away in his calm, true way. I pressed my hands hard against my ears, trying not to hear the insults — each was a blow.

I receded into a world of my own — my utopia — only to be pulled back by the gentle touch of an old man, a security guard. His silvery, teary eyes met mine. "Please come," he said. "Let's leave this place, my daughter."

He called me his daughter, even after everything he had heard. He understood what these men failed to recognize. My knees gave way and I broke down; I cried, I wailed. The man’s kind words went deeper than the blows and insults, and worked quickly to patch my heart. He drew me to my feet. “There, there … there, there.” And then, like a storm drained of its energy, the mob quieted and dispersed — all because of the tenderness of an old man, a stranger to me.

Sitting in my room this morning, going over all the events of last night, I can’t believe I made it — that I’m even alive to tell this. Until yesterday, I thought my heart was armored in steel, finally indifferent to the transphobia that is so true of my motherland.

But this event reminds me that I am still human — still flesh and blood. I survived to tell my story and it is my job, my passion, to do so. This experience pierced me to the core, and turns out to be just that spark I’ve needed to get to the next level in my work. I finally understand the need to do this like I’ve never understood it before.

My work will not be done until we finally have a gender-neutral society here in Uganda, one in which every gender is liberated and accorded the same respect and treated with equality. Join me if you believe in my cause.

My Catholic background is strong, and it was my dream to become a priest. But I knew early that I had a secret. I didn’t discover it — it discovered me. Eventually I chose to confide in a close friend. He betrayed me. News spread quickly in my boarding school, and suddenly I had no one.

One evening, I returned from studies and found a small note from my classmates on my bed: “We don’t befriend gay people. It’s against our religion.” My dream instantly fell away. In tears, I tossed the note on a burning pile of rubbish, faked sick and asked to go home.

Along the way, I bought five packets of rat poison. When I woke, vomiting black poison and blood, my family took me to a clinic — that is how I managed to survive.

To this day, my family thinks it was nerves about my exams that brought on the “sickness” — I was such a perfectionist in my studies. It took years before I accepted myself and came out to them and others. In 2011, I founded a refuge for LGBTI people in my hometown in rural western Uganda. Rainbow Health Foundation Mbarara wasn’t around for me, but it is now here for others.

My biggest fear has always been the kind of impact my sexual orientation would have on my family, especially my mum. My mum is special — she gave birth to seven boys, all the time telling my father she was on birth control, because she wanted a daughter. Then, 20 years later, I turned out to be gay. Although I am still the same girl she always wanted, in her eyes, I will be a perfect daughter only when I bring a husband home.

Countless times I’ve been cautioned by my family not to spoil or shame the family name. And I cannot count how many times I have been told that being gay is the worst curse one can bring to a family. Every day it breaks my heart to know that I can never change who I am to be able to live in the country I love and cherish in peace.

I may never be able to take my girlfriend home for a family dinner or report a hate crime and see that the police care enough to follow up on punishing the culprits. I may not live to see a Uganda where leaders speak out openly against violence and discrimination against LGBTI people. But I am optimistic. Each day I wake up and pray that God keeps me alive in order to continue this struggle. I am optimistic because discrimination and inequality are wrong, and I believe in living in a just society.

I am afraid — for my future, for my partner’s future, for the future of my country; I’m afraid that my relationship with my family could end in a single moment of revealed truth. I am afraid of many things. But I cannot be silent. One doesn’t know when people will begin to listen. I will speak out for those who cannot, and I will never stop. I do not know if this work is worth the sacrifices I have made or will make, but I know that no one can speak on my behalf as adequately as I can.

This — and the fact that no situation is permanent — is what keeps me going.

In August, C.B. and a few of her colleagues were presented the U.S. Department of State 2011 Human Rights Defenders Award by Secretary of State Hillary Clinton in a ceremony at the U.S. Embassy in Kampala.

When I was still very young and in primary school, I first encountered my sexual orientation. It wasn’t until I was well into secondary school, though, that I understood it wasn’t a phase. Like many boys my age I continued to date and have girlfriends for a while, although I was entirely attracted to boys. I dated girls due to peer pressure. In time I received a few private warnings from the school administrators, who were suspicious. I was suspended at one point, but it was all done very quietly. None of my friends knew about it, and there was no mention of homosexuality. A few friends disowned me, however. At some point I became confused. Everything that I was hearing about homosexuality didn’t match with my experience or my feelings.

But by my Senior 6 year [comparable to senior year of high school], many of my friends and family knew I was gay. I did not deny it, whenever I was asked. At university, I made several gay and lesbian friends. I began to wonder why Ugandan LGBTI people didn’t have groups where we could just hang out and talk about health and other issues affecting us. So, with several friends, I formed a small group, but we didn’t give it a name. This wasn’t about activism at this point; it was about us as friends, our community, and about sharing our stories.

Then around 2004, a few of us began to ask why we weren’t responding to things said about us in the media. That’s when we became more serious and founded Icebreakers Uganda. Our objective for this group expanded to include engaging the public. We would write letters in response to what the media portrayed about us, and I began writing regularly for different blogs. But I didn’t really think of myself as an activist at this time; I was still a student. My focus was my studies, which I took very seriously. Eventually, however, I received calls from other Ugandan activists and I joined the movement in a more visible way.

That is when Icebreakers Uganda joined Sexual Minorities Uganda. Later in 2007, I became the leader of SMUG. We worked hard to help those who had been imprisoned or needed assistance. Pretty quickly we earned a reputation for making a lot of noise immediately when something negative or illegal happened to members of the LGBTI community. I would send out messages to a listserv almost daily. At the same time, we began to organize workshops to educate and further empower our community in advocacy, skills, and health issues.

In 2010, SMUG went through an organizational restructuring. Many of us were getting burned out; we worked so hard in very stressful conditions, and it looked like some members would leave. But through this restructuring we managed to continue this important and difficult work. Today I still work as SMUG’s executive director, and much work remains to be done in Uganda and regionally.

Currently we’re facing the return of the Anti-Homosexuality Bill in Uganda and this is very threatening. If passed, many lives and livelihoods would be put in jeopardy. Basic human rights would be denied to a whole segment of Ugandan citizens. In fact, many people would go to jail and, in some cases, as the bill outlines, for life; others would be killed. The bill is very dangerous because it further entrenches and institutionalizes homophobia in this country.

But the drafters and supporters of the bill do not understand. We don’t want to change African culture — we are, anyway, Africans, and we’re here. We’ve always been here. We just want to live our lives in peace, like other Ugandans. Like them, we want to live with the same rights and to contribute to the growth and success of our country.

In 2011, Frank Mugisha was awarded the Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights Award and the Norwegian Human Rights Rafto Prize for his work on behalf of LGBTI rights in Uganda.

Kasha Jacqueline Nabagesera, 32-year-old lesbian, founder and executive director of Freedom and Roam Uganda, who recently posted a YouTube video speaking to the dangers of passing the Anti-Homosexuality Bill

In 1999 the LGBTI movement in Uganda was more of a social activity — many members of the LGBTI community would meet every Sunday for picnics and to build solidarity. It wasn’t until the early 2000s that we became more involved in political advocacy, which led to the formation of the current organizations. It’s easier now, since the activists have grown in numbers. We’re now able to carry out different roles within the movement. The current challenge is that as the movement has become more visible, the operating environment has become more hostile than in the past.

In 2007 I stopped using public transportation. I was attacked by revelers in a public taxi because my picture had appeared on the front page of the Daily Monitor. Someone recognized me and started shouting. I was thrown from the taxi and hit by boda boda cyclists. After that I received support from Front Line Defenders to secure means for safer transport to and from work.

It’s never been easy, but every day there is a small difference that makes me stronger. For one thing, more people are joining our struggle. We provide them with safe spaces, reading materials, skills training, and other useful tools. I treasure this, since many have been expelled from their schools, homes, and jobs. It makes me stronger knowing that I can help create a small, positive change in someone’s life.

Recently I traveled to San Francisco for the first time to attend a conference. It was overwhelming to walk in the Castro every day and to enter Harvey Milk’s studio, where so much LGBT history occurred. I couldn’t believe I was sharing drinks with people who were actually there in the ’70s, who experienced the whole thing. I loved it.

The only thing I didn’t like is that Milk’s studio has been so commercialized — to me it was like the movement had forgotten the history of that place and didn’t preserve his studio. I would have loved to sit in one of the chairs that great man sat in. I wish I could have found one thing that belonged to him in that very place.

All in all, this experience gave me further reason to continue my work. I am certain that one day, even our people in Uganda will live freer because of the small efforts we are making today. I may not live to enjoy that moment, but I am happy to be a part of the foundation of a brighter future.

In May 2011, Nabagesera was awarded the Martin Ennals Award for Human Rights Defenders; she received the award in Geneva in October 2011. In September 2013 she will be awarded the 2013 Nuremberg International Human Rights Award in Nuremberg, Germany.

Kelly Mukwano, 23, program assistant at the Civil Society Coalition on Human Rights and Constitutional Law

Many times people have asked me this question: “How do you survive in that ultra-homophobic country?” I always reply, “It’s my country; I have to make it work.” I’m proud to be a Ugandan.

But if you’re gay and live in Uganda, it means you have to be strong — or you may need to leave. It’s survival of the fittest here. Over the years I have become more and more immune to the threats. If I stayed in the closet as I used to, it would not help much — that was a type of death anyway. That is why I decided to let fate and destiny decide. If I am to die for the sake of many others, I can accept that. My destiny is to fight for others; that’s why I am strong now and enjoy pushing on —not just for me alone, but for everyone like me.

It’s not a very nice experience, though, knowing that you could be killed at any moment. But what else am I supposed to do? I will fight and make sure that this ends with my generation. I always pray to God, asking for an end to the tragedy faced by sexual minorities in our country. He has been indeed faithful, considering the fact that most of us have continued to survive on little more than thin air.

During SMUG's Hate No More Campaign I came close to meeting my creator — I was the team leader for this project, so I went to talk to the police. I was arrested with two of my friends. The police had begun torturing us when their chief walked in. He recognized one of us and that’s how we escaped that day. We were lucky.

All these trials and challenges, and there are many more to come, but I vow to remain strong and brave for others.

Friends nicknamed me Bad Black, but believe me, some have called me Good Black too. My given name is Sempeebwa Hakim. As a trans woman living in Uganda, I face many challenges. People assume that trans women are gay, and society’s hatred can be fierce.

I was kicked out of my home by family and chased from my village. When I arrived in Kampala in 2006, I was 18 years old. Having no other skills and an incomplete education, I became a sex worker. On the worst day of my life, I was arrested and tortured. They even shaved off my hair.

Now I’m 23 and live with a friend who is a director for Youth on Rock Foundation, an organization founded by and for youth. I am a member too but have recently begun to work with Perfect Initiatives, an organization for people with HIV who are undereducated and have no outside support. Although I studied information technology and would like to complete my degree, I enjoy this work. My goal is to help trans people be accepted by Ugandan society and to support individuals living with HIV.

Bobi Bwana, 34-year-old gay man, office administrator for Icebreakers Uganda

After a long inner struggle and with the world around me, I came out to myself when I turned 22. I’d always felt that I was different and alone. At that time I had no idea that what I felt was not wrong! While growing up, I was so afraid to let anyone in my life know of my feelings, because the society in which I grew up takes being gay as a “western” phenomenon or influence. This is strongly believed. And antigay groups say that being gay is taught.

I grew up in a very stable family, with both parents giving me the kind of love expected, so I am concerned when I hear some people say that being gay is due to incidents of molestation. I have always been this way. And I have always been so afraid of my family finding out — I do not want to lose them. Even though I am now an adult, this still bothers me.

In 2008, after thinking it over very carefully, I joined the Ugandan LGBTI movement. I’d been approached several times by friends who were already activists, but I was not sure how I would cope with being out to the public, my friends, and my family. But after serious consideration, I decided to be actively involved in the struggle as the administrator for Icebreakers Uganda. I may not be out there on the frontlines all the time, but my responsibility in the organization is of great importance because, in most cases, I am the first person the beneficiaries meet when they contact Icebreakers Uganda.

I strongly believe that every human deserves to love someone of his or her choice. I do not regret making the decision to be active in this movement, because I have become a member of a large family, full of love, inclusion, support, and courage. Together we face the misperceptions in this hostile environment.

Pepe Julian Onziema, 31-year-old transgender man, program director and advocacy officer for SMUG

When I was 15 years old, I read a story in a local daily newspaper about students my age who were sent away from school on suspicion of being gay. Angered by this, I decided to mobilize my classmates to write an op-ed criticizing this action. The newspapers never published it.

But I went on to start the Writers’ Club in my school, in which we had a chance to write about issues that affected us internally, like sanitation, food, and sports, and externally, about the situation of youth in our country. A few of our articles on sexual health made it into the teenage pullouts, including “Straight Talk,” a column in Uganda’s New Vision publication. Little did I know then, but this would be one of the turning points in my desire to contribute to a better world.

That led me to where I am now. Since 2007, I’ve worked as the program director and advocacy officer for SMUG. Today, I’m proud to be one of the most outspoken Ugandans on human rights issues targeting LGBTI people.

Outside work, though, I’m a big romantic, who likes to cook for my girlfriend. Playing rugby is a definite passion. I’m also a big photography fanatic — I like to capture the moment. In not being accepted for who I am, I’ve learned not to take it for granted.

In late September, President Bill Clinton awarded Pepe, along with his colleague Bishop Christopher Senyonjo, the Clinton Global Citizen Award in Leadership in Civil Society at a ceremony in New York City.

Junique Wambya, 31-year-old third-gender person, health desk coordinator for FARUG

Right from childhood, there was a lot of confusion. I never wanted to do girly things — I loved soccer and grazing cattle with the boys. For not behaving like a proper girl, I was beaten. It was tough to be punished for what I didn’t know.

Then there was the issue of understanding and accepting who I am, a horrible process bringing with it two suicide attempts. I felt empty and less than human because of what people around me said.

I learned of FARUG from a friend and met several people in the community. In 2006, I joined the LGBTI movement, but did not become active with FARUG until 2007, during the awareness campaign. I am now their Health Desk Coordinator.

I recently went to Toronto. It felt so good living in a free society, dressing the way I want to dress, being free of worry, and not having to watch my back all the time. I learned a lot about the struggles of the LGBTI community in Canada — their freedom didn’t come easily. Instead, like us, they had to stand up against oppression. This has given me courage — knowing that others have been where we are now and that they succeeded.

The first time I understood my sexual orientation was when I attended a meeting with other school leaders as head prefect of my high school. That was the first time things really opened up for me — everything was vivid. I suddenly understood and accepted my sexual orientation. Then at university, I went back into denial, living quietly and dating women. That didn’t work.

In 2011 I began to volunteer for SMUG, which led to my current full-time position as their lead researcher. I’ve traveled with SMUG around Uganda, gathering stories from those who have had to hide — people who have been chased from their workplaces and homes, just for being who they are. Through this I have found my path and passion. I am dedicated to this work.

But earlier this year, when cameras caught me leaving a courtroom during the high-profile Ugandan LGBTI HRDs v. Reverend Fr. Lokodo case, it was like a bomb went off in my life. Friends and family watching TV immediately began to text and phone me. Some wanted to know if I was OK; others hurled hateful remarks. I’ve always played it safe, stayed quiet. And yet suddenly, and in a big way — I am out.

There’s a lot of ignorance and negativity in Uganda about homosexuality. In this country, dialogue is the best way to go, but government officials won’t allow the conversation to develop.

As a kid, I thought I had been bewitched by one of my stepmothers — I had six — or that I’d been possessed by an evil spirit from the mountains or lakes near my village. I didn’t accept myself, my sexual thoughts or feelings. I considered myself to be of no use. Suicide seemed to be one of my only options to escape from the pain.

I was born a Muslim but converted to Christianity as a young man, thinking I would be cured of my attraction to men. I talked to church leaders believing that they would be able to help, but that did not happen. Instead, the more I prayed, the more I loved men. It wasn’t until I met others who were born gay like me that I began to accept myself and to see that being gay isn’t a mistake or an accident.

Now, when I’m traveling between Mbarara and Kampala, I sometimes see young adults who remind me of my struggling, younger self. Sometimes I reach out to them. I tell them that I am also kuchu, that they are not alone. They are always surprised. They ask, “How did you know?”

Links:
[1] http://www.advocate.com/
[2] http://www.advocate.com/news/world-news/2012/12/14/ugandan-parliament-breaks-holiday-without-vote-kill-gays-bill
[3] http://www.monitor.co.ug/News/National/Calls-to-pass-the-anti-gays-Bill-dominate-New-Year-messages-/-/688334/1655670/-/11vv8ob/-/index.html
[4] http://www.denverdavidrobinson.com/
[5] http://www.advocate.com/news/world-news/2012/11/28/ugandan-trans-woman-pens-courageous-open-letter-parliament
[6] http://rainbowhealthfoundation.blogspot.com/
[7] http://www.ugandans4rights.org/
[8] http://www.sexualminoritiesuganda.net/
[9] http://www.faruganda.org/
[10] http://www.advocate.com/news/world-news/2012/12/05/watch-ugandan-lesbian-speak-against-kill-gays-bill
[11] http://www.frontlinedefenders.org/
[12] http://icebreakersuganda.blogspot.com/