Anti-Homosexuality Act makes it dangerous to support your LGBT loved ones
The passage of Uganda’s Anti-Hoosexuality Act in 2023 has made life extremely dangerous for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) people and those who support them. Laws that include the death penalty for so-called “advanced homosexuality” and long sentences for “promoting homosexuality” have encouraged waves of arrests, raids on shelters, evictions and public outings. Many LGBT people are hiding.
Amid this crackdown, a small group of Ugandan mothers (first time) speak publicly in support of LGBT children.
In April 2023, eight people signed an open letter to President Yoweri Museveni, urging them not to agree to the bill. They write: “We are not promoters of the agenda. We are Ugandan mothers who had to overcome many of our own biases in order to fully understand, accept and love our children.” They called on the president to protect all children from violence and discrimination.
He signed the bill anyway.
However, the mother did not retreat.
In 2024, Human Rights Watch met with some of these mothers in the Uganda capital, Kampala, and the nearby Wakiso district. In countries where citizens’ support for LGBT rights is rare and potentially criminalised, these mothers guide them with clarity, compassion and conviction. Their stories demonstrate the human costs of Uganda’s anti-LGBT laws and the quiet courage of mothers to resist them from love for their children.
Mama Joseph
The first person to talk about was Mama Joseph, a mother of five. Her eldest son, Joseph, now 26, has identified her as genderless. At 17, Joseph came out to his mother and said they felt like girls and were attracted to the boys. The conversation was painful and confused. “I cried a lot,” she said. “I knew my kids were different, but that was tough.”
Like many parents, her initial reaction was to try and change her child. She wanted to send Joseph to live with her relatives and help them “fix” them. However, when Joseph fell, Mama Joseph realized that the move only caused more harm. Eventually, she brought Joseph home. “There’s nothing else you can do but harm,” she regrets as you try to adapt your child. And as Joseph’s mother, she realized, “nobody is going to support them except me.”
Unfortunately, that support is currently at a significant risk after the passage of anti-Hoosexuality Act. Joseph is in a near-constant terror that has also influenced Mama Joseph. Simply visible as a genderless person can attract harassment and aggravation. The intense media attention on the law has heightened anxiety for LGBT people and those who love them. “Whenever they talk about LGBT people, something bad comes,” Mama Joseph said. But her position is clear: “There is no law that will change my love for my children.”
Mama Dennis
Mama Dennis, a woman in her late 40s, shared a similar journey. Her daughter, Dennis, is a 24-year-old trans woman. From a young age, Dennis expressed himself in a way that challenged gender norms. She preferred dresses over pants and loved to play with her sister’s clothes. At 10am, she entered a modeling contest with a girl and won. Her mother remembers her confidence and strength.
In 2020, during the Covid-19 lockdown, when a moral-related crime occurred near Dennis’s home, her neighbor had the opportunity to report Dennis’ gender expression and sexual orientation to the police. Authorities then arrested Dennis and falsely accused her of other crimes. Her mother faced the community directly, especially the men. “I asked them, ‘Did my child sleep with you?” They were embarrassed.
Today, Dennis is once again in hiding because of the anti-hohosexuality laws. She no longer went home to visit, and her absence left silent at the house. “I miss her joy,” her mother said. “But I will continue to protect her. Our children are not criminals.”
For these mothers, the law brought clarity as well as fear. “This law shows us that we are not equal,” Mama Dennis said. “Our government is angry. They should use that energy to combat discrimination, not our children.”
Mama Arthur
Mama Arthur, a mother of five, has lived a different kind of struggle. Her eldest son, Arthur, was arrested in 2014 under Uganda’s previous anti-homosexuality law. Since then, Arthur has been hidden, their communication is limited and secret. But the real battle was at home. Her husband – Arthur’s father did not accept the child. “He’s always blaming me,” she said. “He harasssssssssssss have given birth to a cursed child.”
Her marriage has become a space of everyday conflict. “I live with my husband like a single mother,” she said. “But I am very grateful for my child. I accept Arthur like them.” She hopes that many will reconsider their message in favor of anti-solubilism laws. “If you are a person of faith, you should preach love, not hatred.”
More moms
Other mothers – Mama Rihanna, Mama Joshua, Mama Hajatt – are public scrutiny of the faces after the child was arrested in 2016 and 2022, respectively. Extensive national media coverage, including the child’s name, face and alleged crime, has had devastating consequences for families. Each mother had to navigate the fallout alone.
One sold her only cow and paid legal fees, securing the release of the child. Another was forced to move after his neighbor became hostile. The third woman hides her daughter from her abusive husband. In both cases, family safety, finances and reputation were overthrown overnight.
However, these mothers remain unmoved. “Sexuality isn’t an issue,” said Mama Hajat, now in her 50s. And she protected her daughter through the worst repulsion. Over time, even her husband began to soften. “He saw what our daughter went through, what she could do. He started to change.”
For Mama Joshua, this issue is deeply political. “Our kids are the easiest targets,” she said. “But they don’t matter,” she believes the government is scapegoating to expand LGBT people and divert them from wider governance failures. “None of this brings work. It doesn’t build roads. It doesn’t feed the kids. It’s all distracting.”
There is evidence to support this claim. Uganda’s anti-LGBT rhetoric, like other countries, is often reinforced at moments of political or economic pressure. Leaders use moral panic to integrate power, mobilize popular support, and distract criticism. The anti-melting method introduced and passed amid the corruption scandal serves its purpose. But their costs — measured in fear, violence, and exiles — are disproportionately borne by LGBT people and those who love them.
Interviewed by Human Rights Watch, the mother partnered with Pflag-uganda, a social intervention project based on Chapter 4 Uganda’s Diversity Equity and Inclusion Program. They have not identified them as activists. Most are deeply religious, with some attending churches and mosques regularly. Some people are afraid of the outcome of their comments. But no one regrets standing with their children.
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They have formed a quiet network of solidarity since 2019, meeting Lesjours, sharing social advice and comforting each other when children disappeared or fled. They know that even if the nation is trying to isolate them, they are not alone.
“We are mothers,” Mama Dennis said. “We know the kids. We love them.”
Their voices are clear and consistent. Some spoke at community radio and court hearings. Others refuse to write letters, make phone calls, or otherwise abandon the child.
And with the support of Clare Byarugaba, founder of Plfag-uganda, their numbers are growing.
Their message, despite everything, remains rooted in hope. That love can coexist with fear, that understanding can overcome indoctrination, and that change is possible – possible. “People can learn,” one mother said. “It’s only a matter of time.”
In Uganda, public spaces for human rights have become dramatically narrower. But these women carve out the spaces of the most personal sphere: homes. They are challenging political violence not through protest, but through existence. Through consistency. Through care.
Those resistance may not be visible on the street, but they are stable. Their choice to love their children and say it so publicly is deeply personal and inherently political.
“I couldn’t stop loving my child,” the one mother said again without hesitation.
And she never does.
Larissa Kojoué, Researcher
