“I could see the trauma in his eyes”: Queer refugee mothers face violence in Kenya’s Kakuma camp

Image Description: Inside a simple canvas tent, a mother sits holding a small child tightly against her chest. The bright, dusty camp and distant figures are visible through the open entrance.

Kakuma, Kenya —  After surviving an arson attack in the Nansana neighbourhood of Kampala, 35-year-old Esther fled Uganda for Kenya. Her only hope was safety and a life free from stigma for her three-year-old son.

“Bodaboda riders had accused me of practising satanism for identifying as lesbian,” Esther tells Minority Africa. “They were baying for my blood. They wanted to kill my child and me.” 

With help from friends in Nairobi, she crossed the border and was later processed by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) before being transferred to the Kakuma Refugee Camp in north-western Kenya.

In Nairobi, Esther met Nelima, who had also fled Uganda because of her sexuality. Both women were raising young children. Both soon realised that camp life was far from the refuge they had imagined.

“I had hoped for an environment that would guarantee peace to my son, but unfortunately, we met rejection and homophobia we were running away from,” says Nelima, a mother of two boys. 

Home to more than 200,000 asylum seekers and refugees, including hundreds of LGBTI people, Kakuma has been reported by Amnesty International for the extreme discrimination and violence against LGBTI residents. Many face abuse not only because they are refugees, but also because of their sexual orientation, gender identity or expression, and sex characteristics. 

In 2021, a homophobic arson attack on Block 13, which houses many queer refugees in Kakuma, left one person dead and several others injured. Nelima has survived similar attacks. 

“I was in the hospital for three days, and when I came back, I could see the trauma in his eyes, ‘’ she recalls, describing the toll the violence took on her son’s mental health. 

Both Nelima and Esther’s children have been stigmatised at school because of their mothers’ sexuality. Esther’s son eventually refused to attend classes

“His colleagues were avoiding him in class. They mocked him and called him names until he could take it no more,’’ says Esther. “Taking him to a new school outside the camp gave him peace of mind and renewed his self-confidence.” 

Nelima’s son battled depression for three years after enduring relentless bullying. 

“It reached a point where he could no longer bear the constant bullying,” she says. “He wanted us to leave the camp, but I had no means. In 2023, he disappeared from the camp for two weeks.’’

In 2024, Nelima moved out of the camp in a desperate attempt to protect her son’s well-being. She rented a single room in Kakuma town, but after four months, she was evicted due to unpaid rent.

“I had no option but to go back to the camp, but my son still lives with the fear of being attacked,’’ she tells Minority Africa.

Paul Kanyamu, an LGBTQIA+ refugee representative in the Kakuma camp, observes that queer parents are trapped in a cycle of trauma that directly affects their children’s safety and emotional stability. He attributes much of their vulnerability to weak protection mechanisms within the camp. 

“Children of queer refugees are stigmatised not because of who they are, but because of who their parents are,” says Kanyamu. “This creates an intergenerational trauma that is hard to escape.” 

For mothers like Esther and Nelima, informal community networks have become a fragile shield against trauma and stigma. Alongside other queer mothers, they have formed discreet support circles, pooling meagre resources to buy food and offering one another emotional support.

“For our children, the support system and moments of solidarity help them feel loved and secure,” says Esther.

See Also

Audio solar Bible helping blind and low vision Christians in Kenya

Amid the uncertainty, a new government policy offers cautious hope.

In March 2025, the Kenyan government unveiled Shirika (Swahili for “cooperation”), a plan to integrate more than 830,000 refugees and asylum seekers into Kenyan society. The proposal promises access to public education, healthcare, employment, banking and business opportunities, as well as the right to live outside designated camps.

Under the policy, refugees would be permitted to leave camps and seek housing in areas they deem safe.

For Esther and Nelima, the integration plan has renewed hopes for a more stable future beyond Kakuma. 

“Our hopes of getting resettlement in Europe are growing slimmer by the day. Shirika plan is a better option for those of us who do not want to go back to our mother countries’’ says Esther.

Nelima hopes the plan will secure not only her son’s safety, but his future.

“All I want is an environment where my son can go to school, play with his friends, and just be a child like others,” she says. 

Edited/Reviewed by Samuel Banjoko, Caleb Okereke, Awom Kenneth and Uzoma Ihejirika.

Illustrated by: Rex Opara