Kampala – When President Yoweri Museveni signed the Anti-Homosexuality Act into law in 2023, government officials and proponents of the legislation urged Ugandans to “stand firm” against what they described as foreign influence and moral decay. Members of Parliament who championed the law dismissed international criticism and warned citizens not to be swayed by threats of donor sanctions or visa restrictions.
Speaking at a press conference shortly after the law’s passage, Bugiri Municipality MP Asuman Basalirwa, one of the Bill’s key sponsors, framed the legislation as a collective national decision and called on Ugandans to accept the consequences.
“This law was signed by the President of Uganda,” Basalirwa said at the time. “If other countries don’t want us in their nations because of our values, that is their right. Let them cancel all our visas.”
While the political debate focused on sovereignty and international relations, human-rights observers say the most immediate effects of the law have been felt far from Parliament—inside communities, workplaces, and social spaces where queer Ugandans live in hiding.
From Law to the Street
Although same-sex relations had long been criminalized in Uganda, activists say the 2023 law marked a turning point. Its passage emboldened not only law enforcement, but also ordinary citizens, local leaders, and vigilante groups who now feel legitimized to act.
“The law sent a message,” said one Kampala-based human-rights researcher. “It told the public that queer people are not just illegal, but enemies. Once that happens, violence no longer needs to come directly from the state.”
Following the law’s enactment, reports increased of police raids on bars, lodges, and private gatherings suspected of hosting LGBTQ individuals. Social venues already operating discreetly became prime targets.
One such raid occurred at a popular entertainment spot on the outskirts of Kampala, where police stormed a private gathering late at night. Witnesses say officers hurled insults, separated detainees, and loaded them into police vehicles as onlookers cheered. Several of those arrested were later released without charge, but not before being verbally abused, threatened, and, in some cases, assaulted.
For many, the arrest itself was not the worst part.
Exposure as Punishment
In Uganda, being publicly identified as queer can be more dangerous than detention.
Names, faces, and rumors often spread quickly through local radio, social media, and word of mouth. Once exposed, individuals risk losing housing, employment, and family protection overnight. Some are chased from their neighborhoods; others are forced into hiding or flee entirely.
Human-rights monitors say exposure has become a powerful informal punishment one that requires no court process.
Catherine Najjuko, a Ugandan woman whose case was documented during research into post-law enforcement practices, was among those affected after a police raid on a social venue. Shortly after her arrest, she learned that details of the incident had circulated on local media. Within days, her family was confronted by community members, and local leaders moved to formally ban her from her village, citing fears that her presence would “corrupt” others.
No court order was issued. No investigation was conducted. The community acted on its own.
“This is how punishment works now,” said a community organizer familiar with multiple such cases. “The state doesn’t need to imprison everyone. Once someone is exposed, society finishes the job.”
When Communities Replace the State
Across the country, local councils, landlords, and family elders have increasingly taken enforcement into their own hands. Letters of expulsion, forced evictions, and public denunciations are reported with little fear of consequence.
In poorer communities, where individuals depend on shared housing and informal employment, there is often nowhere to go. Reporting abuse to police is rarely an option; many fear arrest or further violence.
Researchers documenting these cases note a recurring pattern: once the law labels a group as criminal, community violence becomes normalized. Neighbors justify attacks as moral protection. Relatives frame abuse as discipline.
Women, particularly lesbians and gender-nonconforming individuals, face heightened risk. Several interviewees described sexual violence carried out by male relatives or acquaintances, justified as an attempt to “correct” them.
Living Invisible
As a result, many queer Ugandans now live double lives carefully monitoring their speech, friendships, and movements. Social spaces have disappeared. Trust has eroded.
“What has changed is not just the law,” said one activist. “It’s the fear. People know that being seen, even once, can destroy everything.”
Catherine Najjuko eventually fled her community after repeated threats. Her story mirrors those of others interviewed for this report individuals who did not seek to challenge the state, but simply to exist without being hunted.
Beyond the Headlines
While political leaders continue to frame the Anti-Homosexuality Act as a defense of national values, its real impact is unfolding quietly, in homes and villages across Uganda. For LGBTQ individuals, safety is no longer determined by what the law says, but by whether they can remain unseen.
As one survivor put it during interviews: “You don’t wait for the police to arrest you. Once people know who you are, the punishment has already begun.”
