Kenya’s grand Shirika Plan, hailed as a human rights breakthrough, promises to transform two of the world’s largest refugee camps — Kakuma and Dadaab — into “open cities.” In theory, that means freedom: jobs, healthcare, and a chance for refugees to integrate into Kenyan society. But for LGBTQ refugees like Constance, a gay Ugandan living in exile, this plan sounds more like a polite shove into deeper danger.
“The idea of integration is good,” said Constance, who now runs a safe house for queer Ugandans outside Nairobi. “But how will we voice our concerns when we’re not even at the table?” His voice is weary — not just from the struggle to survive, but from years of being ignored by both the systems meant to protect him and the communities meant to welcome him.
Despite officials insisting that no group was excluded from the planning process, LGBTQ organizations say otherwise. They were not invited to public forums, and their written concerns — if received — seem to have been swallowed into silence. “Unlike other refugees, we have serious concerns about security, health and housing,” Constance explained. “But we’ve been sidelined once again.”
Life Outside the Camps May Not Be Safer
Under the Shirika Plan, roughly 800,000 refugees will be allowed to leave the isolated camps and settle within Kenyan communities. On paper, it’s a progressive move backed by nearly $1 billion in international funding. But LGBTQ advocates are waving a rainbow-hued red flag. The reality is that homophobia is still alive and well in Kenya — sometimes violently so.
Attacks on queer refugees, especially trans people, have been well-documented in Kakuma. Now, community leaders and activists fear these attacks could escalate once LGBTQ refugees are no longer protected — however inadequately — within camp boundaries.
“If it’s happening in controlled and secured camps, it might as well get worse in open communities unless the government takes deliberate steps,” warned Craig Paris from the Refugee Coalition of East Africa.
Kamya Chrisestom, a trans woman attacked while living in Kakuma, asks the question weighing heavily on many: “Will my security as a transgender be assured when we mix with the host community?” In a country where same-sex relations are still criminalized — even if rarely prosecuted — the danger is both real and deeply personal.
Promises, Delays, and the Politics of Exclusion
Kenyan authorities claim inclusivity is a cornerstone of Shirika. But LGBTQ asylum seekers are no strangers to broken promises. Constance, now 32, applied for asylum eight years ago and still hasn’t heard back. “I lost hope along the way,” he said, a grim reminder of the bureaucratic limbo trapping hundreds like him.
And then there’s the larger regional picture: Uganda’s 2023 law imposing the death penalty for “aggravated homosexuality” pushed hundreds, possibly thousands, of queer people to flee. Kenya was once seen as a relative safe haven. But now, even that hope is fading.
One Kenyan official has gone on record saying persecution for being LGBTQ isn’t enough reason for asylum. And that chilling stance has hardened over time.
Integration, But Only for the Straight and Safe?
What’s clear is that the Shirika Plan, as it stands, risks becoming another exercise in visibility for the privileged — and invisibility for the queer. Unless LGBTQ refugees are deliberately included in the planning, funding, and protections of this initiative, “integration” will just be a new word for displacement.
Activists are urging donor agencies to tie funding to LGBTQ protections. “President Ruto said that the plan will be centered on human rights,” said Ibrahim Kazibwe of the Community Empowerment and Self-Support Organization. “We hope that those rights will include LGBTQ rights as well.”
The irony? Shirika means “coming together” in Swahili. But for Kenya’s queer refugees, it currently feels more like being pushed further apart.